Page 105 - TheRedSon_PrintInterior_430pp_5.5x8.5_9-22-2019_v1

The day was dying into twilight, the train bound for the
source of all that wonderful crimson. The failing sun splashed
bloody light across my skin, confirming my lack of injury. I
walked deeper into the light, certain that once the dusk was
more concentrated upon the areas where I had been shot and
cleaved, there would be a mark. Still nothing. As I stared at
my woundless body, something stood briefly in front of the
red sun, throwing a rectangular darkness into the train. The
shadow belonged to a large sign that read Black River City.
I had arrived at the location of Miss Patience’s first recorded
kill, apparently no worse for the wear.
The doors of the train opened as I reached them, but
before I departed, I looked back into the vehicle. As my
sight moved into the dim passages and over the empty seats,
I knew the train was far from vacant. The means by which it
moved was not solely dependent upon the steel of its tracks
or the fire of its engine. My eyes lingered upon the swinging
faces of the two fallen Wolves.
As I followed the only road leading away from the station,
I encountered a sign bearing the name of my destination, a
small painted arrow indicating its general direction. I was
surprised at its wholeness, as nothing along my path seemed
entirely unscathed. I hoped it was due to the game I played—
every death a blow against banality.
Closing on my destination, my mind was filled with
mountains drifting like dandelion seeds, softly glowing
rivers tugged along by the gravity of foxfire moons—I was
more content than I believed possible. In retrospect, I should
never have left the train.

108 | Mark Anzalone