Al Asad

         The tall man poked the corpse with a boot toe, his lip curling in disgust.  Flies buzzed with anger, freshly evicted from their hiding places in the poor man's nose and open mouth.  The tall man sniffed at the air and brunted.
         The corpse's fingers were frozen in twisted claws, the fingernails chipped and bent back where he'd desperately tried to fend off his attackers even as they sank rotted teeth into his belly and ripped hunks of meat from his body.
         All in all, not a pleasant way to die.  “And the martyrs shall be glorified, and they shall be exalted and given robes of white yea, unto eternity,the tall man said, leaning down to close the dead man's staring eyes.
         Ezekiel's Children were here.
         The tall man stretched, his flat black eyes flitting through the empty town.  He removed the battered sombrero from his head and placed it on his saddle horn, pausing for a moment to lay a calming hand on his blood bay gelding's neck.  The horse snorted, fluttering the damp rag tied about his muzzle to protect against the dust.  “The Lord shall place His hand upon thee, and cause thee to have peace,he murmured into the horse's ear.
         Many people mistook his dark skin and black hair for a Mexican heritage, but the Coptic cross branded into his cheek told of Lebanese cedars and Arab wars.  He slid a .30-.30 lever action rifle with the stock sawed down into a mare's-leg out of a saddle holster and threw back his dusty poncho with a sweep of his arm.  He wore bandoliers covered with .30-.30 rounds in their loops and a heavy gun belt studded with .45s and supporting two Colt Peacemakers with palmwood grips.
         He moved toward the nearest building, his spurs ringing softly with each step.  The tell-tale shuffling carried toward him on the wind.  He cocked an ear to listen five, maybe six.  The rest would already have moved on, chasing the town's other inhabitants.  There's almost always one, though.  One family too slow, stubborn, or stupid to leave when the dust storms and their grisly cargo came.  Always one, for whatever reason.
         The shuffling stopped.  The tall man pressed himself against the side of the building and strained to hear what was happening.  There was no sound except the inquisitive scratching of the dust blowing through town.  He suppressed a cough and cursed himself for forgetting his mask.  Instead he tugged a handkerchief out of his pocket and tied it across his motuh and nostrils. 
         He peeked out around the corner of the building.  The smell of musty hay told him that the building he was hiding behind was the stables.  An inn and a tavern squatted across the wide dusty boulevard along with a small number of skinny clapboard houses.  He stiffened as he picked up the faint sound of feet dragging through heavy drifts of dust and silt. 
         They came into view around the corner of the tavern, six of them, emaciated forms of skin and bones, decaying and forgotten.  Dead men living, walking, killing Ezekiel's Children. Where they came from, and when they'll return there, no one knows.  All that is known is that since they clawed their way from shallow graves all over the South during the War of Northern Aggression, the South has been cut off from the rest of the world by forts and armed patrols. 
         The Zekes were clad in tattered gray clothing.  One was missing an arm, and another dragged himself forward without the benefit of his right leg.  All of them carried dreadful wounds, enough to kill a normal man ten times over, but they were unfazed.  The tall man sucked in his breath and held it without consciously realizing it.  They looked around with milky eyes, some of them sniffing the air like predatory animals.  Their skin was drawn tight over their facial bones and they moved with a loping, staggering gait.
         The tall man started to inch forward, angling for a shot.  A soft tinkle of breaking glass echoed from one of the houses near the saloon.  The Zekes all turned as one.  After a moment of absolute stillness, they rushed at the house with deceptive quickness. 
         That's when the screams started.
         The screen door out of sight behind the house slammed and he heard the hard slaps of bare feet on the packed dirt.  The Zekes were already on the porch, blind eyes jerking back and forth,  boards around the windows and door. 
         The tall man took another deep breath.  The piercing screams continued and he caught glimpses of a young woman with fear burned into her face pushing and pulling several small children along with her as they fled toward the edge of town.  Two of the monsters caught their scent and stumbled after them, one falling off the porch face-down in the dirt.
         He worked the lever action, jacking a round into the chamber.  The clean metallic sound echoed through the town and all six Zekes froze.  A reedy hiss rose from their throats as they turned to face the fresh prey.
         “I will give him the name of Al Asad, and he shall be my lion among the unbelievers,Al Asad roared.  “He will strike them down with his fists, and with his fury will he smite them.”
         He stopped in the middle of the street, legs spread wide as he took careful aim with the mare's-leg.  “The Lord's vengeance is like unto a whirling storm, and it shall appear in thy midst with a thundering glory.”
         The hiss rose in pitch and he squeezed the trigger.  The gun bucked in his hands and the round took the nearest Zeke high in the right shoulder, tearing off leathery strips of flesh and blowing dusty splinters of bone out its back.  The Zeke spun in a jerky imitation of a pirouette before tripping over the undead that had fallen off the porch and collapsing into a jumbled heap.
