Photoprompt Copyright – Madison Woods
The Withered Vine (100 Words)
Crabb poked the goo covered vines with a bamboo stick and spat deliberately. “This one’s still wet, we must be close.”
He glanced uneasily at the horizon. “We got maybe an hour to catch it, c’mon.” Beyond the rugged silhouettes of the mountains night reached up to strangle the waning day.
Nerves jangling, trigger fingers cramping we pursued we knew not what, never for a moment forgetting the horror of Cain’s hollow, desiccated cadaver.
The barn doors were wide, the stench somehow blacker than the darkness within.
“Remember,” said Crabb, “this is for Cain.” Jaws clenched, he strode into Hell.