The mercilessness of the damned.

The sky was oil-black, the stars glittering like gems in a deep mine, shining faintly in a moonless sky and down upon a bare ridge of parched desert. An old highway stretched itself across the dirt like a dying man, the pavement cracked with time and the paint all but broiled away from years beneath a scorching sun. Some yards away an even older set of railroad tracks lay upon a manmade bank of eroding gravel. The line had long ago been shut down, and the only trains that traveled it now were ghosts of those steaming, whistling beasts. The boards were warped and rotted, choked with desert scrubs and the rusty remains of iron pins that once held the rail together.

A diamondback slithered up over the old steel girders, its sensitive tongue flicking in search of food. The night was calm and still, no breeze blew. Then a sudden wind swept up from the earth itself, carrying itself across the plain. The snake coiled up defensively and froze, its rattle poised to ward off predators and its head ready to strike should the warning go unheeded. These guards were unnecessary, however; the four shadowy figures that appeared beside the tracks had no intention of harming an effigy of their Lord.

The stars watched with cold indifference as two of the silhouettes passed a limp body between them. One held while the other delivered the blows. The third offered his enthusiasm to the violence that followed.

“Hit him again,” the faceless shadow grunted, and watched as another punch landed on the already purple cheek of a dark haired youth who could barely stand on his feet. “And again!”

Another blow, this one to the stomach. The victim bent himself in half, gasping as both pain and physics stole his breath. His attacker relented, and the one holding his arms watched as he coughed and vomited blood onto the bleached pavement, swallowed from an assault that began hours ago.

“I think he’s had enough,” he observed. “We should toss him.”

“Not yet,” said the third. “I haven’t had my turn.”

The first attacker stepped politely aside and allowed his partner to do as he pleased. He turned away when the blows began to fall and stared up at the sky appreciatively. The crack of bone and the slap of flesh echoed shallowly across the ridge, the only sound in the night aside from the sharp cries of pain, though they were few and brief – the will of the vain and proud seldom breaks so easily.

A few minutes of this merciless battery marked the limit of the youth’s resilience; his knees buckled and his captor allowed him to crumple to the ground. He lay there in a bleeding, broken heap, face down and submissive, yet this was not a warrant for mercy.

“Scream for me, worm,” mocked the one who had been restraining him, and a sharp black boot struck his side. There was a muffled, meaty pop as the rib cracked beneath the blow.

The youth lifted his head — blood-drenched and blackened with bruises — but refused to cry. He gritted his teeth and writhed on the pavement in agonizing pain, eyes clenched shut, bloodied fingers scratching against the asphalt. His sobs remained buried in his throat along with his pleas for mercy. He would not give his punishers the satisfaction of seeing his tears.

“He has yet to beg,” muttered his latest attacker. “Admirable, really, considering his age. He would have made a fine lord.”

“Don’t blaspheme,” warned the other. “Usurpers have no place among us .” He glared down at the small figure huddled in the road. “Especially those who seek to undo the work of our Master.”

Another swift kick and the youth curled himself into a ball, moaning softly with each trembling, fluid-choked breath he drew.

“Come on,” said the first to his companions. “We’ve done enough here. The sun will finish what we’ve started.”

The three figures converged behind the fallen lad’s beaten body and together strode down the highway, never looking back, and vanished into the black desert with the next gust of unnatural wind.

The night which had before seemed to have been holding its breath slowly exhaled, and the diamondback uncoiled itself and continued on its journey. It slithered down the rocky embankment and across a dry, narrow ditch, eventually making its way to the crumbling blacktop that was still warm from the day’s heat. The snake pressed on, driven by its hunger, and paused only briefly when it came to the obstacle blocking its path. A few flicks of its curious tongue detected the strong scent of blood, but instinct told it that this blood was not its food; this thing was dying, and snakes prey only upon the living.

The rattler gracefully maneuvered around the motionless body that lay beside the waning white lines, avoiding the spreading pool of blood as it resumed its hunt without hesitation.

How ironic it would have been if the snake had realized that the injured creature it was leaving behind was the son of the greatest Serpent of all.