How the devil do you get this thing to tab over, anyone know? Anyway. I've been reading through the next the Dark Tower tales, Wolves of the Calla, and it inspired me to write this. I hope Stephen King would approve.
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He awoke to stillness. No wind blew. No creature stirred. He felt damp, damp from sweat. The air about him was hot but the ground beneath him was cool. And he was dead.

“Why am I dead?”

No one answered his unspoken question.

He knew he was dead, but he didn’t feel dead. He opened his eyes.

He was in a building because there was a mixture of light and dark. Above his head it was dark, but light shone through an open doorway warming his legs. His chest was swathed in shadow, and was cooler. The ceiling was slanted, wooden rafters ran to his right and left holding it all up. He could feel the cool pull of concrete beneath his open palms, could recognize its smooth polished texture.

He sat up. The creaking of his blue jeans and old flannel shirt were the first sounds he heard besides his own breathing. To his right and left he could see old stalls filled with hay. The place was some sort of old stables.

A smile began to tug at his lips. This was certainly not hell, at least not yet. He’d never been a church going man. It looked like The Old Man in the Sky wasn’t going to have his way with him after all. His face darkened then. Maybe this was the Old Man’s idea of a joke. If it was he hadn’t heard the punch line yet.

Boots. He was wearing boots, old and scuffed. He’d never owned a pair of boots like these. They looked like something John Wayne might have worn in one of those old westerns. For that matter he had never owned a shirt or a pair of pants like these either, yet they all fit him well enough. They seemed right somehow.

“Why am I dead?”

The question came back, still unanswered. He couldn’t remember, just knew it to be true. He was as dead as he was alive. Standing, he gave his body a once over. Not a scratch nor a bruise, but he knew there should have been.

Near the back of the room was a machine mounted on a raised concrete pad. The rest of the place had a worn, forlorn look to it, but this thing looked brand new. Sticking out from one side was a pipe which hung over an open drain. Water colored the floor a darker shade of grey where it hadn't quite dried up yet. It seemed to have been used recently. On the top of the machine was a small red button labeled “On”.

When he pressed the button he heard a click and then a cycling sound, thud-THUD, thud-THUD, thud-THUD. Water came out cold and refreshing, and he drank his fill. His long sleep had made him thirsty.

“What is this place?” he wondered. "Why am I here?"

He walked back over to the entrance of the stables. Only time would tell.

It was late by the time Anias trudged into Hillsboro. Weary from the journey Anias walked slowly down the main street of the small hamlet and made his way towards the Traveler’s Rest, a tavern were he would bed down for the night. In an alley on the right hand of the street a man watched him from the shadows.

After Anias passed the mouth of the alley the man emerged and began to follow Anias down the street, and moved quickly to catch up.

“Anias, son of Hal?” the man asked, his speech terse.

Anias turned around slowly, and looked the man up and down. He was most likely a farmer. He was covered from head to foot in dirt, and his cloths were torn and worn, hardly enough to keep him warm in the middle of winter. The man looked pale and his lips were blue, he must have been standing outside for some time. He didn’t seem to mind being so cold, as he stood there without shivering or chattering his teeth.

“Excuse me, have we met?” Anias asked cautiously. Something about the way the man was looking at him made him nervous.

Anias extended his hand.

“You seem to have me somewhat at a disadvantage, you are?”

The man made no reply, he only stood there staring savagely at Anias, his breathing heavy as if he had been hard at work.

Anias waited a moment for the man to say something. Trying to stay calm he continued on, dropping his hand back to his side.

“Well, whatever your business is with me friend, let us speak about it indoors, it is cold out here. Come, I will buy you a drink.”

Anias turned and headed towards the tavern. Hopefully there would be other people in the tavern. Anias kept his head turned slightly to the left so he could keep an eye on the man out of the corner of his eye. After he had walked fifteen feet the other man began to follow. Anias turned his head back towards the tavern satisfied with the distance between himself and the stranger.

The stranger followed behind slowly at first. From under the folds of his shirt he drew a dagger. With each step he moved faster until he was running at Anias, his face contorted with a bizarre mixture of glee and rage.

The man was close by the time Anias heard him and turned just in time to see him leap in the air dagger raised above his head. As the man fell through the air Anias raised his hand and muttered a few words, and shut his eyes tight. Brilliant white light exploded from his hand making the dark street bright as day. Stunned the stranger tumbled onto Anias knocking both men to the ground; the stranger rolled off Anias, moaning and rubbing his eyes.

Anias got to his feet and clumsily drew his sword. As he did this he backed as quickly as he could towards the tavern, keeping his eyes on the stranger, who was struggling to his feet and wiping tears from his eyes. The stranger looked back and forth several times before his eyes focused on Anias. He snarled and bent over feeling on the ground for his dagger. Once it was in hand again he charged. Anias stopped backing up and raised his sword above his head. When the man came close Anias stepped towards the right away from the mans knife hand and swung the flat of his blade at the side of the man’s head. The stranger was not quick enough to duck and Anias’ sword connected with a resounding THWACK. The stranger crumpled to the ground and did not stir. Blood trickled from the wounded skin and mingled with the snow.

Anias turned and ran toward the tavern for help.