Dead Horse Running

~~~1844 A.D.- The American West

The great white stallion stood atop a grassy hill, watching humans on horseback as they chased the buffalo herd.

The muggy autumn air was thick with dust kicked up by the stampede. The moos and moans and hoof-beats of the fleeing bison created a agonized thunder that rolled across the steppe.

Cutting through that cacophony was an infuriating sound: the happy whooping of bloodthirsty men.

From his vantage point, a considerable distance from the action, the stallion’s sharp eyes could see nearly two-dozen riders, adorned in the skins of animals. The men controlled their steeds by the clutch of their legs, freeing up their two hateful hands to wield their deadly weapons.

Arrows flew, wounding a shaggy straggler. When the buffalo stumbled and fell, the great white stallion whinnied and reared. He could see feathers sticking out of the men’s hair, feathers dangling from leather bridles.

The humans flocked like buzzards to the injured cow.

The ivory steed stomped the hard earth, incensed by the hunters.

On numerous occasions, men on horseback had tried to catch him. But the white stallion was faster than any of their broken-spirit steeds.

He knew where their tepees where located, where their cook fires reeked of roasted meat.

He hated all humans equally, male and female, big and small.

Turning away from the lurid sight of the dying buffalo, the pale horse loped down the opposite side of the hill. His white body glistened with a sheen of sweat.

He trotted in the opposite direction from where the hunters' encampment was, headed for the nearest stream not tainted by men.

Horses have a ‘stay’ mechanism in their legs, which allows them to doze while standing up.

Most horses only sleep about two hours each day, usually broken up into fifteen minute naps. Once every few days, however, horses need to lie down to sleep. Only by lying on the ground can they achieve the deep sleep where dreams occur.

Horses are social animals, generally forming attachments to other horses, but the great white stallion was different.

He was abnormal.

He was a loner.

He had had mates in the past, including a gorgeous palomino mare; he had sired numerous foals; but he only returned to his herd for a short time about once a week, when he was feeling sleep deprived, or randy.

At a place where the short-grass steppe gradually grew into a long-grass prairie, the pale horse arrived at a stream. Cottonwood, hawthorn, and burr oak trees grew along the banks. He drank from the babbling waters, watching nearby grazing deer.

On some distant mesa, coyotes courted the moon with canine love songs.

The wind was starting to gust. The humidity was on the rise.

A storm was coming.

Once his thirst was slaked, the great white stallion went in search of the herd. Three hours later, he found nearly sixty wild horses gathered together near a rushing river, beside a steep hill. There were eight or so stallions, thirty mares, and numerous colts, fillies, and foals.

The foals and yearlings were grouped at the center of the herd, protected by the adults.

As the pale horse trotted up to the herd, other steeds snorted and shook their heads at his arrival. Everywhere he looked, the white stallion saw rapidly swishing tails.

The night-songs of owls and insects soothed him. Somewhere along the river a sextet of bullfrogs added their thrumming to the chorus.

The great white stallion was nearly asleep already.

Two mares approached him. One was a black-spotted gray Appaloosa, the other a Mustang with a golden tan coat. He allowed them to brush up against him and sniff him, before he shrugged them off and sauntered away.

Near the blithering river, not far from a group of yearlings and their mothers, he bent four knees and laid down.

He was enchanted by the soothing sound of the lapping water.

Somewhere in the distance, a pair of belligerent badgers were having a heated argument.

The great white stallion fell asleep.

A short time later,

✨ he dreamed......... ✨

He walked (again) onto the battlefield.

The trampled long-grasses were glistening with fresh gore.

Dozens of bodies stained with war paint lay in various awkward positions, still as rocks. Seeing slaughtered horses among the mangled humans filled the horse’s heart with both fear and rage.

Two tribes of humans had battled late into the day. Skirmishes were still raging elsewhere and the warriors hadn’t yet had time to collect their dead.

The strong white colt was shocked by the carnage.

Before him was the corpse of a dark-haired teenage boy, still clutching his bow, part of his head caved in. The white colt bent down and lapped at the teen’s red-wet face.

Wolves wailed, not far distant.

As he raised his head, the strong white colt suddenly saw a reflection in the pool of blood— the fire-eyed face of an unnatural man.

He recoiled, startled, his mane bristling.

