Trees–gnarled and knotted–bleed poison sap.
Swamps–from which foul vapours rise–coalescing into the phantom shapes of those WHO WERE CONSUMED,
by the fires. Still raging. Explosions lighting up the horizon.
And it is,
against this BACKDROP OF MUSHROOM CLOUDS
that
a car speeds along the highway, motor roaring,
and three dark beasts pursue the man inside it.
Racing, sweating, the driver has one hand on the steering wheel and
the other is outstretched,
ENTWINED,
in a revolver that he fires, until
all six chambers are empty.
One of the beasts falls away and takes the door with it. Outside
the wind howls
and the roof buckles as another of the creatures
TRIES TO GET INSIDE
and kill the one some call,
THE WEAPON-MASTER,
and others:
THE-MAN-WHO-CAN-KILL-ANYTHING.
Another creature climbs onto the hood of the car, jagged claws
SHREDDING
the metal and,
PUNCTURING,
the engine.
And now–another dark shape looms–an abandoned building,
so common in the Midlands
The car is careening, out of control.
WOOD SPLINTERS and the building explodes,
The creatures scream as the flames consume them.
But what of THE-MAN-WHO-CAN-KILL-ANYTHING?
A short distance away, he rises from the shadows and
dusts himself off.
He checks his jacket pocket,
making sure he still has the medicine
(he does)
and his eyes scan the building, now ablaze.
He sifts through the rubble until he finds a length of metal pipe, and he
tests its weight with a few swings.
It’ll do.
He walks away into the wasteland.
Michael Scott Hand 