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The door clicked shut, the sound reverberating through the still house. She pressed her back against the wood, her breath shallow.

Her daughter was already dragging her injured foot toward the couch, mumbling complaints about the “dumb sticker” and asking for tweezers.

She tried to answer, but her voice wouldn’t come. Her mind was still outside, under the trees, where that shadow moved in a way shadows shouldn’t.

“You’re just tired,” she whispered, half to herself, half to the empty house.

But even as the words left her lips, they felt wrong.

Her daughter called again, louder this time. “Mom! The sticker!”

She pushed off the door and moved toward her, her steps heavy, the sound of the night still pressing against her skull. Kneeling, she reached for her daughter’s foot, brushing away dirt and dried grass. Her fingers worked automatically, plucking out the tiny burr.

“There,” she said, her voice finally steady. “All better. Go upstairs and wash your feet before you get in bed.”

The girl pouted, but the hint of tears glistening in her eyes kept her from arguing. She trudged upstairs, leaving her mother alone in the too-quiet house.

Her eyes drifted to the window over the sink. It looked out onto the backyard, the trampoline barely visible under the glow of the porch light, the trees beyond loomed black and endless.

“It wasn’t a baby.”

The thought cut through her again, sharper this time, a razor slicing through her rationality. She gripped the edge of the counter, her knuckles white. She could almost hear the cry now, faint and distant.

But it had sounded like a baby earlier, no? That high, keening wail that tugged at the maternal part of her brain, the part that still stirred at the slightest whimper from her daughter. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard it, either.

The sound had been there three nights ago when she’d woken suddenly at 3 a.m., her mouth dry and her heart racing for no reason she could name. She’d stood at the window then looking out at the moonlit yard, her mind flickering between childhood fears of ghosts and adult fears of prowlers.

But she’d seen nothing after the initial cry. She’d told herself it was just the wind through the old house, a trick of memory and fatigue.

Tonight, though, it was different.

She turned away from the window, shivering despite the warm air. Upstairs, her daughter’s footsteps padded softly toward the bathroom. The sound comforted her, tethered her to reality.

And yet.

Her feet moved without her permission, carrying her to the back door. Her hand hesitated on the cold brass knob.

Don’t.

She twisted it anyway. The door groaned as it opened, the night spilling in, thick and oppressive.

The yard stretched out before her, the trampoline still and empty, the trees at the edge of the property impenetrable in their darkness.

She stepped onto the porch. The boards creaked beneath her weight, each step an invitation to the night.

“Hello?” she called, her voice barely above a whisper. She hated how small it sounded.

Silence answered her.

And then, faint and almost too soft to hear, it came.

The cry.

High and mournful, it rolled over the yard, distant and close all at once, as if the sound couldn’t decide where it belonged.

Her breath caught.

“It’s not a baby,” she murmured, her voice trembling.

Her body screamed to turn back, lock the door, crawl into bed with her daughter, and pretend this moment had never happened.

Instead, she stepped off the porch.

The grass was cool and damp against her feet, each blade a reminder of how real this was, how wrong this was.

The sound came again, louder this time.

And closer.

Her eyes darted to the trees, searching for movement, for the faint smudge of not-quite-shadow she’d seen before.

But the trees were still.

It wasn’t until she turned back toward the house that she saw it on the trampoline. A small, pale shape curled in a fetal position as if asleep.

Her breath hitched. “It’s not a baby,” she said again, her voice breaking.

But her feet moved forward, drawn by some primal instinct she couldn’t name, some ancient compulsion buried deep in her bones. The shape didn’t stir as she approached.

The closer she got, the less it looked like a child. Its limbs were too long, its skin pale, almost translucent in the moonlight.

She stopped a few feet away, her body trembling.

The thing on the trampoline shifted, its movements slow and deliberate, as if it knew she was watching. And then it turned its head.

The eyes were black. Not dark, not shadowed, but black, deep, and endless, and hungry. It opened its mouth, and the sound was worse than the cry.

It was laughter.

You sit there, the room buzzing like an old refrigerator, static on the TV turned up to drown out whatever’s scratching at the back of your skull. Somebody says, “Change the channel,” as if that’ll fix anything.

Like flipping from one cartoon to another, from one talking head to the next, makes a goddamn difference. It doesn’t.

But they don’t know that. Or maybe they do and don’t want to look at the truth.

Because here it is: it’s all the same. You burn a candle for your coma, and when it’s out, you’ll lie flat and quiet, a dead soldier without a war to lose. You’ll be another man who went to sleep for good, a sample of the defeated.

It’s a San Fran kind of stink we’re talking about. The stink of a city piled on top of itself, rats gnawing through its belly while people in suits step over the bodies.

People think cities like that are alive, but they’re wrong. Places like that aren’t alive—they’re starving, dying, thrashing, taking you down with them.

You wake up in a room with a window that hasn’t opened since before you were born, and it’s loud outside. Trucks belching fumes. A woman in heels that she can’t walk in. A drunk on the corner who isn’t singing, just mumbling something ugly to God or whoever’s left.

You try to stand up straight, and the weight bends you sideways, dust in your lungs. But you don’t quit. You never quit because quitting is worse.

You crawl out of bed with half a lung and two-thirds of a prayer. You paint the insides of your eyelids—bright yellows, perfect blues—because no one else is giving you that picture.

The world outside your head doesn’t do sunny days. It does cold pavement, missing paychecks, and people who forget your name.

So you make your sun. You carry it inside you.

And sometimes, if you’re lucky, you meet someone who understands it. Maybe it’s the man on the crate with the trumpet.

He’s homeless, his coat doesn’t close, and the trumpet looks like it came out of a war, but when he plays—Jesus, when he plays—angels hold their breath. He can make that rusted horn sound like heaven itself cracked open and let out a sob.

Nobody stops to listen except you.

You hear him, and you know life’s just a bunch of broken instruments played by men who don’t know how to quit. And maybe that’s what makes it beautiful.

But scars? Scars are the price of admission.

Some burn. Some freeze.

Some you earned, some got handed to you by people you loved too much. Most people don’t like to talk about that.

They sit on their barstools and pretend the world’s done them a favor–like they didn’t crawl through fire to get there. They call it survival, but you know better.

You know it’s just waiting for something to come and shake you out of it. Waiting for the woman who’ll look you straight in the eyes and say, “You’re mine for tonight,” and make you believe it.

And you? You’re the artist with nothing but dirt to till. You wake up at five in the morning with calloused hands and empty pockets and do the work.

You do it because you have to. Because starving’s better than quitting, and sometimes, even when you know the wind’s blowing it all away, you still sit there and scratch circles into the dirt. You shape something because it’s the only way to keep quiet at bay.

You know this, too–the sun will run out of batteries one day.

And when it does, no one will care what channel you left the TV on. Nobody will care about the paychecks you missed or the prayers you mumbled.

But maybe they’ll care about the trumpet man and his song. Perhaps they’ll care about how you kept burning, even when there wasn’t much wick left. Maybe they’ll care that you tried.

So you save up your nickels. You buy that trumpet man a brand-new horn.

You sit on his crate and let the music swallow you whole. And when it’s over, you won’t say a word because some things don’t need talking about.

Some things are enough just as they are.

And yeah, you’re not getting any younger. None of us are.

But the candle’s still burning, and for now, that’s all you need. That’s life.

You burn. You don’t quit.

You let the smoke curl up and out, and you watch the goddamn sunrise one more time.

It was a quiet morning, too quiet for my liking. A quiet that makes you question your very existence, or at the very least, whether you should pour a double shot of bourbon into your coffee. I staggered to the bathroom, still groggy from the night’s festivities, and looked into the mirror.

