Creative Writing: A Hero's Death

Placed a prayer for God to forgive them. Placing flowers at the large gravestone in memorial of this beloved man. The villagers, slowly--- started to fall ill . First in small quantity with the poor and impoverished. Young to old. Clipping off the ends of the young, and the other side of the old. Until the healthy and strong were also cut off too. They fell ill, sometimes stalling in the streets to beg for food. They could not work under this condition. They were often met with locked doors and stone faces that would disappear as fast as they appeared. Unlike before, they realized now that the true imminent danger of this invisible enemy. It had appeared to them, and to them all. Now the middle class was getting the clippers and hedges shaved. While the weak and incapacitated started to die. The courtyard now was a small growing graveyard. Crude

What was left in the pile, was the doctor himself. Infected as he slit the throats of the ones who paid him to attempt to save them. He was truly infected, even before the plague had begun. Sinful as to the greed that he possessed. He laid dead in the pile. Grin on his face as the energy left his body. Hand over a small gold statue, maybe even hoping in afterlife. He would be able to keep this treasure. Beyond the town sat the vast desert. Where many attempted to cross, but failed under the horrible tempest winds creating dust storms and making passage impossible. Supplies ran thin and they starved out in the sands. No recovery would ever reach their bodies. Sand already covering many feet above them. I glanced at the small group. About thirteen in all, some young. One seemed to be only twelve. And the old, one seemed to be about fifty. Their eyes were stricken in fear, watching the skyline as it for some way remove the pain they suffer, and to remove the decay of their loved