The man in the navy blue duster sat atop his grey horse. The two of them had come many miles together but neither got annoyed with each other's company. The man made an intimidating sight atop the grey quarter horse. Strapped to his back was a blued Winchester Model 1886 rifle and on his left hip was a LeMat revolver. If the armaments he carried did not detour most people from approaching him then his naturally large frame and dark expression served its purpose. High above in the periwinkle blue sky the sun was still beginning its slow climb across, the evening's dew still glistened on the blades of grass as the man and his horse trotted slowly along the dusty road. He was in no rush to get to his destination, he did not think that the people he was going to see would be up at this early an hour so he could take things slow.
For the next two hours the man and his horse travelled along the dusty road at their nice, even pace. They met no one else along the road, which was understandably given their remoteness and the early hour. On a couple of occasions the man would sing softly in his own native tongue and for just a pacing moment you would have thought that the horse understood every word as its own cantor adjusted to the pace of the song. Just after the man had finished one of his songs he reached down into his pocket and produced a very plain looking pocket watch. The cover of the watch was scratched and dinged from years of wear and tear but it still told the time perfectly, which was all the man cared about. Nine-thirty. Perfect timing, the man thought as he and his horse began to climb up a small rise in the road.
At the top of the rise there was a small cottonwood tree, still in its early growth stage. It was not the newness of the tree that the man noticed though. At the top of the rise the air grew cold like a winter's wind and his nostrils filled with the bitter smell of iron and ash. Violence had happened here. On instinct his left hand, the devil's hand, dropped down to wrap around the revolver as his eyes narrowed to scan the landscape. The only structure that was visible was a two story, white wood paneled house with a water pump and a crisp painted fence. Leaning his head down to be level with the horse's ear he whispered, "Schneller, Aquinas" The horses' hooves began to gallop as they closed the distance to the house. The man pulled the reins to bring Aquinas to a stop just before the gate in the fence. Aquinas's ears pinned back as his front hooves stomped into the dry grasses. The man slid off the saddle and patted Aquinas's neck, "Easy now, I don't like it here either. I am going to go check it out." The man pulled his rifle off of his back as he opened the gate.
As he walked closer to the house the acrid smell of gunpowder mingled with the bitterness of iron. His hands gripped his rifle tighter, unsure if the cause of such violence was waiting for him inside the beautiful house. Before he made his way inside he crept around to the side yard and was disgusted by what he saw. Inside a small fenced in pasture lay the corpses of two cows, a sow, three piglets, and a half a dozen chickens. The plains grass underneath them was matted with blood. Walking up to them he noticed that each had had their throats slit clean across and left to bleed out. 'If this had been from one of the remaining tribes in the hills or roving gangs of outlaws they would have taken the livestock with them.' He thought these animals looked more like they had been executed.
As he made his way out of the livestock corral he noticed a wagon lay shattered in pieces on the side of the house. It was out of place while the rest of the property looked pristine.Walking up to it he discovered the horse that once been attached to the wagon had had its head fully severed off. It was not a clean slice but an aggressive hack, the tatte of muscle and flesh still steaming in the early morning air. These were fresh kills.
Approaching the house from the rear the back door hung precariously off its hinges, creaking softly in the breeze. The man could sense evil leaching out from the house, reaching under his navy blue vest he pulled out a small golden cross and let it drape down his chest. Raising his rifle up to his shoulder he walked past the creaking door and into the beautiful house. The man found himself in a small but meticulously clean kitchen. There was only one dish in the basin sink, a tea cup, everything else was nicely stored away and in its proper place. Sweeping his rifle back and forth he did not see anyone in the kitchen and walked out into the hall. As soon as his foot stepped over the threshold the smell of gunpowder burned the hairs inside his nose and caused tears to form in his eye. A normal person walking down the small hallway would have thrown up the entire contents of their stomach at the grizzly sight that lay before them, the man however was familiar with violence and death. Laying on the ground in the entry way there was a face down corpse dressed in all black, the corpse's back was riddled with a dozen stab wounds. In front of the corpse was the stairs that led to the second floor, laying on her back on the stairs was a Nun. The color of her habit made it hard to determine if she was just a Sister or something else, the fabric was soaked red with blood. The cause of the blood was easy to determine, just above her left eyebrow was a dime sized bullet hole. Kneeling next to the corpse of the Nun, the man bowed his head and uttered softly, "Rest easy, Sister"
Standing back up and turning his attention to the facedown corpse he was suddenly struck with how quiet the house was. If the level of bloodshed was not unsettling enough the dull drum of silence sent a chill down the man's spine as he rolled the corpse over. "Fuck." The man spat the word out with venom. He recognized the face from the folded picture that he was carrying in his inside pocket of his navy blue jacket. The only difference between the face in the picture and the face in his pocket were the two empty eye sockets that stared up, like two hollow clumps of coal. Similar to the eviscerated livestock outside the skin around Carmine's eyes was hacked and mutilated. The man felt disgusted, not in the scenes of death that lay before him but in himself. Just a few hours earlier he was casually trotting along the road thinking he had all the time in the world to meet up with Father D'Angelo. If D'Angelo was dead, looking down at the eye less corpse there was no doubt, was the girl alive? The man had no idea what she looked like so he would just need to keep searching and pray for the best.
