The Last Dance

One more. Just one more. C’mon, old man, you can do it. Just. One. More.

 

His wounds were bad. Real bad. Locke wasn’t going to make it, he knew, but that was fine. That was just fine, as long as he could do this one last hunt. Just one fix, right? Like an addict. This was different, however. This was his last fix, the last one, the ultimate goal… His nemesis was somewhere in the small town and Locke could feel it. He had been hunting him for so long. The vampire that had taken it all away from him one night so far away it may as well have happened to someone else.

 

The crossbow bolt fired from his right hand, it traveled true and found its mark. Another vermin down, pitted to the wooden house’s wall by the bolt through its head. Locke loaded the crossbow again, deftly with his left hand locking the mechanism while still holding a short blade.

 

One more. Almost there. One. More.

 

Another with the bolt striking true and through. Out of bolts. No matter. His right hand went to his left hip and produced and dagger. Time to get even bloodier. His stomach was bleeding, as were his arms, profusely, from the tattered and torn remains of his tanned leather jacket.

 

The chapel, there… There is where he would be, his nemesis. Locke made his way, beginning to limp. His vision was becoming a bit hazy and his head swam. It didn’t matter. Nothing did. He would avenge his son.

 

One. More. Hunt.

 

He kicked down the flimsy doors of the chapel and stormed in. The vermin huddled in the pews and around the altar where his nemesis awaited. They were cowering. They understood that their end was near, and Locke obliged them dutifully.

 

There must have been over thirty of them, until finally he caught up with the greatest vermin of all. He looked the once-man in the eyes, full of tears of rage he, full of fear and doom the vermin. Then he cut its head off.

 

He walked off a few feet and succumbed to blood loss, losing consciousness.

 

He dreamt of his son’s face, beaming, so young and full of life. He dreamt of the sun becoming dark and bleeding, and his son told him that he, Locke, had done that. You did it, father. It was you.

 

He jerked away and saw the bodies all around him. They looked… normal. They looked human. Dawning realization suffused him as he struggled to stand up. His blood was still fresh, and the bleeding hadn’t really stopped. He saw the priest’s body, head lopped off, blood spatter staining the pulpit. He looked off to the left and saw the priest’s head.

 

As darkness encroached on Locke’s vision and he began to fade from this mortal coil, he could only feel a strange sense of regret eat its way out of the elation he had felt before. What had he become?

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