Snippet #2599169

A family at their dinner table. Life was hard on the frontier, and every day was hard work. These people looked the part, with faces prematurely wrinkled, made more obvious by the grit trapped in those lines. But they looked happy, as they should be. Hard work brought the bounty that lay on the table before them. Cooked meat, fresh from the cattle they raised through their own hard work. Milk for the children, also of their own hard work. Bread bought with money they earned through their hard work.

The temptation to just dig in must have been great, but these humble people instead bowed their heads and held hands. All along and around the table, young and old, they prayed. They thanked their god for their meal, for their continued good luck, and their beautiful family.

The prayer ended. One of the older gentlemen brought out a bottle of whiskey he claimed he'd bought at the local general store. A special reserve it was. The rest of the adults looked delighted, and one of them went to scrounge up shot glasses while a woman hushed children asking for a taste. Glasses were set down before each adult, and a slug of whiskey poured.

They made a toast. Why wouldn't they? They lived a hard life, but it was peaceful and full of contentment. Smiles were wide and genuine around the table as they raised the glasses and downed the whiskey quickly. A woman choked and coughed on the rough vintage, and the rest laughed.

Cattle stirred outside. One of the men said it was probably a coyote. Still laughing, he grabbed a shotgun and walked outside, eager to scare the animal off and get back to the meal. The rest waited patiently for the missing man.

But minutes passed in silence. Some of them began complaining about their stomachs, and all the adults were sweating profusely. The woman collapsed. Others went to help her, but they too collapsed. Happiness turned to abject terror as the children screamed at their parents, pushing and hitting them. A boy, blind, was terrified enough to wet himself. How horrible it must have been for him, unable to even see the calamity that was befalling his family.

Shadowed figures came in through the front door, one wiping blood from a long, vicious knife. The children were grabbed by their hair and dragged out the door, as the rest knelt to draw blades against the adults on the floor. Blood saturated the wood boards, the feast--their reward--left untouched.

Otto shook the mental images from his head, and quelled a tear that had threatened to swell up and run down his cheek. The sheer evil it would have taken to commit such an atrocity was incomprehensible, and the German felt a sudden murderous fury shudder through his form. He took a moment to steady himself, then looked back at Horatio.

"It makes sense herr commandant. But they left the one boy. If they were looking for slaves or children to turn into prostitutes--" He paused as another tremor of fury ran through him. "--even a blind child is worth something. Perhaps a cult? I've heard stories of devil worshippers and natives making sacrifices to their gods..."

The stench was getting to him, so Otto took a bandana from his coat pocket and tied across the lower half of his face.

Still shaking his head, the German began to wander around the house. "Where did they find the boy? Perhaps we might find something there. I find it hard to believe there won't be something left behind. An act this audacious has to require a signature...of sorts."