Ash swayed with the current of the frigid desert air, aimlessly drifting about as the continual breeze bellowing from the gaping cavity of twisted metal refused respite. Screeching winds pouring in from the endless expanse bellowed throughout the chamber. The wailing winds sounded as if the train itself was screaming in anguish, while the ruttering pistons in the distance sounded all too much like somber whimpering. The train car entrance had become enveloped in a proverbial fog of soot and shrapnel. Torn and gnashed sheets of metal that used to compose the wall glistened and pierced the smoke like stars, illuminated by the moonlight that bathed the scene. A viscous, velvet substance lined the central cavity, as what little of it that was still wet dripped down in a scarlet rain. Every drop sizzled as it made impact with the floor, fizzling before dissolving to a mere stain. Each drop left an ever so slight indentation to the metal, as the surface below the hole bore a striking resemblance to the moon’s craters.

Though the incident had occurred nearly an hour ago, not much seemed to have been done to remedy the damage that had been imparted onto the train. The only hint of managerial action was simply a “Wet Floor” sign that was egregiously deployed in the place of any actual forward motion in repair efforts. That sort of rapid action was likely not in the budget. These sorts of things never are. If the train is still operating, why bother? You know what they say; If it is not cutting into the bottom line, don’t bother, as funds would be better allocated into less trivial matters, such as corporate bonuses.

The fine layer of ash that coated the floor would soon be disturbed however, as a pair of long, leather boots would begin sauntering into the inner chamber. A towering figure silhouetted by the shrapnel laden fog ambled through with the hull, its fingers running along the ramshackle metallic wall. Soon, the figure found itself approaching the cavity in the ceiling and peered into it, staring at the damage that had been done. The moon casts its glow down upon a man who was seemingly no older than fifty. Fine gray and black hairs peeked and curled out from under his piercing, pitch black hat. The few strands of hair he allowed to see the sun were incredibly damaged by it, as years of traversing The Gulch seemed to have sapped all the volume from them. However, his mustache was a different story. Perched atop his upper lip was a thick, billowing display of grit. The hairs of his mustache lined both sides of his mouth, creating a handlebar effect that was hard to not notice. The volume of his facial hair made up for the lack of hair he had above, and though he would not admit it, it takes hours upon hours to maintain. His solid, towering figure was adorned in garments matching his hat. They too were as dark as night, only accented by the shimmering white shirt buttons that lined his torso. Contrary to the rugged lifestyle one would assume by seeing his aged, gruff face, his dress shirt appeared to be finely ironed, as were his trousers. Fixated on said trousers was what appeared to be a holster, cradling some sort of large steel. Or, more colloquially, a gun. The revolver at his hip shimmered as the moonlight continued to loom above him, its steel as pristine and flawless as the rest of his attire. Accentuating his elegant, yet rugged presence were his vivid, scarlet eyes. Their hue was alluring, yet imposing. With one twitch of his brow, he could shift his gaze from inviting to admonitory. His eyes soon shifted from the hole itself, to something peculiar that invited intrigue.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

His immense height allowed him to reach the hole itself with ease, as his aged, sun kissed digits caressed the red stains that coated the hole’s perimeter. The man pulled his fingers back and began to closely inspect the sizzling fluid. Though the substance was enough to warp the ceiling to the shape it is in now, the otherworldly properties seemed to be of no concern to the man. He smeared the fluid across the tips of his fingers and brought them to his nose, giving the substance a smell. His brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed while he pulled his fingers back, and continued to examine what he had found. As the reality of the situation dawned on him, he clenched his other fist around the handle of his revolver, gripping the handle tightly as he began to ever so slightly tremble.

The smell alone was enough to launch his mind far away from the present, and began to drown him in memories long buried. He could remember the briny taste of his tears as they seeped into his quivering lips. Though his stature was burly and broad, he could feel himself shrink smaller and smaller as reflections of days gone by stared at him through the fluid’s reflection. The screeching of the winds sounded sickeningly familiar, and carried a distinct tinge of agony he had elected to try and forget. Though, this was all for naught, as he could hear the screams that haunted his consciousness overpower the droning numbness. Gritting his teeth, he brought one hand to his temple as the screams grew louder, while the other continued to squeeze his revolver. His wrists sputtered and twitched, eager to take aim. Louder and louder, he could hear the voices beg for mercy, and despite being in utter solitude, he mouthed his regrets. But like that day, this did not wash away the guilt. However, as the volume of the screams grew to a pitch, one voice overpowered the wails of pain, yet spoke in a sickening hushed coo.

“They are nothing.”

Hearing this echo of the past, the man’s eyes widened in pure terror. He yanked his gun from the holster and pivoted to where he heard the voice, squeezing the trigger with no hesitation. The blast resonated across the chamber as the round collided with the wall, embedding itself into it. The shot’s crack in the enclosed space was enough to pull the man from his trance, his features softening at the realization that the only potential harm before him was the sheer amount of fire codes the train was breaking. Wiping his sweat with a handkerchief he pulled from his shirt pocket, he could not help but sigh in relief as he eased his composure. His gaze shifted back to the stains on the ceiling, his curiosity only peaking. He knew that if she was truly here amongst those in The Vale, there would be no train left. And yet, the entire situation reeked of her stench.

He dusted himself and buried his handkerchief back into his shirt, taking his leave while his stern composure slowly returned. Despite this, he could still feel a cold sweat crawl down and caress the lining of his spine, as if her fingers were still asserting ownership. He tried his best to shake this notion, but simply could not. Though outwardly he carried the stature of someone to be reckoned with, internally he cowered. He knew in his heart that if she were truly involved with this, people were going to die today.