His knife had been quick and fatal cutting into the throats of people that respected
him, following his command and now they have become victims of that trust. Gagging
gasps for air with their vocal cords severed in a weird numbed silence they
bled to death in this crop of nature’s evil.
“Why me?” Niankhre’s shout echoes up and down the aban-doned
secret passage’s walls.
His torch flame flickers while his accusing shadow appears to close in around
him with pointed dagger like fingers pushing him into the darkest corners of
his scarred mind.
His hand reaches for the very same blade that had slit the throats of his comrades
who had fallen in the battle against ‘It’.
He had stalked through their sick camps in the dead of night wading through
a black field of ‘It’ waving like a demonic crop of black stalked
grain shivering and dancing to the tune of the black night breeze.