         A Zeke with a moldy gray cap still perched on its crumbling head advanced on Al Asad, its hiss climaxing in a scream like a bee swarm.  He lined up his shot, unconcerned.  There were more than enough rounds in the rifle, after all, he could tell by the weight -
         An answering cry from his right made his blood run cold.  He glanced that way, sweat mixed with the dust on the wind suddenly burning his eyes.  Nothing appeared around the tavern, and for an instant he thought his ears had lied to him.  The cry came again and he knew he was in deep trouble.
         The mare's-leg was jerked out of his hands and his guts twisted in fear as a heavy hand crashed into his jaw and he fell, the scorching sun cartwheeling with the hard ground in stomach-turning revolutions.  Al Asad shook his head and stared up at the bloodthirsty creation standing over him.
         Very deep trouble, indeed.
         He slid one of his .45 revolvers from its holster and thrust it upwards as the Zeke lunged downward for the killing bite.  The muzzle jammed itself between the open jaws diving for his throat and he fired, grimacing as the thing's head burst like a ripe melon.  Al Asad threw the body aside, searching for his rifle.  Three more stumbled toward him. 
         “The Lord protects my soul and guides my footsteps,” he mumbled to himself as he cast about for the weapon.  One of the oncoming monstrosities kicked something aside and he caught a glimpse of light reflecting off metal.  The Zeke had thrown his rifle behind it and now there were three of them between him and his best chance of survival.
         His face went hard and he felt the killing rage well up inside.  He drew the other .45 and, on his knees, began to empty them into the approaching Zekes.  Bullets tore into the undead, ripping out hunks of desiccated flesh and breaking bones.  One Zeke fell face-first, dragging itself forward on its hands, the left leg smashed and useless below the knee.
         A shotgun roared, annihilating the nearest Zeke's head.  A man stood on the porch, blonde and broad-shouldered.  He emptied the other barrel of the coach gun and the crawling Zeke's right arm splattered into pieces.  The thing stared for a second at the stump, ruined ligaments hanging from the naked bone. 
         do it do it kill
         Al Asad shook his head like a horse getting rid of a fly.  The undead bared its teeth and lunged with a final rush, skittering through the dust. 
         let go let go kill
         The pistols were heavy in his hands and he felt half-asleep as he shifts his aim.  The gun barks and the Zeke's head opens in a bloom of thick gray rot and leathery skin.  He fired again at the last monster, now almost on top of him. 
         Click.
         Click.
         Click.
         Al Asad tossed the left Colt aside, swinging the right pistol into the fight.  His left hand swept down for his Bowie knife strapped to his thigh.  The hammer dropped on a empty chamber and he bit down on a gasping breath.  The Zeke grabbed at him, hands transformed into frozen claws searching for his eyes.  He brought the knife across his body to intercept the blow.  The keen edge sliced through the undead's flesh and caught deep in the bone, pulling the Zeke off balance.  Al Asad switched his grip on his pistol, holding it by the barrel and grimacing as the hot metal singed his hand. 
         The heavy weapon fell once, twice, three times.  The smooth palmwood grips dripped with thick gore. 
         taste it.  feel the raw elation racing through your veins
         His chest rose and fell in a ragged rhythm.  His eyes twitched from one scene of abandonment and horror to the next all the places he'd been and gone, the bodies he'd left.  Hands, curled and still like a broken bird, pools of blood in their palms.  Eyes, staring and unblinking at the diamond-hard blue sky.
         The breath was hot in his lungs, and he could feel the blood on his face.  He pulled the Bowie out of the Zeke's limp arm.  It relinquished its bite with a grinding slurp.  Almost unconsciously his hands checked the Colt for damage and clicked open the loading gate.
         A deep bellow made Al Asad flinch, his fingers freezing as they slid a fresh shell from the loops on his gunbelt.  Another Zeke had sunk its teeth into the man with the shotgun, making low grunting sounds and trying to pull him off the porch.  His fingers resumed their smooth dance of reloading the Colt.  He didn't move with any haste.  There was nothing to be done for the poor bastard now, only to clean up the mess.
         Al Asad glanced down at the Bowie knife, quivering where he had stabbed it into the dirt after yanking it from the Zeke's arm.  Heavy dribbling trails of mostly congealed blood ran down the blade. He grunted and closed the loading gate, pulling the hammer back to full cock. The man screamed again, this time in a higher pitch, and Al Asad whispered a prayer to himself as he squatted down, cleaned the Bowie off a handful of grass, and returned it to the thigh sheath. He picked up the second Colt, brushed the dirt from it, and bounced it loosely in his palm as he headed toward the porch.
         The Zeke had pulled the man down and slithered on top of him. His cries were weak now, intermixed with gurgles as blood filled his mouth from the bite wounds on his throat. The monster didn't look up as Al Asad put the Colt barrel against its temple and pulled the trigger.