What I saw nearly sent me into cardiac arrest.

Staring back at me was Jesus Christ himself, a halo of curly hair, wild beard, and all. My first thought was that I had ascended to some higher plane of existence, but a closer inspection revealed the bitter truth: I had merely neglected to shave for far too long.

“Sweet mother of God,” I muttered, rubbing my eyes. “I’m about to be mistaken for the Messiah.”

Now, in a place like Virginia City, being mistaken for Jesus is a recipe for disaster. It is a town where folks would nail you to the side of a barn to see if you’d rise again in three days. I couldn’t risk it. I had to take action.

I rummaged through the medicine cabinet, my hands trembling slightly.

The razor seemed to gleam with an almost divine light, beckoning me to rid myself of this holy visage. The sound of the blade against my skin was cathartic, each stroke stripping away layers of divinity and returning me to my mortal form.

As the beard fell away, so did the weight of potential crucifixion. I was no longer a messianic figure; I was just a man needing caffeine and maybe another shot of bourbon.

My wife stumbled into the bathroom, eyes half-closed. “What in the seven hells are you doing, man?” she said. “You look like you just shaved off the salvation of mankind.”

“Preventative measures,” I replied, patting my now-smooth face. “I was on the verge of being nailed to a barn door by a bunch of zealous farmers.”

She squinted at me, then burst into raucous laughter. “Only you would have to shave to avoid crucifixion in this town.”

We headed downstairs to the kitchen, the smell of brewing coffee filling the air. I poured myself a cup, adding a generous splash of bourbon, and took a long, contemplative sip.

“Remember,” I said, glancing at her over the rim of my mug, “sometimes it’s the little things that save your hide. Like a good razor and a strong cup of coffee.”

She nodded as if I had imparted some profound wisdom. Maybe I had, or perhaps it was the bourbon talking. Either way, I survived another day.

Brady rode into Silver City under a sky as dark as a gambler’s conscience. The sun had dipped behind the jagged peaks of the Sierra Nevadas, painting the world in shades of shadow and regret. Blacky, his black-coated gelding with a temperament as stubborn as Brady’s own, snorted and tossed its head as they approached the town limits.

There was something about the air—too still, too quiet. The kind of silence that clings to a place after the last scream has faded.

A rickety sign creaked in the evening breeze: SILVER CITY — POP. 472. Someone had scratched out the last two digits, leaving it at a foreboding “4.”

Brady chuckled. He’d been alive long enough to know when trouble was brewing. This town was soaked in it, like whiskey on a drunkard’s breath.

He tipped his hat lower and guided Blacky toward the saloon, the one building still lit up against the encroaching darkness. The amber glow from the cracked windows gave the place the illusion of life, but Brady knew better. Evil had a way of hiding in plain sight.

As he dismounted, boots hitting the dust with a soft thud, he took stock of his surroundings. The saloon doors swung on rusted hinges, beckoning him inside like a set of jaws. He tied Blacky to the post and patted the horse’s neck.

“Don’t you worry, boy,” he murmured. “I’ll be back soon enough.”

The saloon smelled of stale beer and desperation. A handful of patrons sat slumped over tables, their faces hidden beneath wide-brimmed hats and shadows cast by a flickering chandelier.

Brady’s sharp eyes swept the room, cataloging every detail—the nervous bartender polishing an already spotless glass, the hulking brute playing solitaire in the corner, and the lone figure sitting at the bar, nursing a drink as though it held all the answers.

Brady sidled up to the bar and tapped the counter with two fingers. The bartender, a wiry man with a patchy beard, hesitated before pouring a shot of whiskey and sliding it over.

“You’re new,” the man said, voice tight with unease. “Ain’t many folks passing through these days.”

Brady threw back the shot and savored the burn. “Well, now, that’s a shame. Seems like a nice enough place.” He set the glass down and leaned in, lowering his voice. “Except for the smell of fear hanging in the air. What’s got this town’s hackles up?”

The bartender’s eyes darted to the lone figure at the bar, a man cloaked in black with a wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his face–a priest.

Brady followed the gaze and tipped his hat. “Friend of yours?”

The bartender paled. “You’d best talk to him. He’s the one that called you here, ain’t he?”

Brady stiffened, hand brushing the grip of his Colt beneath his duster. He turned and approached the priest, boots striking the floorboards with deliberate slowness.

“Father,” Brady said, his voice flat but carrying a weight that made the other patrons flinch. “You rang?”

The priest looked up, revealing a face etched with years of grief and secrets too dark to share. His eyes burned with the kind of fire Brady had seen before—the kind that kept a man alive when he had long since stopped caring about his survival.

“Brady,” the priest said, his voice a low rasp. “I’ve been waiting for you. The town needs your help. The Devil himself has come to Hell’s Gate, and he’s brought his children with him.”

Brady’s lips twitched into a grim smile. “Well, now, ain’t that a coincidence? I was just in the mood for some company.”

The priest didn’t smile back. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a worn leather journal, setting it on the bar. “Read this. You’ll understand.”

Brady’s hand hovered over the journal, hesitation flickering across his face. He’d seen too many cursed books in his time, pages inked in blood and bound with screams.

But curiosity—or maybe something darker—got the better of him. He flipped it open and began to read.

The first page hit him like a blow to the gut: The town is dying. The vampires are only the beginning.

Brady’s jaw tightened. He’d come here expecting trouble. What he hadn’t expected was Hell waiting just beyond the gates.

The journal’s pages held frantic scrawls and illustrations—shaky diagrams of twisted creatures, crude maps of underground tunnels, and cryptic warnings inked in scarlet. Brady’s eyes narrowed as he pieced together the story.

The priest’s order had been battling this darkness for centuries, their numbers dwindling with every fight. Silver City, nestled near the aptly named Hell’s Gate, had become ground zero for a coming war.

“They call it the Rift,” the priest said, breaking the silence. “A tear in the veil between this world and the next. Something’s trying to break through, and it’s using the vampires as its vanguard.”

Brady snapped the journal shut and slid it back across the bar. “Why me? You’ve got your order, don’t you? Seems like you’re more than capable of handling this.”

The priest’s mouth twisted in a grimace. “We’re not enough. And we’re dying off faster than we can train replacements. But you, Brady… you’re different.”

Brady let out a low chuckle with no humor in it. “Different. That’s one way to put it.”

The priest’s gaze bore into him, unyielding. “You’ve faced them before. You know their strengths, their weaknesses. And you’ve got something none of us do—time.”

Brady’s hand brushed against the silver-edged cavalry sword at his side. He’d wielded it for over a century, cutting down things most men wouldn’t believe existed even if they saw them with their eyes. Still, he’d learned that fighting evil had a price.

“Fine,” he said, standing and adjusting his duster. “I’ll take a look around. But if this Rift’s as bad as you say, don’t expect me to stick around for the grand finale.”

The priest’s expression softened just a fraction. “That’s all I ask.”

Brady tipped his hat and turned toward the door. Outside, the cold night air hit him like a slap.

He untied Blacky and swung into the saddle. The town stretched before him, its darkened windows like empty eyes staring into the abyss.

“Let’s go, boy,” he murmured, nudging Blacky forward. “Looks like we’ve got work to do.”

The gelding snorted, and they rode into the heart of Silver City’s shadowy streets. Somewhere ahead, the Rift awaited, and with it, horrors that would test even an immortal like Brady.

But he’d faced worse before. Probably. For now, the hunt was on.