⚡🌵⚡

That's when an entirely new nightmare diverged off the old memory. Words were thrust unwanted into the horse’s mind...

⚡ You are a most uncommon steed! You have a brave and angry spirit. You hate the redskins. And you have already tasted their blood!

For these reasons, I choose you to aid me in my crusade!

Wolves yowled in celebration.

Something Wicked rose up out of the blood puddle. The tainted man was made of the blood. He seized the terrified white colt in a bloody embrace.

The howling of the wolves…

The howling was real.

Awakening from his nightmare to panic and confusion, the great white stallion leapt to his feet. All around him, the herd was on the move, jostling and pushing each other as they tried to flee.

The baying of wolves came from everywhere at once.

Sensing he was being watched, the steed's mane prickled.

He turned to face the supernatural.

Two hundred yards away, the vampire stood poised atop a flattop hill, flanked by a pack of shadowy wolves. The great stallion’s heart jittered with terror.

The man-monster raised an arm, ordering the pack to, "Attack!"

The terror around him smelled awful. The great white stallion found himself in a bottleneck, horses pushing on him from all directions. Colts and fillies bounded into the shallow river, splashing. Other mothers and their foals ran east, or west, along the banks.

Finally, the frustrated stallion was able to propel himself free, moving against the equine tides. Fear giving way to fury, he galloped straight toward the advancing wolf pack.

The hill was steep and rocky, but there was a well-worn trail up the side of it, made by horses and bison. The wolves used the path to make their descent.

The stallion ran up the same trail, jumping over the first wolves he encountered. When he landed, one hoof clipped a predator’s hindquarters, causing it to squeal in pain. Another hoof landed on a second wolf’s shoulder, smashing the beast to the ground. As he trampled the lupus, he never lost his footing, making another great leap.

Wolves rained off the hill, tumbling like a gray avalanche with tails.

The ivory steed left behind a reeling pack as he raced the last forty yards to crest the ridge. He no longer saw the monster! His horseflesh prickled, his tail twitching. Alone on the flattop hill, he gazed down at the panicked herd.

Instead of pursuing the white stallion, the wolves not injured in his charge were dogging the other horses, causing more panic. He saw two Mustangs kicking at a circle of snarling wolves that were threatening a foal.

Because of the commotion below, it didn’t immediately occur to the stallion how unnaturally quiet this hilltop was. Just before he saw the miracle, he realized there were no crickets chirping— no sounds of any kind.

The vampire appeared out of nothingness. An ill wind blew past the horse, seemingly gathering moonlight into a malevolent shadow.

The man-creature popped into existence, as solid as a rock.

The pale horse bounded down the far side of the hill, weaving in and out of trees, until he reached the open plains. Totally unnerved by the vampire’s sudden appearance, he couldn’t even summon up his hatred of being afraid.

Beneath unfriendly stars, his adrenaline flowed as

he ran for his life.

The stallion heard nothing following him, but he still didn’t slow his flight until he was utterly exhausted. Finally, certain he must have outrun the Evil, he slowed to a stop and looked back.

The vampire stood directly beside his left flank, perfectly still, unnaturally silent, his pallid face lit up eerily by the moon. The tainted man's close proximity startled the stallion.

With preternatural quickness and terrifying strength, the vampire grabbed the steed by his head. The putrid smell of rotting meat was nauseating. The stallion struggled, but it was like fighting against a deeply rooted tree.

The fiend hissed, "You belong to me now! Accept it!"

The horse screamed, his eyes rolling over white.

Arms wrapped around the stallion’s neck in a cold embrace, the vampire told him, "You will be my Pale Horse.

And I will be Death."

The animated undead slashed his own wrist with his drawn-out fangs, tearing open shallow flesh. "Together, we will hunt down the savages!"

The vampire shoved his bleeding wrist into the horse’s mouth.

The stallion bit down hard, trying to rip off the vampire’s hand, but it was like chewing on petrified wood. Brackish blood gushed over his tongue, down his throat, tasting rancid. Feeling dizzy, the great white stallion's knees went weak.

The vampire released him.

The horse ran away.

Behind him, the villain laughed.

On his unsteady legs, the fastest gait that the stallion could manage was a trot. His heart felt wrong in his chest, its beating irregular. His lungs were on fire.

The stallion kept speeding across the prairie.

He didn’t get far before the vampire’s poison stilled his great heart.

