He leveled his weapon, which began to spit forth with the venomous lick of surging fire at four-hundred-and-fifty rounds per minute, forty-five caliber rounds. He felt the familiar kick of the weapon, its poorly mitigated recoil—it was not an elegant weapon—with bitter nostalgia, as round after round tore the occupied seats, nailed-down stools, and the hardwood table itself to warm, fluttering splinters. All was silent, save for the panicked and dazed screaming of the damned, for a few seconds as he ejected the spent magazine and loaded a fresh one. It sounded like songbirds. He then recommenced firing until there was naught but an audible click, until there was no more movement but the slick trickle, sputter, and surge of sanguine ooze from uncountable gaping holes in trembling flesh marked very shortly for death, as the final crypt-guardian garbed and invisible amidst a pall of shadow covered the eyes of all in endless night of no awaking.
A short story, indeed a quite old one, one that’s nearly two years old. She’s finally available. A bit of fun, a bit of satire, punctuated with scenes of devil-may-care social violence. And when I say “social” I mean in the manner of “socii,” rather than the doctrine of being rude on the train.