The first signs of trouble came not a mile from the saloon. As Brady rode past a row of crumbling storefronts, Blacky’s ears pinned back, and the horse gave a nervous whinny. Brady reined him in, scanning the shadows.

The moonlight painted everything in eerie shades of silver, but something darker moved between the buildings. A shape. Quick and low, like a wolf slinking through tall grass.

Brady’s hand drifted to the revolver at his hip. He didn’t draw, but the feel of it in his palm was reassuring. “Easy, Blacky,” he whispered. “Let’s not spook ourselves before the party starts.”

The sound of shuffling footsteps reached his ears. Slow and uneven, like someone dragging a lame leg. Brady narrowed his eyes, focusing on the alley where the noise had come from.

A figure stepped into view. At first glance, it might’ve been a man. But the way it moved wasn’t human.

Its head tilted at an unnatural angle, and its limbs hung too long and thin, like a marionette without strings. The dim light from the saloon caught its eyes—cold, empty, and glinting like shards of black glass.

Brady’s hand instinctively dropped to his Colt. Blacky stamped a hoof, uneasy, but Brady murmured a soothing word. He stayed in the saddle, watching as the thing inched closer. Then the smell hit, sharp and acrid, a mix of decay and sulfur.

“Evenin’, friend,” Brady called, voice steady. “You lost?”

The creature stopped, swaying slightly, its lips peeling back in a grotesque semblance of a smile. A low hiss escaped, too deep and guttural to belong to anything alive. It moved with sudden speed, lunging toward him.

Brady’s Colt was already out. The first shot echoed like thunder, the silver-tipped bullet striking the creature in the chest.

It staggered but didn’t fall. Instead, it shrieked, the sound high and piercing enough to rattle the windows of the nearby buildings.

“Well, that’s just plain rude,” Brady muttered, leveling the gun again.

The second shot hit the creature between the eyes, dropping it like a sack of bricks. It convulsed once before going still, its body already beginning to dissolve into a foul-smelling sludge.

Brady holstered the Colt and glanced down at Blacky, who was pawing nervously at the ground. “Looks like we’re dealing with more than just your garden-variety bloodsuckers,” he said.

Before he could dwell on it, more shuffling sounds echoed down the street. Brady turned, scanning the shadows, his hand hovering near his second revolver.

From every dark corner and alley, shapes began to emerge. Dozens of them. Too many.

“Damnation,” he muttered under his breath.

He drew his other Colt and urged Blacky into motion. The gelding reared, letting out a defiant whinny before surging forward.

Brady fired as they charged through the growing horde, each shot precise and deadly. Creatures fell left and right, their bodies breaking apart in sprays of black fluid. But for each he put down, two more seemed to take its place.

“Looks like they didn’t appreciate us crashing their party,” Brady growled, wheeling Blacky toward the open plains beyond the town. He needed space to regroup and think.

As they broke free of the mob, the creatures let go of a collective wail that sent shivers down Brady’s spine. They didn’t pursue, simply standing at the edge of the town like sentinels, their glowing eyes tracking his retreat.

Brady pulled Blacky to a halt a safe distance away and turned to look back. Silver City lay shrouded in darkness, the faint glow of the saloon the only sign of life. The priest’s warning echoed in his mind.

“The Rift’s open,” Brady said softly, gripping the reins tighter. “And it’s hungry.”

He dismounted, giving Blacky a pat on the neck before pulling a small flask from his coat. The holy water inside sloshed as he opened it and dipped his finger. He flicked a drop toward the ichor clinging to his boots. The liquid hissed on contact, burning the residue away.

“Figures,” he muttered. “Can’t ever just be vampires.”

The night stretched out cold and quiet, but Brady didn’t relax. He felt this was just the beginning, and whatever waited at Hell’s Gate was far worse than anything he’d faced before.

“Come on, boy,” he said to Blacky, climbing back into the saddle. “We’ve got a priest to interrogate and a town to save. Might even get some answers this time.”

Blacky snorted as if doubting that last part, and together they rode back toward Silver City, where the shadows were deep, and the hunt was far from over.

The ride back into Silver City felt heavier, the weight of unseen eyes pressing down on Brady. He scanned the empty streets, his Colt still drawn, Blacky’s hooves clopping softly against the dirt road. The creatures hadn’t pursued him past the town’s edge, but that didn’t mean they weren’t waiting for another chance.

Brady reined Blacky to a stop outside the saloon. The light inside flickered weakly, and the nervous murmur of voices carried through the walls. He tied Blacky to the post again, pausing to rub the horse’s neck.

“Stay sharp,” he murmured. “We might need to leave in a hurry.”

Pushing through the saloon doors, he found the same grim crowd, their expressions darker now. The bartender’s hand froze mid-wipe when he saw Brady, his eyes darting to the twin Colts still smoking faintly in their holsters.

“Had some company outside,” Brady announced, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Looks like the graveyard shift’s gotten a little crowded.”

The priest stood from his stool at the bar, his face set in a grim line. He motioned Brady over, ignoring the wary glances from the other patrons. Brady crossed the room, leaning one elbow on the bar as the priest turned to him.

“You’ve seen them,” the priest said, his voice low but urgent.

“Seen ’em? Hell, I danced with ’em,” Brady replied, a smirk tugging at his lips. He pulled the flask of holy water from his coat and set it on the bar. “Left me a nice keepsake, too. They’re not just vamps, Father. Whatever’s crawling out of that Rift, it’s got variety.”

The priest’s hands tightened into fists, his knuckles white. “Then the Rift’s influence is spreading faster than we feared.”

Brady tilted his head, his smirk fading. “We? You keep saying ‘we.’ Last I checked, it was just you and a room full of folks praying their livers hold out.”

The priest sighed, pulling the journal closer. “The Order. There are others, but they’re scattered. Most are already fighting their own battles—or dead. What’s left of us is spread too thin.”

Brady leaned back against the bar, crossing his arms. “Convenient. So it’s just me, you, and your book of bedtime horrors against whatever’s tearing its way through your Rift. Tell me, Father, how’s that plan been working out for you?”

The priest’s jaw tightened as the saloon doors banged open. A woman burst in, her face pale and streaked with tears. She clutched at the doorframe, gasping for breath.

“Betty!” the priest said.

“They—they took him!” she cried, her voice trembling. “My boy—he’s gone!”

The room erupted in whispers, the patrons shifting uneasily in their seats. Brady pushed off the bar, his gaze locking onto the woman.

“Easy, ma’am,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Who took your boy? What did you see?”

The woman shook her head, her hands trembling. “I—I didn’t see. I just heard the screams, and when I went to check…he was gone. The window was shattered, and there was blood—so much blood.”

Brady glanced at the priest, who met his gaze with a grim nod.

“It’s starting,” the priest said softly. “The creatures are taking them now.”

Brady’s lips pressed into a thin line. He turned back to the woman, stepping closer. “Where’s your place?”

She hesitated, wringing her hands. “Just a few streets over, near the church.”

Brady looked over his shoulder at the priest. “You’re coming with me. If we’re going to figure this out, we need to move fast.”

The priest grabbed his journal, stuffing it into his coat, and followed Brady toward the door. The other patrons stayed frozen in place, their faces pale and drawn.

As Brady stepped outside, he glanced back at the priest. “You sure this Rift is your problem to solve?”

“It’s not just my problem,” the priest replied, his voice steady. “It’s everyone’s.”

Brady snorted, pulling himself into Blacky’s saddle. “Well, here’s hoping the rest of ‘everyone’ shows up soon. Otherwise, this town’s got a one-way ticket to Hell.”

