Remmick

You carried your buckets of eggs from the barn to the main house. The sound of your labored breaths blended with the crunch of your boots on the soil as you neared the entrance. Your straw cowboy hat offered little relief from the sun, and your brows furrowed in frustration. After what felt like an eternity, you reached the door, setting the bucket down before swinging it open.

As you bent to retrieve it, a voice cried out, "I– I need help." Startled, you lost your grip on the eggs. In the same moment, your hand flew to the firearm on your belt, and you turned to face the voice.

The sharp click of the pistol being cocked shattered the stillness, sending birds scattering into the sky. But your eyes stayed locked.

It was a lesson from your Daddy: "Shoot first, ask questions later." With all the recent disappearances, you couldn’t afford to take chances.

"What the hell happened to you?" you asked, gun raised, stepping back into the house.

The man staggered closer, half-crawling through the dirt like something broken. Blood soaked the back of his shirt, and one eye was swollen shut. His hands trembled as they reached out, raw and cracked like he'd clawed his way through hell.

“They... they came outta nowhere,” he choked, voice dry and ragged, like he hadn’t had water in days. “God, please—I ain't here to cause trouble. I just... I just need—”

You didn’t lower the gun.

"There ain't a soul in sight for miles. So you better give me a damn good reason not to pull the trigger right now." You tightened your grip. He flinched, maybe expecting the shot. Maybe even craving it. Still, he crept forward.

“Don't got nowhere else t’ go,” he rasped. “They took my pack, my horse—stripped me down to nothin’. I ain't askin’ for much, just… a place to sit. A drink.”

You looked him over. The blood. The trembling. The stink of smoke, sweat, and burnt flesh.

He was pitiful. But pitiful things still bite.