The rain fell sideways. The strange man was getting closer. He stood, the rain falling freely on his bald head, looking at a murder scene. He was getting closer, but for Marcos he was already far too late. The Columbian mountains reared above him as he observed the corpse. Far too late.
Marcos' body had once been a prime physical speciman. Now the rain lashed out at his cold, white body, like fear had drained every ounce of life out of him before he died. There were crimson red strips running across his throat like a ribbon. He had no eyes. They had been gouged out and now silverfish and leeches infested in the sockets. They were crawling inside his skin. A tapeworm squirmed it's way out of it's occupant, disatisfied with the contents. Ants, beetles, flies and all kinds of bugs hung or scampered across his decomposing body. They feasted and fested inside the open wounds were he was slain. Marcos was facing up, his arms and legs spread out as if thrown to the ground by force after looking into the eyes of his killer. His neck was twisted oddly, it had been broken with a sudden twist. Perhaps how he actually died.
The strange man stroked his beard and felt two watery tears drip down amongst the rain. He could hear the crack and shudder as Marcos' neck was twisted out of place. He had known this man, once, in one lifetime. He looked up. From the tops of the mountains and across the wide forests came a distant echo that said;