They rode toward the woman’s house, the night closing around them like a shroud. Whatever waited in Silver City’s shadows, Brady knew the battle was long from finished. But then, neither was he.

The woman’s house was a small clapboard on the edge of town, leaning as though it might topple with a strong wind. Brady pulled Blacky to a stop, his gaze scanning the property.

The window she’d mentioned yawned open, its shattered glass glinting faintly in the moonlight. A chill seeped into the air, carrying the unmistakable coppery tang of blood.

Brady dismounted, his boots crunching softly against the dry earth. The priest followed, gripping a simple wooden cross that hung around his neck. They approached silently, the woman trailing behind them, wringing her hands like a nervous ghost.

Brady paused at the door, motioning for the priest to stay back. He stepped inside, his Colt drawn, every sense tuned to the unnatural. The room smelled of fear and death.

Blood smeared the walls in dark, grotesque streaks, and broken furniture lay scattered across the floor. Whatever had taken the boy hadn’t been subtle.

The woman’s sobs broke the silence as she stepped into the doorway.

“That’s… that’s his room,” she said, pointing to a doorway down the narrow hall.

Brady glanced at the priest. “Stay with her. I’ll check it out.”

The priest nodded, placing a hand on the woman’s shoulder to steady her as Brady moved forward. The hallway seemed to stretch endlessly, shadows pooling in the corners like living things. Brady’s grip on his Colt tightened.

The boy’s room was a disaster. The small bed overturned, the mattress slashed, and feathers from a ruined pillow wafting to the floor.

A child’s wooden toy lay discarded near the open window, its surface smeared with something dark. Brady crouched to examine it.

Blood, and something else—something thick and black, like tar. He sniffed it cautiously, wrinkling his nose. It carried the stench of decay.

“Smells like something crawled out of a grave,” he muttered.

A faint noise made him freeze. A whisper, so soft it might’ve been his imagination, but it came once more faint and pleading.

“Help… me…”

Brady’s head snapped toward the sound. It came from outside, beyond the shattered window.

He pushed himself to his feet and climbed through, landing in the overgrown sagebrush behind the house. The yard stretched into the scrubland beyond, the faint outline of the church steeple visible in the distance.

The whisper came again, more distinct this time. It was the boy’s voice.

“Help me… please…”

Brady’s jaw tightened. He scanned the darkness, his keen eyes catching the faintest flicker of movement. A hunched figure scurried across the ground, dragging something limp behind it.

“Stop!” Brady barked, raising his Colt.

The figure froze, twisting its head unnaturally to look back at him. Its face wasn’t human.

The eyes glowed a sickly yellow, and its mouth filled with jagged teeth that gnashed and clicked. Brady fired, the silver round catching the creature in the shoulder. It shrieked, dropping its burden—the boy—and bolted into the night.

Brady ran to the child, crouching to check his pulse. The boy was pale, his breathing shallow, but he was alive. Brady hoisted him into his arms and turned back toward the house.

The priest met him at the back door, face pale but resolute. “Is he—?”

“Alive,” Brady said, handing the boy over. “But barely. Whatever’s out there didn’t finish the job.”

The priest carried the boy inside, laying him on the bloodied kitchen table as the woman sobbed over him. Brady stood by the window, staring out into the darkness.

“Father,” he said without turning. “That thing wasn’t a vampire. It was something else. Something worse.”

The priest nodded grimly. “The Rift’s corruption is spreading. It’s creating new horrors.”

Brady slid his Colt back into its holster, his face like stone. “Then it’s time to shut that Rift down for good.”

The priest hesitated. “You’ll need more than bullets and silver to face what’s coming. You’ll need allies.”

Brady snorted. “Allies don’t stick around long in my line of work. But if you’ve got some miracle up your sleeve, now’s the time to pull it out.”

The priest’s gaze hardened. “There is one thing. The Order–it keeps relics—artifacts with the power to combat the darkness. There’s one nearby, hidden in the catacombs beneath the old church.”

Brady turned, his eyes narrowing. “Let me guess. The church by Hell’s Gate.”

The priest nodded. “It’s the only place the relic could be safe.”

Brady grabbed his hat and adjusted it. “Figures. You stay here and keep the kid alive. I’ll head to the church.”

“You shouldn’t go alone,” the priest said. “Let me—”

“No.” Brady’s voice was firm. “Your fight’s here, Father. Mine’s out there.”

He strode to the door, pausing to glance back at the boy. The kid was still breathing, but for how long? Brady didn’t plan to stick around and find out.

Outside, Blacky waited, snorting impatiently. Brady mounted up, turning the horse toward the looming silhouette of the church. The night pressed in around them, filled with the whispers of things unseen.

Brady gritted his teeth. The hunt wasn’t over. It was just beginning.

As Brady urged Blacky into a steady canter, the silhouette of the church loomed larger against the horizon, its steeple piercing the night sky like a jagged knife. The air grew colder as they approached, thick with an unnatural stillness that made even the crickets fall silent.

The trail to the church twisted through a grove of dead cottonwoods, their skeletal branches clawing at the heavens as though in silent warning.

Blacky whinnied and balked as they drew closer, his ears flicking nervously.

Brady leaned forward, patting the gelding’s neck. “Easy, boy. I know it ain’t a warm welcome, but we ain’t turning back now.”

The horse reluctantly moved forward, hooves crunching on brittle leaves and dry earth. As they cleared the grove, the church came fully into view.

It was a decrepit structure, its once-pristine white facade now gray with rot and grime. The doors hung ajar, creaking faintly in the breeze, and the stained-glass windows shattered, jagged remnants glinting like fangs in the moonlight.

Brady dismounted, his boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. Blacky snorted and pawed the earth, clearly uneasy.

Brady tied the reins to a weathered hitching post and drew one of his Colts, its silver barrel gleaming faintly in the dim light. He stood there listening, his other hand resting on the hilt of his cavalry sword.

The wind shifted, carrying a faint sound—a low, guttural growl that made the hairs on his neck stand up. Brady narrowed his eyes, scanning the shadows. Whatever was inside the church wouldn’t roll out the welcome mat.

He stepped onto the sagging porch, the boards creaking under his weight. The growl came again, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of claws scraping against wood. Brady pushed the doors open with the barrel of his Colt, revealing the darkened interior of the church.

The pews overturned, their wood splintered and stained with old blood, and the altar at the far end–a once-sacred space–now a desecrated ruin. Carved into the walls were symbols, their jagged lines glowing faintly with an eerie green light. They pulsed like a heartbeat, filling the air with a malevolence that set Brady’s teeth on edge.

He stepped inside, his gaze sweeping the room. The growling grew louder, echoing from the shadows. Brady’s hand tightened on his Colt.

“Alright,” he muttered, his voice low. “Let’s see what fresh hell you’ve got waiting for me.”

The shadows near the altar shifted, coalescing into a hulking form. The creature that emerged was a nightmare of flesh—half-wolf, half-demon, its massive body covered in matted fur and its eyes burning with an unnatural light. Its jaws parted to reveal rows of jagged teeth, and its claws clicked against the stone floor as it moved.

Brady aimed his Colt and fired. The silver bullet struck the creature in the shoulder, tearing through muscle and bone. It howled—a guttural, unearthly sound that rattled the broken windows—and lunged at him.

Brady dove to the side, rolling as the beast’s claws swiped through the air where he’d just been. He came up on one knee, his Colt already aimed.

Another shot rang out, this one catching the creature in the chest. It stumbled but didn’t fall, its glowing eyes fixed with a hatred that burned like fire.

