The Turning of Zachary Degaud (A Witch Hunter Saga Short Story) by Nicole R. Taylor Page A
Authors: Nicole R. Taylor
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fallen in the wave of gunfire. As the first wave of Calvary came within range, Zac swung hard and true, hamstringing the mount that came up on his right side. The large bay horse fell to the ground behind him, barely missing his head. Its rider was flung headlong into a tree; a quick glance verified that his neck had been snapped.
The next line was seconds behind and this time Zac cut his blade to the left, nicking the horse's knee, but not bringing it down. Cursing, he rose to engage a dismounted Unionist who swung his saber wildly, with no aptitude whatsoever. Zac took advantage and ducked low, bringing his elbow up hard into the mans gut. As he doubled over, he drove his sword through his back, directly into his heart. Not stopping for a moment, he turned to the next man, disposing of him as easily as the first two.
Affording himself a quick glance about, he knew that they were going to be overwhelmed. But they were from the South. All the men in his unit were. They would all fight to the end, even if that end meant death. In that moment, he thought about his parents and his brother Samuel. They meant to world to him, but he wasn't good at anything else. He was only good at killing, the army his life.
He'd dispatched of six more men before he felt the biting pain of the bullet that imbedded itself in his chest. But that was only the beginning of his problems. Falling back limply onto the bloodstained ground he gasped for air, the bullet having passed through a lung. Then his second, Bragg, was above him, his palm over the wound, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. As he tried to speak, he saw his friend and comrade-in-arms' face shot off in a shower of blood and bone.
At some point Zac had passed out, but was brought around when he felt himself being dragged along the ground, none too gently, and heaved up onto something soft and lumpy. Weakly, he managed to turn his head, the blood that had begun to pool in his mouth running down his face. Then he realized two things. One; he was as good as dead and Two; he was in a pile of corpses that used to be his men. He didn't bother trying to figure out how he felt about that; he had maybe twenty minutes left and could probably spend his time pondering more favorable things. Like the beautiful lady he'd danced with at his parents ball the night before he left to come to Virginia. Raven haired with skin like milk, eyes like the bluest sky. He could ask a lady like that to marry him. He thought about his brother, Samuel. And his parents, even though they had discouraged him from joining the Confederacy in the first place. What were they doing now?
It was then that he saw a woman looking down at him, her chestnut eyes gleaming in the darkness. It had to be a hallucination. He didn't believe in god and angels, only life and death. She was straddling him as he lay on top of his dead comrades like some macabre devil.
"Dear Captain," the woman murmured into his ear. "Do you want to live?"
He could only cough, blood gurgling in his throat. The woman seemed to take this as an acceptance and to his horror; she sliced open her wrist with his bowie knife and forced the open wound over his mouth, flooding it with their mingled blood. He was forced to swallow several times, groaning as pain shot through his chest.
Then, as far as he could tell, he died. Just as he should have. But, the problem was, he didn't stay that way.
Zac's eyes snapped open and he found himself gazing up at the clear night sky, thousands of stars sparkling through the trees that sheltered him. Rolling over, he coughed loudly, blood splattering on the ground. He'd been dragged away from the pile of corpses to a clear patch of grass. How the hell was he alive? The gunshot wound was enough to kill him or he should have choked on his own blood at least. Realizing there wasn't any pain, he clutched his chest, ripping his shirt where the bullet had passed through. He was covered in blood, but there was no
The next line was seconds behind and this time Zac cut his blade to the left, nicking the horse's knee, but not bringing it down. Cursing, he rose to engage a dismounted Unionist who swung his saber wildly, with no aptitude whatsoever. Zac took advantage and ducked low, bringing his elbow up hard into the mans gut. As he doubled over, he drove his sword through his back, directly into his heart. Not stopping for a moment, he turned to the next man, disposing of him as easily as the first two.
Affording himself a quick glance about, he knew that they were going to be overwhelmed. But they were from the South. All the men in his unit were. They would all fight to the end, even if that end meant death. In that moment, he thought about his parents and his brother Samuel. They meant to world to him, but he wasn't good at anything else. He was only good at killing, the army his life.
He'd dispatched of six more men before he felt the biting pain of the bullet that imbedded itself in his chest. But that was only the beginning of his problems. Falling back limply onto the bloodstained ground he gasped for air, the bullet having passed through a lung. Then his second, Bragg, was above him, his palm over the wound, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. As he tried to speak, he saw his friend and comrade-in-arms' face shot off in a shower of blood and bone.
At some point Zac had passed out, but was brought around when he felt himself being dragged along the ground, none too gently, and heaved up onto something soft and lumpy. Weakly, he managed to turn his head, the blood that had begun to pool in his mouth running down his face. Then he realized two things. One; he was as good as dead and Two; he was in a pile of corpses that used to be his men. He didn't bother trying to figure out how he felt about that; he had maybe twenty minutes left and could probably spend his time pondering more favorable things. Like the beautiful lady he'd danced with at his parents ball the night before he left to come to Virginia. Raven haired with skin like milk, eyes like the bluest sky. He could ask a lady like that to marry him. He thought about his brother, Samuel. And his parents, even though they had discouraged him from joining the Confederacy in the first place. What were they doing now?
It was then that he saw a woman looking down at him, her chestnut eyes gleaming in the darkness. It had to be a hallucination. He didn't believe in god and angels, only life and death. She was straddling him as he lay on top of his dead comrades like some macabre devil.
"Dear Captain," the woman murmured into his ear. "Do you want to live?"
He could only cough, blood gurgling in his throat. The woman seemed to take this as an acceptance and to his horror; she sliced open her wrist with his bowie knife and forced the open wound over his mouth, flooding it with their mingled blood. He was forced to swallow several times, groaning as pain shot through his chest.
Then, as far as he could tell, he died. Just as he should have. But, the problem was, he didn't stay that way.
Zac's eyes snapped open and he found himself gazing up at the clear night sky, thousands of stars sparkling through the trees that sheltered him. Rolling over, he coughed loudly, blood splattering on the ground. He'd been dragged away from the pile of corpses to a clear patch of grass. How the hell was he alive? The gunshot wound was enough to kill him or he should have choked on his own blood at least. Realizing there wasn't any pain, he clutched his chest, ripping his shirt where the bullet had passed through. He was covered in blood, but there was no
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