Raising from his crouched position he jammed the stock of his rifle into his shoulder and cleared the rest of the rooms on the lower floor. Each of the rooms were empty and clean, it gave the appearance that whatever happened in this house severely disrupted the normal morning activities. As he made his way back into the entryway the man heard a groan break through the otherwise silent atmosphere. The low growling groan snaked its way down the staircase and over the chilling corpse of the Nun. The man's index finger edged down closer to the trigger of his rifle, fully prepared to pull the trigger at the smallest chance of a threat. The Winchester model 1887 was loaded with seventy grains of black powder and was capable of shooting a .45 caliber round at over thirteen hundred feet per second with enough force to smash a dinner plate sized hole into the unlucky recipient of its kiss.
Reaching the landing on the second floor, the groan became louder. It was down the hallway to his left. Sweeping the rifle back and forth he made his way to the sound, when he noticed a pool of blood forming under one of the doors. Softly he used his boot to kick open the door. For as strong a stomach as the man had what he saw next made him throw up in his mouth.
Inside the room were two rows of beds against either of the side walls, with a large window on the far side from the door. Various crosses and images from different tales of the Bible covered the walls. Laying on top of each bed was a small child. Every single one of the children had their throats slit and just like Father D'Angelo had had their eyes removed. The man's sickness at the sight brewed in his stomach becoming a festering pit of malice and anger. He would find who was responsible for this heinous affront to humanity and dispatch them.
Walking through the room he could feel the child-like presence that called this space home slowly drifting away. The massacre in this House Of God must have taken place only an hour or so before he had arrived. Reaching the window he placed his hand against the glass and whispered an incantation, "Kifuwini Kezīhi bota āts'edalehu. Kifuwini kemidiri layiāts'edalehu.
Tigiluni ik'et'ilalehu gētaye." ( I will cleanse the evil from this place. I will cleanse the evil from the Earth. I will continue the fight, My Lord.)
The groan echoed throughout the halls once again, the man drew his attention back to its direction as he walked back through the slaughter of innocents. Walking down two more doors the source of the groan was found and it was just as horrifying as every other aspect of that twisted house. Inside a small storage closet there was another eyeless Nun. There were two differences between the Nun in the closet and the Nun at the base of the stairs. Chiefly the former was still alive, if just barely, and secondly she was nailed to the floor in a morbid recreation of the Crucifixion.
Her blood was starting to dry slightly around the edges of the nails that were drilled through her hand. Standing in the doorway the man spoke, "Sister, can you hear me?" The Nun's groan quieted down as she turned her head in the direction of the voice. She opened her mouth to speak fully and that was when the man noticed that besides the other forms of mutilation that had been committed on her, her tongue was also removed. Nothing remained behind her lips but a pinkish stub. If the man had arrived just an hour earlier he would have had the chance to meet this particular Nun. Laying there nailed to the pine wood with her tongue hacked away was Prioress Maud. Her narrow nose began to leak a stream of mucus and clear liquid.
If the man had arrived an hour earlier he would have seen Prioress Maud attempting to persuade and reason with the assailants. Despite her brashness and rough demeanor there was no talking down to the two men who stormed through the Mother of Hope. Within fifteen meticulous minutes they had committed their slaughter and left with their spoils.
The Man in navy kneeled next to Maud, she senses his presence and began to thrash against the nails. Even with her ability to speak taken away from her the man could tell that she was in incredible levels of pain. Laying his rifle on the ground, he pulled his revolver from his hip and pressed the barrel against Maud's skull.
"This is mercy."