“Persistent little bastard, ain’t you?” Brady growled, holstering the Colt and drawing his sword. The silver edge gleamed as he advanced, the blade catching the flickering light of the cursed symbols on the walls.

The creature charged again, its massive bulk barreling toward him. Brady sidestepped at the last moment, bringing the sword down in a sweeping arc.

The blade bit deep into the beast’s side, eliciting another bone-rattling howl. It spun, blood spraying across the floor, and swiped at him with a clawed hand.

Brady ducked, the claws whistling past his head, and drove the sword upward. The blade pierced the creature’s chest, its silver edge sinking into the corrupted flesh. The beast let out a final, shuddering roar before collapsing, its body convulsing as dark ichor oozed from the wound.

Brady yanked the sword free and stepped back, breathing hard. The creature’s body began to dissolve, the corrupted flesh disintegrating into ash that swirled in the air before vanishing. Only the faint scent of sulfur remained.

He wiped the blade on his coat and sheathed it as his eyes scanned the ruined church. The green-glowing symbols on the walls had dimmed, their pulsating light fading to nothingness. But Brady knew better than to think the fight was over.

The catacombs. Whatever the priest had hidden down there would either save the town—or damn it.

Brady approached the altar, his footsteps echoing in the now-silent church. Behind it, a trapdoor lay embedded in the floor, its edges marked with faintly glowing runes.

He crouched, brushing away the dust and grime, and placed a hand on the worn wood. The runes flared briefly, then went dark as though recognizing his touch.

“Here we go,” he muttered, gripping the iron ring to the trapdoor.

A cold, damp breeze wafted out from the darkness below, carrying the faint sound of whispers. Brady stared down into the black abyss, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword.

“Time to see what’s hiding in the dark.”

Brady descended into the abyss, the air growing colder with each step. The whispers intensified, a chorus of hushed voices slithering around him, their words indistinct but heavy with malice. The lantern he’d grabbed from the church flickered weakly, its light barely piercing the oppressive gloom.

The stone walls of the catacombs were slick with moisture and carved with symbols similar to those in the church above. But these weren’t glowing but scorched into the rock, their jagged lines radiating an ancient malevolence. The further down Brady went, the more the air seemed to press against him, thick and suffocating like smoke from an unseen fire.

His boots struck the uneven floor with muffled thuds, each step testing his resolve. Blacky’s nervous whinny echoed faintly from above, a reminder of the world he was leaving behind. Down here, in the depths of Hell’s Gate, there was only the fight.

As he rounded a corner, the catacombs opened into a vast chamber, its size and scope barely contained by the flickering lantern light. The walls were lined with alcoves, each holding a mummified corpse. Their faces, twisted in eternal agony, stared out from the shadows, their hollow eye sockets seeming to follow Brady’s every move.

In the center of the room stood a stone altar, its surface stained dark with the dried remnants of countless sacrifices. Above it hung an iron cage suspended from chains that disappeared into the gloom above.

Inside the cage was a figure—gaunt, emaciated, and barely recognizable as a human. Its head lolled forward, but as Brady approached, it stirred.

“Help… me…” the figure rasped, its voice barely more than a whisper.

Brady stopped in his tracks, hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. The figure’s eyes, sunken and clouded, flickered with a faint, unnatural light.

“You’re no innocent,” Brady said, his voice cold and steady. “Not down here.”

The figure let out a dry, rattling laugh that became a choking cough. “True enough… but I’m no friend of the thing that rules this place.”

Brady took another step forward, keeping his sword drawn. “What is it? What’s hiding in this hole?”

The figure’s laugh faded, replaced by a grimace of pain. “Something old. Older than the vampires… older than this town. The Rift isn’t just a door—it’s a prison. And the thing inside wants out.”

Before Brady could respond, the air in the chamber shifted. The whispers grew louder, rising to a cacophony that seemed to come from everywhere. The lantern flickered violently, its light guttering as an unnatural wind swept through the room.

Brady spun, his sword gleaming in the dim light. Shadows rippled across the walls, coalescing into twisted forms that crawled and slithered toward him. Their shapes were indistinct, constantly shifting—part human, part beast, part nightmare.

“Well, ain’t this a fine welcome,” Brady muttered, leveling his sword. He reached for one of his Colts, cocking the hammer with a practiced flick of his thumb.

The first shadow lunged, its amorphous body stretching as it hurtled toward him. Brady fired, the silver bullet slicing through the creature with a crack of light. It let out a screeching wail as it dissolved into nothingness, but more were already closing in.

Brady moved with the precision of a man who had spent centuries perfecting the art of survival. His sword flashed in wide arcs, cutting through the shadows as his Colt barked, each shot driving them back. But for every shadow he destroyed, two more seemed to take its place.

The figure in the cage let out a desperate cry. “You can’t fight them all! The Rift… you have to seal it!”

Brady gritted his teeth, parrying another attack and firing off a shot in the same motion. “And how do you suggest I do that, friend?”

“The altar!” the figure gasped. “Destroy the altar! It’s the key!”

Brady glanced at the stone altar, its surface pulsing faintly with a sickly green light. The chains holding the cage above it rattled as the figure struggled weakly, its skeletal hands gripping the bars.

“You better not be lying,” Brady growled, holstering his Colt and gripping his sword with both hands.

He charged toward the altar, cutting down the shadows that tried to block his path. The whispers rose to a deafening roar, the air seeming to fight against him.

He reached the altar and raised his sword, bringing it down with all the strength he could muster. The blade struck the stone with a deafening crack, a surge of energy rippling through the chamber. The shadows let out an ear-splitting shriek, their forms dissolving into nothingness as the light from the altar flared, then faded.

For a moment, there was silence. Brady stood over the shattered remains of the altar, his chest heaving as he scanned the room. The shadows were gone, and the oppressive weight in the air had lifted.

But the figure in the cage let out a low, chilling laugh.

“You fool,” it rasped, its voice filled with a terrible glee. “You’ve set it free.”

Before Brady could react, the ground beneath the altar began to crack and shift. A deep, guttural growl rumbled through the chamber, a sound from something vast and ancient. The Rift was opening, and whatever it imprisoned was coming through.

“Damn it,” Brady muttered, gripping his sword as the first tendrils of darkness began to seep through the cracks. “Should’ve stayed in California.”

The ground beneath Brady’s boots shuddered as the fissure widened, spilling a living blackness. Tendrils of shadow snaked outward, curling and coiling like smoke but with weight and purpose. They slithered across the stone floor, leaving charred streaks in their wake, and the air filled with the acrid stench of burning rock.

Brady tightened his grip on his silver-edged sword, the blade catching what little light remained in the chamber. His breath steamed in the sudden chill, his pulse steady despite the abomination unfurling before him. He’d seen plenty of horrors in his long life, but this? It felt different. It felt final.

The figure in the cage cackled, the sound sharp and grating like rusted nails scraping glass. Its skeletal frame quaked with mirth as it watched the Rift spew its foul contents.

“You cannot stop it now!” it cried, its voice rising in pitch. “The prison is shattered! It will consume you, hunter!”

“Shut your damned mouth,” Brady growled, his voice low but laced with venom.

He leveled his Colt and fired, the bullet punching through the figure’s chest and silencing it mid-laugh. The body slumped, lifeless, but Brady had no time to savor the quiet. The Rift’s growl deepened, resonating in his bones.

From the darkness, a shape began to emerge.

It was massive, form rippling and indistinct, as though it couldn’t fully manifest in this world. Eyes, too many to count, glimmered like molten gold in the void. Limbs extended outward, their lengths dotted with jagged barbs and claws that glistened with a viscous black ichor.

