A woman walks into a bar. She stands in the entrance for a moment,
silhouetted by the sunshine that breaches the shadows of this dank outhouse
of society. Many men, truckers and bikers mostly, turn to see a red haired
young woman standing in the doorway. She wore a red dress, that seemed to
have a mini-skirt but also looked long and elegant, even though her thigh
was very visible. She clutched a small handbag, which was also red, and
made her way to the nearest bar stool. She ran her finger along the seat,
to release dust into the already rank air. She sneered in disgust as a
biker to her left tried it on.
"Hello Darlin'," he said in a gruff Canadian voice (no offence to gruff Canadian voiced people). She swivelled on the bar stool to face him. She crossed one leg over the other, which got several glancing looks.
"I advise you don't speak to me and just get on with drinking," she replied in a refined European Accent- perhaps French. The man was just about to answer back when his eyes opened wide, his mouth gasping for breath. His face went a deep shade of red and he fell on the floor, trying to gasp a response. Another man, who was behind her, saw her smile and grabbed her shoulder, spinning her around.
"I don't know who you are but. . . what the fuck?!" Her hair literally was red, not ginger, but now it had changed to a deep blood-red. Her eyes were red as well. No pupils or iris. Just pure blood-red. She stared at the man who had grabbed her then at another man. Both men turned to face each other and began to fight, one with a bottle and the other with a pool cue, both drawing blood with every blow, as if their skin was made of paper. Flames flared up from the corner of the room, next to where the beer barrels were being stored. The woman's hair was now aflame, and her eyes burned in anger. Now, all the men in the bar were fighting. Killing each other, was more like it. She, however, hadn't moved off of her stool. She finished her drink, stood up casually, and slowly walked out of the bar, in the same seductive walk she had walked into the bar only five minutes earlier. Her hair and eyes had returned to normal and she casually walked down the Mexican highway that she had walked down for the past three days. The bar exploded behind her and a bush fire started. She carried on walking, in the direction of California.
The flames receded- well, reversed, as if being sucked into the ground- leaving the scorched remains of the bar and the surrounding area. The damage could have been seen from 14,000 feet up. She had been called many things in her time, mostly Mexican names, as she spent most of her time there: Los Diablos, La Cucaracha, and the jersey devil. All of these names were good, but she preferred her official title. She carried on walking, smiling. . .
14,000 feet up. The Mexican countryside. A recently deceased bush fire could be seen below. The scorched shrubbery spelt out a word. That word was WAR.
Sorry for the delay, and for such a short chapter, but I only want to introduce one character at a time. Two more horsemen to go, and they're not the ones you expect. Keep reading.
"Hello Darlin'," he said in a gruff Canadian voice (no offence to gruff Canadian voiced people). She swivelled on the bar stool to face him. She crossed one leg over the other, which got several glancing looks.
"I advise you don't speak to me and just get on with drinking," she replied in a refined European Accent- perhaps French. The man was just about to answer back when his eyes opened wide, his mouth gasping for breath. His face went a deep shade of red and he fell on the floor, trying to gasp a response. Another man, who was behind her, saw her smile and grabbed her shoulder, spinning her around.
"I don't know who you are but. . . what the fuck?!" Her hair literally was red, not ginger, but now it had changed to a deep blood-red. Her eyes were red as well. No pupils or iris. Just pure blood-red. She stared at the man who had grabbed her then at another man. Both men turned to face each other and began to fight, one with a bottle and the other with a pool cue, both drawing blood with every blow, as if their skin was made of paper. Flames flared up from the corner of the room, next to where the beer barrels were being stored. The woman's hair was now aflame, and her eyes burned in anger. Now, all the men in the bar were fighting. Killing each other, was more like it. She, however, hadn't moved off of her stool. She finished her drink, stood up casually, and slowly walked out of the bar, in the same seductive walk she had walked into the bar only five minutes earlier. Her hair and eyes had returned to normal and she casually walked down the Mexican highway that she had walked down for the past three days. The bar exploded behind her and a bush fire started. She carried on walking, in the direction of California.
The flames receded- well, reversed, as if being sucked into the ground- leaving the scorched remains of the bar and the surrounding area. The damage could have been seen from 14,000 feet up. She had been called many things in her time, mostly Mexican names, as she spent most of her time there: Los Diablos, La Cucaracha, and the jersey devil. All of these names were good, but she preferred her official title. She carried on walking, smiling. . .
14,000 feet up. The Mexican countryside. A recently deceased bush fire could be seen below. The scorched shrubbery spelt out a word. That word was WAR.
Sorry for the delay, and for such a short chapter, but I only want to introduce one character at a time. Two more horsemen to go, and they're not the ones you expect. Keep reading.