Flash Fiction

As he stepped in the occasional black mottled remains of the winters final covering his hardy boot made a sound that echoed his presence. He halted. Across the moonlit single gauge rail the hamlet continued in its torpor. Circumventing the small island of unwanted snow and detritus he stepped up onto the single track. In the distance an owl screeched. Again he halted; it was his natural instinct in an unnatural setting. The houses of the hamlet appeared in front of him out of the darkness. He counted off the sleeping house frames. One, two, three, at the ninth house he stopped. He tried the door handle. It turned. He knew it would.

Upstairs in the bedroom of the ninth house were two sleeping figures. He leant over and gently pulled back the bedcovers. The two figures were male and female. From his voluminous coat he pulled a long, sharped, extreme knife. He, with great efficiency, slit the throat of the male. The action caused the female to stir gently. She looked directly at him and smiled serenely. He ignored her, for she knew, and hoisted the body of the defunct male onto his muscular shoulder. He turned gracefully and stole swiftly away into the bitter night.