Brady took a step back, his eyes narrowing. “Well, hell,” he muttered under his breath. “That’s uglier than a banker on foreclosure day.”

The creature roared, a sound that sucked the air from the chamber, leaving Brady gasping for breath. Its limbs lashed out, one striking the walls and sending chunks of stone crashing to the floor. Brady dove to the side, narrowly avoiding being crushed as a claw gouged a trench where he’d been standing moments before.

Rolling to his feet, he holstered his Colt and swung the cavalry sword in a wide arc. His blade bit into one of the creature’s tendrils, silver sparking against its shadow. The monster let out a shriek that rattled Brady’s teeth, the severed limb recoiling like a snake and disintegrating into ash.

“Didn’t like that, did ya?” Brady said, a grim smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He advanced, sword at the ready, his movements fluid and deliberate.

The creature lunged again, its remaining limbs striking in rapid succession. Brady dodged and weaved, his boots skidding across the slick stone as he deflected blows with the flat of his blade. Each strike against the silver edge sent up a burst of sparks, the monster recoiling with each wound it sustained.

But it was adapting.

Brady could feel an intelligence behind the eyes that watched him, calculating and cruel. Its strikes grew faster and more precise, forcing him into a defensive stance. Sweat beaded on his brow as he fought to keep pace, his breath coming in short bursts. It wasn’t just a fight; it had become a war of attrition, and Brady was running out of time.

The ground beneath him heaved, nearly knocking him off his feet. The fissure widened further, and the darkness surged upward, coalescing into a towering spire of shadow. Within it, a creature’s form began to emerge—a hulking, winged monstrosity with a maw stretching impossibly wide, lined with rows of jagged teeth dripping ichor.

Brady cursed under his breath. “I really should’ve stayed in California.”

A sudden flash of light illuminated the chamber, blinding in its intensity. Brady shielded his eyes with his arm, the silver in his sword gleaming brighter than before.

When the light subsided, he turned to see the priest standing at the chamber’s entrance, holding a golden crucifix aloft. Its surface radiated a holy aura, the light pushing back the encroaching darkness.

“Brady!” the priest shouted, his voice firm despite the tremor in his hands.

“Drive it back toward the Rift! I can seal it, but only if it’s fully inside!”

Brady grunted in acknowledgment, squaring his shoulders. “Sure, just let me wrangle this thing like a stray calf, why don’t I?”

The creature roared again, its wings unfurling with a sound like cracking whips. Brady surged forward, slashing at its legs and tendrils, each strike aimed to corral it toward the gaping maw of the Rift. The priest chanted, his voice rising in a cadence that echoed through the chamber, the crucifix glowing brighter with each word.

The monster thrashed, its movements growing more erratic the closer to the Rift it came. Brady’s sword sang as it cut through the air, each blow precise and unrelenting. He moved with the grace of a man who’d lived lifetimes, his determination unshakable despite the odds.

With a final, deafening roar, the creature’s bulk tipped forward, its body collapsing into the Rift. The darkness howled, the tendrils clawing at the edges of the fissure in a desperate attempt to remain. The priest’s voice reached a crescendo, the crucifix’s light erupting in a blinding flash that consumed the chamber.

When the light faded, the Rift was gone. The chamber was silent, and the air’s oppressive weight lifted. Brady stood in the center of the room, his sword lowered, his chest heaving with exertion.

The priest approached, his face pale but triumphant. “It’s done,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “The Rift is sealed.”

Brady sheathed his sword and adjusted his hat. “For now,” he said, his tone grim. “But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that evil’s got a way of clawing its way back.”

The priest nodded solemnly. “Then we’ll be ready.”

Brady tipped his hat and turned toward the exit. “You do that, Father. Me? I think I’ll find a saloon that serves a stiff drink.”

And with that, he climbed back toward the surface, leaving the darkness behind—for now.

The chill of the night greeted Brady as he emerged from the ruins, his boots crunching against loose gravel. The stars overhead were brighter now, glittering like shards of broken glass scattered across an ink-black sky. Blacky snorted at the sight of him, stamping a hoof impatiently. Brady smirked, running a hand down the horse’s neck.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m alive. You can stop frettin’,” Brady said, though weariness was evident in the rasp of his voice.

Behind him, the priest climbed out of the cavern’s mouth, his face pale and drawn. He clutched the crucifix to his chest like a lifeline, its once-brilliant glow now reduced to a faint shimmer. For a moment, neither man spoke, the silence of the Nevada wilderness stretching between them.

“You did well, Brady,” the priest said, his voice filled with exhaustion. “The town is safe—for now.”

Brady scoffed, fishing a cigarette from his pocket and striking a match against his boot. “Safe’s a relative term, Father. You’ve patched the dam, but the flood’s still coming. That Rift… it ain’t gone. It’s just buried.”

The priest nodded solemnly. “Then we’ll bury it deeper.”

Brady took a long drag, letting the smoke curl from his lips as he stared out at the distant lights of Silver City. “I wouldn’t hang your hat on that. Evil’s like a bad penny—it always turns up again. Best you can do is stay sharp and pray.”

The priest hesitated, then placed a hand on Brady’s shoulder. “And what about you? Where will you go?”

Brady flicked the cigarette stub into the dirt and swung himself into Blacky’s saddle. “Wherever the next fight is. That’s the thing about bein’ what I am, Father. There’s always another fight.”

The priest watched as Brady guided Blacky toward the trail leading back to town. “Brady,” he called out, his voice stopping the hunter in his tracks. “You may carry the burden of immortality, but that doesn’t mean you carry it alone. There’s always redemption—for those who seek it.”

Brady didn’t look back. “I ain’t lookin’ for redemption, Father. Just a place to rest, and it ain’t this side of hell.”

With a nudge of his heels, he set Blacky into motion. The priest’s figure grew smaller in the distance, swallowed by the shadows as Brady rode on. The town came into view soon enough, its flickering lanterns casting a warm glow that belied the horrors it had just survived.

Betty was waiting for him by the hitching post outside the boardinghouse. Her face lit up seeing him, though her smile seemed tinged with worry. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming back,” she said.

Brady swung down from the saddle, tipping his hat with a weary grin. “Takes more than a nest of demons to keep me gone.”

She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Did you stop it? Is it over?”

“For now,” he said, the weight of the words settling in the space between them.

Betty searched his face, trying to read the unspoken truths buried beneath the lines carved by centuries. She reached out, her fingers brushing his hand. “You don’t have to go, you know. There’s a place for you here, if you want it.”

Brady’s heart twisted, a pang of longing cutting worse than any blade. He wanted to stay. He wanted to let the warmth of her touch anchor him to something real, something human. But he knew better. The kind-hearted woman standing before him deserved a life free of the shadows that clung to him like a second skin.

He stepped back, breaking the connection. “Some folks are meant to settle down, Betty. Me? I’m just passin’ through.”

Her eyes glistened, but she nodded. “If you ever change your mind…”

Brady tipped his hat, his voice soft. “You’ll be the first to know.”

With that, he mounted Blacky and rode into the night, leaving Silver City behind. The desert stretched before him, vast and endless, the horizon blurring where earth met the sky. Somewhere out there, another darkness waited, another battle to fight.

Brady pressed on, the immortal hunter forever chasing the fleeting promise of peace. And though the road was long and lonesome, he rode it with the quiet resolve of a man who understood his purpose, even if it came at the cost of everything else.

