Only madness remains...5 Liters
"The man still laying on his bedroll takes notice and begins speaking, not yelling for his fellows or trying to warn them, just busily begging for his own life. He starts inching away from Garrett while putting his hands up defensively. “Oh god, please no. I’m so sick, I ain’t a problem for you, please…”
"Garrett walks over to the man and falls down on top of him, straddling him as another still distant but loud shout erupts from the western wing of the lodge."
“Scream.”
"The man lowers his hands and stops begging for his life, “W…what?”
"Garrett leans down and presses his bowie knife over the man’s throat and whispers at him, “Scream.”
"The sick man smells like shit and vomit, plenty of both have been left in piles around the area, it seems he ate heartily this morning. The man gets a hint of recognition in his eyes before he leans away from Garrett and begins caterwauling."
"Garrett listens to the sick man’s ugly music for a few seconds, he sees a figure running past a sentry fire to the west along the same floor of the lodge and hears footsteps sounding out on the level above him. What a commotion, well played and expertly carried out by the sick man as he howls and begs for help."
"Garrett smiles at him and the man stops the show for a second to smile back, he looks southern, black hair, round face, light brown skin, he looks like one of the strangers from the village. That doesn’t make the next bit easier, just more familiar."
"The man is still smiling, laughing inwardly at their shared, inside joke when Garrett slips his knife into the sick man’s guts just above the groin. No more show, the pain registers as Garrett drags the sharp blade to the right and is forced to shift his weight to hold down his now squirming prey. The bowie knife reverses course and Garrett disembowels the poor man while he screams and begs and pushes away at the mad thing busily cutting him wide open."
"The sick man isn’t just making a great deal of noise now, he’s about to be a distraction, the center piece of a trap that Garrett learned to make back in the swamps of his youth. Garrett shifts again and stands up and away from the sick man as he reaches down trying to pinch together the ruin of his midsection."
"Garrett puts his knife in its sheath just long enough to come around and grab at the sick man by his arm pits, hoisting him up and propping him against a wall over his feeble protest as the footfalls begin to sound beyond."
"The sick man’s ropy guts begin to push through the wound and unfold along with sheets of blood and ignoble materials. His already feeble shouts are reduced to hyperventilating breaths and pained moans as he realizes he doesn’t have enough hands to stop the free fall of all that was him as it comes spilling out over his lap."
"There is no poetry left in this mad tale."