He died on the run, falling, rolling, tumbling through the grasses for many yards before finally coming to rest.

Awakening late in the afternoon, on the third day after his death, the stallion immediately knew everything had changed.

Outside the cave, a thunderstorm was raging.

Without opening his eyes, the great white stallion discerned where he was.

He could smell the wet limestone, the mold and bat guano, as well as the wood and soil that didn’t belong here.

His sense of smell was infinitely more powerful than it had been before. His augmented hearing was now keen enough to hear prairie dogs huddling in their burrows, even over the noise of the thunderstorm. The stallion knew his eyesight would also be extraordinary, enhanced beyond his imagining. He delayed that moment, keeping his lids closed, as he worked to sort out his thoughts.

He realized that he had thought— an ability to consider that he didn’t have before... before he was murdered! He understood that he had died.

And then he realized how terribly thirsty he was! 🩸

Opening his eyes, the stallion climbed to his feet.

Horses have sharp, 350-degree eyesight, as well as excellent night vision, but they possess limited color-vision. Before he died, the great white stallion had difficulty distinguishing certain shades of green, brown, and gray. Now, not only could he see every vibrant color of the spectrum, his vision extended into both the infrared and ultraviolet spectrums.

The vampire had transformed him!

He could smell the Nosferatu— his tormentor, his creator—deeper in the cave. Unmindful of his footing, the stallion went to confront the vampire, unaware he was effortlessly snapping off solid stalagmites with his angry strides.

He quickly found the source of the wood and earth odors. Three pine coffins were grouped in a thin natural chamber, each filled with soil from the country on the other side of the Mississippi River.

Realizing then that he possessed a great deal of knowledge that he shouldn’t, the stallion’s anger was mollified by awe.

The vampire’s name was Wallace Andrew Wellington III. He was from a land called Georgia, in a country called the United States of America. His family was wealthy; they owned many slaves. Dark-skinned humans had sated Wellington’s blood-thirst for the last fifty years. Recently, however, the monster had grown tired of feeding on broken people who were born into servitude.

Wellington craved the blood of free men. And yet he also had an aversion to killing white men (which made absolutely no sense whatsoever to the horse.)

For Wellington, the year was numbered 1844. For the horse, the idea that the seasons could be counted was beyond his grasp.

All stallions have additional teeth behind their incisors, four canine fangs called tushes. The ghastly white stallion now bore his, forcing them to grow three times their normal length.

Horses needed less sleep than humans. So, too, the undead stallion needed less rest than his creator.

It was at least two hours until dusk. Wellington couldn’t rise until then. The vampire was vulnerable.

Striding over to one of the unoccupied coffins, the pale horse raised his front left hoof and slammed it downward, shattering the wooden lid. Once the side of the box was exposed, he bent down and bit it, sinking his new vampire fangs deep into the pine. Picking up the long heavy crate of earth, he carried it through the cavern to the entrance.

Stepping out of the cave, into the storm, he felt slightly weaker. The sun was well hidden behind the black storm clouds, but its diffuse light was still capable of having an enervating effect on him. The ghostly stallion found himself positioned high up the side of a steep cliff, about thirty feet above the steppe.

Repeated thunderclaps rocked the prairie. Wind and water conspired to create a slanted deluge.

With all his considerable strength, the four-hoofed fury twisted his head, flinging the coffin down the side of the cliff. It impacted a boulder, cracking and splintering. Georgian dirt quickly became sloshing mud.

Defiant joy filled the horse’s heart.

He returned for the second box, bashing in the lid, picking it up in his mouth, and then chucking it out into the downpour.

The final remaining coffin was the one occupied by Wellington.

When the stallion used both front hooves to crack open the third lid, the vampire roared telepathically...

Cease this immediately or suffer my wrath!

The horse bit the box, picking it up.

Wellington’s eyes opened, blazing with infernal fire. And while his body remained rigor mortis stiff, both hands suddenly shot out, grabbing the steed by his head.

Stop!

Mentally, the stallion laughed. Just as he knew he would never be able to crush Wellington’s skull, so he also knew Wallace couldn’t smash his. No vampire could kill another through brute force alone.

When the man squeezed, the bronco felt a sharp pressure... but virtually no pain.

While Wellington continued to hiss telepathic curses, the pale horse calmly walked the coffin to the lip of the cave.