As the first light of dawn crept over the Sierra Nevadas, Brady disappeared into the wilderness, his silhouette swallowed by the rising sun.

As a kid, I imagined my future self with the grandiosity of a thousand dreams. Each morning, I’d wake up and switch careers like hats in a dress-up box—one day a firefighter, the next an astronaut, maybe even a philosopher who could unravel the mysteries of life by lunchtime. I’d think about how I’d conquer the world, my feet barely touching the ground as I ran after every possibility.

Sitting in my dingy office, surrounded by emptiness and crumpled pages, I realize something profound. The secret is not in growing up, fitting into one mold, but in carrying forward the thousand dreams. To never lose that sparkle of possibility, that inherent belief that we can be so many things. Damn it—embrace the chaos, drink a little too much, and write like nobody gives a damn.

When I grow up—if I grow up—I hope it’s at the very end, when the tallying of roles and achievements no longer matters. Then, I can look behind and see that life wasn’t about ticking off boxes on a checklist but about the richness of experiences, the pursuit of passions, and the joy of simply living.

Maybe growing up isn’t about settling into one identity. Perhaps it’s about embracing the journey, knowing that we are ever-changing, ever-evolving. The magic lies in living with childlike wonder, even as we navigate the responsibilities of adulthood.

So, here’s to living a life where dreams aren’t abandoned but cherished, where every hat from the dress-up box is worn with pride, if only for a moment. And when the time comes to grow up, may it be with a heart filled with fulfilled dreams.

And maybe, just maybe, the world will make sense. Or it won’t.

 

Now, gather ’round, folks, and let me regale you with a tale of whimsy and wonder that could only happen in the peculiar town of Virginia City. It was a fine, crisp, clear winter day when this incident left the folks shaking their heads in disbelief.

Miss Eudora Flint, a woman of considerable means and no small amount of curiosity, had recently returned from a trip to the big city with an item that was the talk of the town: a pair of pantyhose. To most, a pair of pantyhose is a modern marvel of fabric and fashion, but to Eudora, they were a challenge—a test of the universe’s capacity for absurdity.

Determined to see how many animals could fit into those stretchy confines, Eudora set about her experiment with the enthusiasm of an explorer charting unknown territories. She began with the basics: two dogs and two calves, one for each leg. The pantyhose stretched and bulged, but lo and behold, they held firm.

“Well, this is a fine start,” Eudora mused. She continued with an ass—a small, stubborn thing that brayed in protest but eventually found its place in the elastic embrace.

Next came a beaver, which, much to Eudora’s surprise, settled in quite comfortably, gnawing on the hem with evident satisfaction. The list went on: a veritable caravan of hares, each one more hare-brained than the last, hopped into the fray, adding to the chaos.

By now, word had spread, and a crowd had gathered outside Eudora’s home. The townsfolk watched in amazement as she squeezed in a camel toe, a feat that left even the most skeptical onlookers slack-jawed.

“And now for the pièce de résistance,” Eudora declared with a flourish. She dropped into the depths of the pantyhose, a fish so elusive it seemed like it might slip right through her fingers.

“Where’d the fish go?” a young boy piped up, craning his neck for a better view.

“Why, it’s in there somewhere,” Eudora replied, squinting at the bulging mass. “Just give it a moment. It’s probably swimming around.”

The crowd erupted in laughter, the situation too much to bear. Even the local doctor, a man of stern demeanor, was seen chuckling behind his bushy mustache.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the town, Eudora Flint stood victorious, her pantyhose menagerie proof to the boundless possibilities of human ingenuity—or perhaps the folly of it.

“Well, folks,” she said, patting the bulging mass affectionately, “I do believe we’ve proven that a pair of pantyhose can hold more than just legs. And isn’t that a marvel in itself?”

Then someone in the gathering hollered, “Put some clothes on, Eudora.”

In the end, it was cigarettes that killed them.

It was after midnight, and my turn to sleep. I could’ve been with Wesley and Bailey in the drainage ditch. The wind cut at the skin, but the ditch kept the worst of it off. Still, I never liked lying there. It felt like an open grave. It was better to be somewhere higher where you could see and move.

I lay on a rise above the road, zipped in my sleeping bag. It had been a good find, something I could use for warmth. The air smelled of pine, and the night was cold. Cold enough to freeze your breath in the air, cold enough that if you weren’t careful, you’d freeze your mind out of your body.

We had come from Eagle Canyon. I remembered it well.

The rows of houses—white, perfect, people who worked in the nearby city believing they knew what life was about. But now, all the houses were empty, the lights were out, and the roads were in disrepair. Nature had started to take back what it had lost.

The only things left in the night were the stars and the sound of the wind through the pines. I heard Bailey first, his voice low. He’d seen something on the road. Wesley scrambled beside me, and I could hear his boots scraping gravel. I looked down the road and saw the shadows moving, three of them.

They weren’t hiding. They walked in the center of the road like they owned it. I could hear their boots on the cracked pavement. And then, one of them spoke. A man said he wasn’t looking for trouble. He was looking for a place to sleep.

Wesley cocked his pistol. I adjusted my rifle. The sound of Wesley’s voice was too loud in the wind.

“At ease,” the man called out to his companions.

They called themselves traders on their way up from the Old Dominion. A long way from there. Cold enough that the wind had cut their faces raw. But there was something in the way they moved, the way they talked. I didn’t like it.

They weren’t afraid of us. They were looking for something, but it wasn’t just shelter. It wasn’t just warmth. I could hear it in how they talked and said “brothers,” like it didn’t come from a place of warmth.

Wesley asked about their people. They said they weren’t with any of the racist sects, but I didn’t believe it. There was too much talk about “brethren” and “white brothers,” much like what I had heard before, from the men who used to sit on barstools and drink their whiskey in the old bars that didn’t exist anymore.

“Does your community trade with people like us?” the man asked. Sam, he said his name was. Harry and Rob were with him.

I could feel the air between us thicken.

Bailey spoke out, unbidden, like he always did. The kind of fool who thinks loud words are a shield. Sam laughed, a short snort that didn’t sound like laughter. He didn’t mind Bailey’s words. But I saw how Rob moved, the way his hand rested too close to his rifle.

“I can see you’re our white brothers,” Sam said.

The words tasted of something old, something gone wrong. I’d heard the term before from men who didn’t believe in anything except the skin on their backs and the idea that it was all that mattered.

“We’re just trying to survive,” Wesley said, his voice low.

Sam asked if he could smoke. The question wasn’t a question. It was a way to break the silence, to make himself comfortable. Wesley said it was fine. He didn’t care. But he didn’t realize he was playing into Sam’s game.

The cigarette pack came out, and it was like a prize. Sam handed Wesley one and then Bailey. I could see the look on their faces. The cigarettes, real ones, not the hand-rolled garbage we had to make. A luxury. A reminder of a time that had passed.

Wesley took the cigarette, looking at it like he had won a prize. It was the kind of thing that could make a man forget where he was. I thought about what came next, the next movement, the next sound.

Sam’s lighter clicked. The flame flared, lighting Wesley’s face, and the world grew quiet.

Two quick shots. I didn’t see it happen, but I heard it. Wesley and Bailey hit the ground before they could say a word.

I moved fast. I couldn’t think. The gun was in my hands, and I fired. I shot at Harry first, the farthest away. I didn’t know if I hit him, but I knew I couldn’t stop now. The next shot went wild, but I knew I hit Sam. Rob fired back, his shots wide, the automatic fire missing its mark.

But I kept moving. There was no stopping now. I fired again, aiming at Rob’s position, but the bullets had already told the story. The ambush was exposed. It was time to run.

