Hell's Acre - 1

The Hell's Acre spread as far as the human eye could see. It wouldn't be enough to call the area "dry"; it was dead. Any moisture that might have existed outside of the ground was gone from this long stretch of desert, which spread from the shores of Southern California, to the mass grave site of Georgia's peach trees. Any surviving plant life was thin and pathetic.

On this treacherous ground, a man in a brown coat rode hard, his horse covered in frothy white sweat. The sand was hard on horse hooves, but people travelled it anyway. The animals were hardy, and if taken care of well enough, could carry a rider for many years before having to be butchered food. This particular rider was pushing his horse hard, perhaps too hard for the terrain and the distance, but his own face was cracked by dry air and an annoying thirst. He pushed the animal harder, until a plume of smoke could be seen where the gray sky met the earth.

As if justified for his sudden bout of animal cruelty, he smiled with personal satisfaction and rode on. Twenty minutes later, he slowed the horse down to a trot and slid off of it's damp back. Blood caked around it's nose, testament of the dry air and sand. The animal's master didn't bother to clean him, but walked toward the origin of the smoke, idly patting the revolver at his belt for a sense of comfort. Soon, he found himself in a court yard, surrounded by small adobe buildings with Spanish tile roofs. Windows and doors were pulled off of their hinges, resting haphazardly near the bodies that lay smouldering on the ground. Strangely enough, the crucifixes that had been nailed against each building's door were untouched. A well, a trough, and a few scraggly plants littered the otherwise bare area. Turkey vultures screeched in defiance as he walked past them, frightening them away from a burnt if not plentiful meal.

"Too late," the man muttered, kicking over one of the bodies. It rolled on to it's back, revealing the weathered face of a man. A wooden cross hung against his chest, worn with a threadbare brown robe. He, and the other bodies, had bare feet. "Monks."

A sudden intake of breath gave the man enough reason to draw his revolver. It was heavy in his hand, and the trigger pulled easily. A single bullet hit one of the adobe buildings, boring into it's outer wall, but causing no further damage.

"Who's there?"

Silence answered. He approached the building, gripping his weapon slightly ahead of him. Without the door, he entered the building to find that it was as small on the inside as it appeared on the outside. A cot with one blanket, a closet, and a robe were all that inhabited the inside. He was about to leave when something strange caught his eye; a green colored thread. It was attached to one of the floorboards, and lay as unassuming as a blade of grass.

Kneeling down to investigate his find, the man's eyebrows rose when the thread disappeared. He wiped a leather-gloved hand across the floor, and was not surprised to find a piece of the wood missing. Aiming his gun toward the floor, he slid a finger into the hole and lifted.

"What in the hell are you?" He asked calmly, lowering the weapon.

Beneath the floorboard crouched a boy, of undetermined age, with a mop of dirty hair the color of dry dead grass. He stared at the man, seemingly understanding that he was about to meet his death.

"You hear me, boy? I said what are you?"

The man's question was met with silence. Reaching up, he pulled off his hat and rubbed the bald spot above his forehead. It was slick with sweat, and made him think of his horse.

"I ain't gonna ask again. What happened here?"

Finally, an understanding crossed the boy's face. "You're not one of them?"

"One of who?"

"One of them. The ones in blue," he stuttered. The boy's voice was high, but gritty. He seemed sallow and malnourished. "They came to kill us."

"The monks?"

The boy paused, and looked outside. "Yes."

Momentarily satisfied, the man stood up and stretched his back. His spine popped several times and a yawn escaped his mouth. "Well.. they long gone, now. What's your name?"

Still crouching, the boy mumbled his reply. "Dimitri. Who are you?"

The man walked outside before replying. "Librarian," he said simply. "Looks like whoever did this has been gone long enough. Should probably build a fire before the sun goes down."

Dimitri slowly crept out of his hiding place. He tried not to stare for too long at the bodies littered around him, their familiar faces invoking more tears than he had to offer. Soon, Librarian was gathering wood from old chairs, old crosses, and anything else he could find that would burn. "..what about the monks?"

Librarian didn't stop his work. He rummaged through one of the other buildings, and tore open a mattress to pull out the straw. "We'll burn 'em, tomorrow. No smell more annoying than burning flesh. 'specially when you're hungry."

A turkey vulture suddenly swept down and pecked at one of the bodies. It retrieved an eye, black and ruined, but still edible, and swallowed it whole. "Can't we bury them?"

"You gonna bury 'em all? Go ahead," the older man grunted, kicking at a chair to break it's legs. "I ain't gonna stop ya."

Dimitri knew he didn't have the strength to bury them all. Sitting near the soon-to-be fire, he pulled his knees to his chest and watched as Librarian lit a match and threw it on the pile of straw bedding he'd collected. It caught quickly, and before long, a fire illuminated the courtyard. "I can't."

"Well then. Stop complaining."

There was silence after that. Librarian sat down on the other side of the fire, and glanced toward his horse. It was idly licking at an old trough, filled with stagnant water. He wondered how long it would take before he could replace the horse, and then thought about how long it would be before he could lose the kid.