His toss was perfect; this pine casket struck a large boulder below, blasting apart. In addition to wood and dirt, the body of Wallace Andrew Wellington III somersaulted down the cliff.

The great white stallion whinnied in triumph.

From his vantage point high above, he watched Wellington claw his way over the rain-soaked rocks, moving like an injured spider. The vampire pulled himself up the side of the cliff, into the muddy deluge.

The ghostly steed intended to let the man-monster get all the way up to the edge of this cavern, before kicking him back down.

But Wallace didn’t even try to reach him. The half-functioning fiend found a cranny below, pulled himself into it, and then pulled a huge rock on top of himself.

The stallion retreated inside the cave.

Both Nosferatu now waited for the sun to go down.

The pale horse locked his legs and briefly (slept) died, but he was wide awake later, as dusk approached.

The rain had stopped, but heat lightning still crawled across the distant skies. It was another muggy night on the Great American Plains.

Below him, the white stallion could feel the rising fury of the vampire. The moment the sun was fully beneath the horizon, he knew Wellington would attack. The great ghastly horse was ready.

The last hidden sliver of the sun dropped away.

The stone atop of the vampire was flung high into the air. Wellington rose up, screeching like a giant rat.

The stallion lunged out of the cave— leaping down the cliff to deftly land thirty feet below.

He turned back, glaring into Wallace’s red cinder eyes. He stomped a hoof, daring the vampire to try and catch him.

In an oily instant, Wellington transformed into a huge black wolf.

The undead stallion galloped away. The undead (man) wolf gave chase.

There was never any doubt about who would win the race. Before, when Wellington chased him, the bronco was still living flesh. But he was a dead horse now, capable of running infinitely faster. His hooves created an awful friction, kicking up sparks when he hit rocks, creating steam that would be brush fires if not for the recent rains.

The two bloodsuckers hastened east, sprinting deeper into the night.

When it finally became apparent to Wellington that he would never catch the stallion, he resorted to more telepathic threats...

I will return for you, beast! You are linked to me now! And when I do catch you, there will be Hell to pay!

Not the slightest bit out of breath, the pale horse whinnied laughter.

After projecting a final burst of baneful fury directly into the stallion’s mind, the vampire vanished.

The great white steed slowed to a stop, his skin gleaming with so much blood-sweat, he appeared to be a great crimson stallion.

His thirst was so dire, it hurt. He knew water would no longer sate him.

He needed blood.

His tushes growing again, the terrible horse turned and headed for an encampment of the buffalo hunters.

The laments of women were shriller than the cries of cougars in heat.

All around the hell-horse, teepees were on fire. Hot smoke created by burning buffalo skins added a pleasant bitterness to the stench of human fear. Warriors yipped and hollered as they attacked him. Already he had been shot with more than a dozen arrows, including one that had perfectly skewered his throat.

Every prick and piercing infuriated him.

The blood stallion kicked a man behind him, striking him squarely in the belly, with enough force to splatter his guts.

He bit another human on the shoulder, clamping down hard with his fangs, and then promptly lifted the naked male off his feet. Shrieking in agony, the man used his strong right arm to hit the stallion squarely in the neck with a devilishly sharp tomahawk. The blade peeled back a flap of white mane and bloody horseflesh before glancing off a black undead spine.

The gore gushing out of the man’s shoulder tasted awful. And with his blood flowed a stream of human memory...

His tribe was the Cheyenne. They were a spiritual people who had legends of “losing the corn.” They revered the buffalo and hunted it out of need, not maliciousness. In that regard, they were not so different from coyotes or any other predator.

In his youth, after walking one of their battlefields, the great white stallion came to believe that all humans were ruthless destroyers. But now, in this waking nightmare, he encountered some people who were cruel, and some who were spiteful, but none who were especially evil.

Their general good nature only served to make him angrier.

Two more arrows thunked into his side. Throwing down the dying man, the raging undead horse turned and chased down two archers.

He trampled men, women, and children. He kicked and bit, killing with both hoof and fang. At one point, he chomped down tight on a screaming woman’s long black hair, while simultaneously stomping on both her feet.

He then proceeded to yank the her head off.

Sensing exactly how to inspire both horror and terror, the hell-horse kept the scalp clamped in his mouth, carrying the head around, slaying the rest of the tribe with only his hooves.

Babies bawled. Mothers moaned. The wounded whimpered. The rampaging steed silenced each in turn.

