Wingman

Diffused moonlight skimmed the imposing gray silhouette of the chapel, rising like an impenetrable fortress against a bleak October sky. History and beauty saturated massive, ivy-sheltered stones washed in the tears and prayers of the faithful. What could possibly go wrong? It was an innocent church carnival and this was Saint John The Evangelist.......

Moonlight illuminated the faded carnival signs and the Butcher studied each with an unwavering gaze as he trudged through the crowd, pressing his boot-heels into the gravel with slow, deliberate steps. Celebrants, suddenly chilled as if all the heat had just seeped into the ground, instinctively cleared a path around him, minimizing the friction between him and the target. Abruptly, she stiffened, her skin crawled as warning needles gathered at the back of her skull. She didn't bother looking back over her shoulder, without hearing a sound, she knew that he was coming. There, in the dim recesses behind the blinding glare of multi-colored lights, she thought she caught a silhouette moving resolutely toward her. She blinked to make sure it was real, raising a lump in her throat that made it impossible to swallow....... The Butcher grinned broadly, the head-start never failed to spice things up, always thinking they could get away from him. Of course, they never did. He followed close at a steady pace in the darkness, engulfed in his own shadow, past the wrought iron gates and well-tended gardens. A thin piping of wind echoed off alabaster statues lining the walkway like the fragile songs of martyred saints. Pausing at the heavy iron-bound chapel doors, he gazed up into the high arched windows of the bell tower and shook his fists,......

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Wingman
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