Piece 1:
There were many who thought he was too old to play the game anymore. Others who thought he'd been dead for years. And still others who didn't believe that he had ever existed in the first place.
They were all wrong.
He flew across the desert, the darkness around him deep and seemingly impenetrable. Up ahead, though, he could make out two small red circles, screaming out like a beacon. Glancing down at the speedometer, he watched as the car topped 100mph, and then pressed his foot down even harder.
It was less than thirty seconds before he caught up to the other vehicle, his tires kicking up dust and small rocks as he brought the hood even with the trunk of his prey. Not taking his eyes off the road, he swung the wheel to the left and then slammed it back to the right hard, crashing into the back end. The momentum and point of impact quickly set the other to spinning, and they crashed again, both cars moving wildly out of control in some kind of horrific dance of crunching metal.
They crashed into the trunk of the tree abruptly, both vehicles bending against the unforgiving wood. Shattered glass fell all around them, mixing with the swirling dust.
Nothing else moved.
Until he forced his door open with a kick, and the metal hinges groaned in protest. He came out of the car in one fluid motion, showing no signs of pain or injury. Walking over to the driver's side of the other car, he stared down at the driver, taking in the blood flowing down the side of his face. He didn't check for a pulse or wait to see if the chest filled with oxygen. He simply pulled the Beretta out of his waistband and leveled it at the other man. The trigger squeezed almost as though it knew what it wanted before he did, and three bullets rocketed out – one to the head and two to the chest.
Silence settled over the desert once again. Putting the gun away, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it, his steps taking him into the darkness.
Piece 2:
They gathered around her with pitchforks and torches. It was a scene out of a bad movie, almost laughable – except for the murderous glint in their eyes, and the determination in their steps as they moved toward her, closing off the circle and any route for escape.
Witch.
That was what they called her. An antiquated term that didn't even begin to define what she was, or what she could do.
A word that, quite frankly, pissed her off.
Lifting her right hand behind her, Szora felt the wind move through her long white hair, and it made her smile. Perfect.
The flames burst out of the second-story window of the diner, startling everyone. The fire burned hotter than anything they had known, and the wind helped it spread, even as she raised her left hand in front of her and set a blaze in the doctor's office. Unlike the flames the town was used to, these spread with abandon, exploding windows and filling the streets with a roiling black smoke.
If she was going to burn, she would at least show them how to do it right.
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