Create with ME 3rd Place winner: Moor or Less

Moor or Less

The dicey van barrelled down the B3629, kicking up explosions of dirt and rubble as it fired across the desolate moorland. A labyrinth of violent twists and turns, it would be the last named road on which they would travel; beyond lied nothing but open moorland, light years from the prying eyes of the big city. The derelict wasteland was a reflection of the morning sky, which, with each passing minute, grew darker and duskier as it concealed itself in thick layers of fog. Perfect conditions - for this.

Lyndon Young was a man of his late thirties, though he looked not a day over twenty-eight, aged only by an accomplished wisdom that marked his eyes. He stood tall with a robust look about him, well aware of his impending fate - yet absent minded. His steady composure, combined with the fact he had made no attempt of escape, gave the impression that he had accepted his fate.

Cal awoke to a firm nudging against his shoulder.

‘We’re almost there,’ he heard.

‘Consiegnetti said he had it done a few yards east of the Belliver oak trees - you’ve got your job, I’ve got mine.’

Calvert O’connor, known by his friends as Cal, was a young man. Calvert had a misleading feel about him; his pale white skin was outshone only by the blinding light of his bright blue eyes. An air of innocence surrounded him with each passing step and so, naturally, you would place him anywhere but the passenger seat of that van. Nonetheless, there he was.

‘Don’t make eye contact. It’s better that way’ A croaky voice spoke, perhaps noticing Calvert’s disconcertion. The voice belonged to Stanley Frost, a man of weathered tempests. He had rough skin and a square face that brandished a firm, rigid jaw. His face was hale and steeled with eyes that burned with a sort of composure only attainable through years of involvement in this line of work. Although Cal seemed accompanied by a stench of naivety, he was no fool. He knew why he was there. Calvert O’connor was going to kill a man.

The van anchored to a halt. Moments later the rust-tainted doors creaked open, revealing a battered Lyndon. Frost took the lead, seizing him by the scruff of his coat and aggressively ushering his prey out of the van. The open moorland hit Lyndon like a needle to the brain. He noticed his grave, pre-dug and running deep into the earth, almost calling his name. As Lyndon was lowered into the grave, a stark foreboding set in as he realised he was stood at ground zero.

Suddenly, with the passionless look of an insect, Stanley raised his Ruger LCR22 revolver and directed it firmly towards his victim. Without a second of hesitation, he planted four rounds straight into Lyndon’s chest, watching gleefully as he descended into the grave. ‘Well get to it then, bury the man,’ barked Frost as he turned to Calvert, who wore a strange smile. 

Then, with a bitter-sweet grin, Cal drew a weapon of his own.

‘Conseignetti’s orders’ he said in an accentuating superiority.

‘No loose ends.’

William Painter