Mercy Killing

(One of my submissions to the Boise Weekly Fiction 101 contest, 2008.)

Crucified as Peter, black birds tapped and pecked at hollow eyes.

A man stood before him, fag in hand; hot smoke shimmied the air. The sweltered man lacked water, but the man offered him none. His supplies were spent. Ammo low. His revolver rusty.

The man did not speak and the crucified did not listen. They were soldiers—grey clouds amidst a blue sky—one caught; the other, done running.

The man loaded a cartridge and spun the cylinder. He shook as he pressed the barrel against his temple. He kissed the dead man and whispered “Mea Culpa, brother.” then fired.