The typewriter clacked away in the dimly lit apartment. Tom’s fingers flew over the keys, each stroke a mix of desperation and resolve. The paper held his thoughts, a messy testament to his passion.

Outside, the city buzzed with a life he rarely indulged in. The clamor of the streets seeped through the thin walls, a constant reminder of the world beyond his words.

Tom paused, taking a swig from the half-empty bottle of bourbon next to him. The liquid burned its way down, offering a brief respite from the gnawing doubt that plagued him. He stared at the latest paragraph, wondering if anyone would ever read it, let alone understand it.

“Why do I even bother?” he muttered, the room swallowing his words.

He looked around at the cluttered space, the unwashed dishes, the pile of rejected manuscripts. It was a writer’s den and a cell of his own making.

The door creaked open, and in walked Mary, his wife. “Still at it, huh?”

“Yeah,” Tom replied, not looking up. “Just trying to make sense of it all.”

Mary leaned back, her eyes scanning the room. “You know, not many people read anymore. They swipe, scroll, click, but they don’t read.”

Tom smirked, a bitter twist of his lips. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

She reached behind her and pulled out a dog-eared paperback, tossing it on the table. “Maybe you should try something different. This guy wrote like he didn’t care if anyone read it. He wrote because he had to.”

Tom picked up the book, flipping through the pages. “Hmm. Never pegged you for the type.”

Mary shrugged. “There’s a lot you still don’t know about me. Anyway, I thought it might inspire you.”

Tom sighed, putting the book down. “Inspiration ain’t the problem. It’s the goddamn audience. They’re all too busy with their screens to bother with words.”

“Maybe you need to write for yourself, not for them,” Mary suggested. “Forget about who’s reading. Just write.”

Tom considered her words, the weight of them pressing down on him. He knew she was right.

He had been chasing an elusive audience, trying to fit into a mold that no longer existed. Maybe it was time to break free.

He took another swig of bourbon, feeling the warmth spread through his chest. “You might be onto something,” he admitted. “Maybe it’s time to stop caring and just…write.”

Mary smiled, a rare sight that lit up the dingy room. “There you go. Now, get back to it. Write like nobody’s reading.”

Tom nodded, his fingers finding their rhythm on the keys again. The words flowed, unfiltered and raw.

He wasn’t writing for the readers; he was writing for himself. And for the first time in a long while, it felt right.

The night wore on as Tom found his groove, a fragile peace in the chaos. He didn’t know if anyone would ever read his words, but that didn’t matter anymore.

He wrote because he had to because it was the only way he knew how to make sense of the world. In a small, cluttered apartment, a writer’s lament turned into a celebration of the written word, a rebellion against the digital age.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

We were somewhere near Mound House, careening through the storm-battered edge of the desert as a blizzard swallowed us whole. The wind screamed with the fury of some long-dead prospector, drunk on revenge and howling curses across the frozen wasteland. Snow came down in rabid bursts, clinging to the windshield like a strung-out hitchhiker desperate for a ride.

Doc Staunton was at the wheel, a grim shadow hunched over like a man staring into the barrel of a loaded gun. His hands gripped the wheel with a death-defying fervor. “We need ether,” he hissed, clawing at the glove compartment. Papers and receipts flew out like startled birds. “I can’t do this without chemicals!”

I should have never loaned him my “Fear and Loathing” DVD.

“Forget the ether,” I snapped, pulling my coat tighter against the creeping cold. “What we need is chains on these tires—or a goddamn snowplow.”

The dashboard radio sputtered to life, a monotone voice issuing a dire warning: “Blizzard warning in effect. Heavy snow expected. Travel strongly discouraged.”

“Travel discouraged?” I barked. “We’re explorers. Travel is our sacred duty.” I reached for the flask of bourbon buried deep in my coat, took a righteous swig, and passed it to Staunton. He drank like a man trying to outrun Death itself.

Virginia City loomed ahead, its streets desolate but for a few battered trucks slithering down the ice-slicked roads like prehistoric beasts in the throes of extinction. The drivers, madmen, wove a glorious tapestry of chaos—tires skidding, horns blaring, and laughter erupting into the freezing night.

The Old Corner Bar appeared like a beacon of civilization—or what passed for it in these parts. We stumbled inside, shedding snow like mangy dogs. The bartender, a brick wall of a man with a face chiseled from rawhide, regarded us with bored disdain.

“What’ll it be?” he grunted, wiping the bar with a rag that had seen better days—possibly in the 19th century.

“Bourbon,” I said. “Two. Neat. And smokes.”

Staunton inhaled his drink in one savage gulp, slamming the glass on the bar with the intensity of a man convinced he’d just outdrank God. “We’ll hole up here,” he declared, his eyes darting to the frost-rimed window. “Ride out the storm like real men.”

We found a table near the front, where the warped glass offered a view of the chaos outside. Locals staggered down the snow-buried streets, performing impromptu acrobatics on the ice with reckless abandon usually reserved for lunatics and political candidates. A few attempted to sled down the boardwalk on garbage can lids, their triumphant whoops carrying above the storm.

“Look at these maniacs,” I muttered. “They’re defying Nature herself. The Comstock spirit, distilled into pure madness.”

Staunton leaned back, a cigarette dangling from his lips like a declaration of war. “You know, this whole town feels like the French Revolution,” he said, exhaling a cloud of acrid smoke. “But instead of guillotines, we’ve got snowdrifts. Same chaos, less blood.”

We drank as the storm roared louder, each glass a small rebellion against the howling void. The snow buried cars, swallowed sidewalks, and transformed the town into an arctic battlefield. Yet inside the Old Corner, we were gods—untouchable, unstoppable, fueled by bourbon and bravado.

“To survival,” Staunton toasted, his grin feral and wide. “And to the bastards brave enough to tempt fate.”

“To the Comstock,” I replied. “Wild and untamed.”

We raised our glasses as the blizzard raged, a chaotic symphony of Nature’s wrath and human defiance. Somewhere beyond the storm, sanity waited patiently for the thaw. But here, amidst the madness, we had found something faithful—a fleeting, beautiful freedom.

A newly married young woman of about twenty-something years with all the fiery conviction of youth and the unyielding confidence that comes from having read half an article in a magazine on feminism told me that she refused to take her husband’s last name. She declared that she would proudly retain her mother’s last name instead.

Being a man of considerable years and a penchant for devilment, I found the entire matter amusing. I nodded sagely, stroking my beard, and asked her as casually as a man inquiring about the weather, “And how does your husband feel about you using your grandfather’s last name instead of his?”

Now, this is where things became interesting.

The newly minted missus immediately started explaining in great detail how the husband, being the enlightened sort, was perfectly supportive of her decision and how it was, in fact, a sign of their mutual respect and understanding. She carried on like this for a good fifteen seconds before my question finally landed somewhere in the vicinity of her cerebrum.

Her monologue abruptly stopped, her mouth hung slightly ajar, and her eyes narrowed like a hawk spotting a particularly obnoxious squirrel. Slowly, the dawning of comprehension turned into a thundercloud of irritation.

Without a word, the woman marched off with all the indignity of a queen exiting a roomful of jesters. As she turned her back on me, I could not help myself.

“What did I say that was untrue?” I called after her, my voice dripping with mock innocence.

She paused, spun halfway around, and with a grand flourish of modern indignation, raised both middle fingers high enough to block out the sun.

I laughed so hard on my way home that I nearly drove into a ditch.

It is a rare joy to witness youthful passion meet the immovable wall of logic and rarer still to survive it unscathed.