Spawn of Kongomato
Slumped in a deep leather armchair, curtains drawn and only his thoughts to keep him company, the man nursed a very large whisky. Even though an excellent single malt and his favourite, he tasted nothing as the awful images assaulted him, and would certainly haunt him until the day he died. The flurry of leathery wings, of inhuman screeching, the sights of mutilated corpses in a charnel house from hell; and finally the bizarre and still petrifying image of two ghastly creatures, their ghostly green eyes capable of killing with just a glance. Such visions could send a normal man insane. And yet beside these awful, horrific memories was something if possible, even worse.
He’d just murdered someone; an innocent man, working as he for the sake of his country. That he’d done it under orders only compounded the guilt.
After more than a decade of witnessing, and sometimes instigating destruction on a scale that few people had ever seen, a gnawing pain ground deeply into his system. He’d killed before. Not in sufficient number to forget, for time to blur the images, reassuring him that it had been right and necessary. He’d killed because it was his job. To be a soldier meant killing people. He’d always known that and been able to live with his finely shepherded conscience. It had been him or them. Simple – no confusion.
Even after being invited to join The Department his orders and priorities had remained steadfast. People and sometimes entire governments wanted to destroy what he held dear: his country, his way of life. And for that then they had to die for they would waste no energy or time in doing it to him. But never before had he callously slaughtered at the whim of a faceless voice on the end of a telephone. He was too old to believe in such noble fancies as Queen and country but neither was he a hit man, a paid assassin doing the filthy work of someone with his own agenda.
He gulped down the dregs of his drink, barely feeling the fiery spirit gouging his throat. It could not end like this.
He stood, swaying slightly. The thirty six hour gap since his last meal was allowing the whisky to do its work quickly. After grabbing the edge of his desk for support he bore the images assailing him until, as expected, the gruesome horror of what he’d seen and done, had the required effect. Within seconds he was once more sober. Tugging open the drawer under the whisky-stained desk he withdrew an enormous pistol, checked the load and slid it into his shoulder holster.
He knew what had to be done.