         The man stared up at him with dwindling pinpricks of hope in his eyes. He didn't say anything, just worked his head up and down, trying to clear the blood long enough to draw a ragged breath. The poison was already in him.
         "My soldiers will be numbered among the thousands, and my warriors among the tens of thousands, and they will be announced as the holy and righteous in mine eyes - thus saith the Lord." Another shot echoed through the town.
         Al Asad knelt beside the man's ruined corpse and whispered a soft prayer. A horse whinnied and kicked at a stone, the horseshoe ringing. His grip tightened on the mare's leg, though he was careful to keep his finger away from the trigger.
         "Stand up," said a deep voice. Al Asad rose and turned to face the speaker. The pale woman that had fled earlier stood only a few feet away, her dirty-faced children gathered around her, peeking at him from her skirts.  Her face looks as if someone had folded it up and then unfolded it imperfectly, despair lurking in the shadows of her features and grief distorting them into a mask. Behind her four riders tried to calm their horses. The horses side-stepped and squealed, nostrils flaring and full of the stench of the Zekes.
         The riders wore dusty gray uniforms, but their weapons and sabers were clean and well-cared for. The leader walked his horse forward. Al Asad shifted his weight to the balls of his feet and breathed deeply, testing the heft of the revolvers on his hips.
         "Was he already gone?" the leader said, his voice heavy and sonorous, one accustomed to being obeyed.  Al Asad nodded, his breath thick with the gritty dust in the air and the stench of corruption despite the handkerchief around his face.  撤ull that thing down,the man said, one hand moving from his reins to the butt of his heavy dragoon pistol.
         Al Asad tugged the limp blue cloth past his chin.  It hung limply around his neck and the leader sucked in his breath, lips tight against his teeth in an unconscious snarl at the sight of the cross burned into Al Asad's cheek.  His grip tightened on the pistol and he leaned forward in the saddle.  Al Asad brought the mare's-leg down in a tight arc and squeezed off a shot that snapped just past the man's ear.  His mount reared and the leader threw himself to the side, landing in the dust with a thick thump.  Al Asad took two long strides forward and grabbed the man's jacket collar,  hauling him upright.  He thrust the muzzle of his rifle between the man's shoulder blades and began to circle back toward his own horse.  The other four rides followed, horses spread out in a semicircle around the two of them.
         “Cursed be the ground for our sake,” Al Asad called out in a strong voice.  “Both thorns and thistles it shall render unto you.” He shook the man by his uniform, tickling his ear with the barrel of his rifle.  “And where is the friend that sticketh closer than a brother?  Where shall one be found to assist him in his time of need?”
         “There's no one else,the man grunted,” favoring the side he landed on as they moved toward the other end of the town.  “We're just a regular patrol sweeping this area.
         “My hand is upon them,” said Al Asad, “and woe be unto those who would touch the righteous men of the Lord.”
         The man stiffened with anger and Al Asad gave him a sharp poke in his sore ribs with the rifle barrel.  He flinched, casting a murderous glance over his shoulder.  “I'll make no promises, but we'll give you safe passage out of this area.  And a good riddance to you and all your kind you're more harm than good.”
         “It is not for the unclean to judge the worthiness of My work, saith the Lord,” Al Asad murmured as they neared his horse.  The gelding took a few questing steps toward them, snuffling at the man's unfamiliar scent.  Al Asad gave the man a gentle push toward his compatriots.  He backed toward his horse, keeping the mare's-leg trained on them. 
         The man turned to face him.  He waved the riders' rifles down, watching as Al Asad slid his rifle back into its scabbard, pulled his frayed poncho down and replaced his sombrero on his head.  Al Asad watched him with cold eyes.
         “I said you'd have safe passage out of here, and I meant it.  Now get the hell out.”
         “The peace of the Lord be upon you, and may His hand guide your steps,Al Asad grunted as he mounted his horse, sliding his well-worn boots into the stirrups.  He leaned forward and crossed his forearms over the pommel of his saddle.
         “Cut the bullshit.  You sure as hell haven't made any friends here today, and you'd do well to steer clear of Captain Bosch of the Confederate 383rd from now on.  Go dirty your hands elsewhere, killer.”
         Al Asad caught the new widow's gaze.  There was an uncomprehending glaze to them, but under that were layers of hatred and blame. 
destroyed another home, torn apart another family
         He chuckled to himself.  The fate chosen for him was heavy on his shoulders, but consequences are what they are permanent.  He touched his spurs to his horse's flanks and started to turn away. 
         “Stop!" the woman cried, her voice cracking with unvoiced grief.  “You'll pay for what you've done the Lord will see to that.”
         “And he must put a white cloak upon his soul, that he might climb down to fight in the filth,” said Al Asad over his shoulder, “yet he may die a saint.”