Many Cheyenne fled, running for their lives, hiding where they could. With his infrared vision and unholy sense of smell, the undead monster tracked them all down.

He tortured them out of hatred.

He killed them in a dark red fury.

He murdered every last one of them.

When he was done, his victory was soured. Their blood was too repulsive to sate his need.

He was still plagued by that same terrible thirst.

⚡🩸_______________________🩸⚡

In his zeal to kill all the humans, he allowed their horses to escape.

Now— the glorious massacre regrettably done— the undead steed instinctively followed the equine odor.

After traversing only a short distance across the prairie, he caught the scent of his old herd, much stronger than the odor of the tamed horses, although much farther away. He turned in the direction of the wild ones, racing toward them with the fleetness of the damned.

When he finally saw the herd, a blood froth foamed in his mouth. He was consumed with a rapacious hunger. Sensing his cannibalistic intent, his brethern fled from him, just like they bolted three nights ago when chased by the wolf pack.

He selected a sleek amber mare, taking a quick (deeply satisfying) bite out of her haunches, before grabbing the horse’s tail and pulling her down. She didn’t struggle long; he quickly broke her two hind legs with vicious jabs of his hooves. The mare didn’t even have time to scream before he ducked his face under her chin and sank his fangs into her neck.

This blood sated! This blood was wondrous! Taste ruled his mind!

When the mare’s heart collapsed, he chased down and killed another horse.

Then another after that.

Finally, the stallion was so glutted, blood spilled out of his eyes, ears, and nostrils. Only then was he stricken with an appalling realization.

Horses were no longer his kindred! He wasn’t a noble equine any longer! He was no longer pure! He was a vampire— corrupted, violent… vile!

The blood stallion experienced such overwhelming grief, his body fell apart, becoming a crimson mist. The arrows that had still impaled him now dropped to the ground. Undead molecules rode a salty updraft. Looking down on the three lifeless mares from high above, the ethereal steed wept.

The moon and the stars mourned with him.

Coyotes and wolves sang sorrowful duets.

⚡🐺______________________🐺⚡

Hours later, the great white stallion stood on a rocky butte, looking northeast. Somewhere in that direction, he sensed Wallace Wellington had reached his homeland.

The vampire horse knew his creator would eventually return to hunt him. Wellington would never relent until he had either killed the stallion or tamed him.

The pale horse derived undeniable (shameful) satisfaction from slaughtering the Cheyenne (who Wellington confusingly thought of as ‘Indians’). He knew that if he were to join Wallace in his quest to slaughter ‘savages,’ it wouldn’t be without its rewards.

But the idea of joining the human was repellent to him.

Wellington had destroyed his agrarian life! It was because of Wellington that he would never forge another river... or ever again feel the warmth of the sun! By day, he would forever need to hide away in some cave, like a lowly bat! All his sexual urges were dead! When he thought of his old mares— all he felt was a surging bloodlust!

Rage quickly cooked under the pressure of his undead brain.

The deadly vampire stallion would never serve that slave owner!

A fateful decision made, he said goodbye to his new contemplative mind, yet another product of Wellington’s intervention, just another thing to hate. Hurdling down the side of the butte, he galloped northeast. The storm that passed through had veered south. The sky was clearing.

Once again, he ran as swift as he was able, tearing across the flat countryside like a purposeful lightning _bolt ⚡‼

He charged toward the gathering light.

Skirting around all rivers and streams and other sources of running water, he still was able to run many long last miles. Just before daybreak, every hair stood up and every nerve inside the stallion began to jangle. Sensing the terrible danger he was in, every muscle sought to reflexively turn away.

He didn’t give in to the impulses of his alarmed body. His spirit would be liberated!

Sol slipped above the horizon. The clouds parted as if the bloody steed willed it. Direct beams of searing sunlight struck him. His mane and tail instantly burst into flames. The pain was excruciating. All his preternatural senses now conspired to create burning torment.

The stallion lowered his head and ran ever swifter toward the deadly sunrise.

Just before he became a fireball, his blood-sheen evaporated. For a single instant, he was pure again— clean. He was himself again and he laughed in jubilation.

The next instant, he exploded.

Flaming hoof-prints continued on for another three miles, beyond the fiery flashpoint.

The great white stallion was free.

_______________________Bolt ⚡