Reloading

The canyon settles into that dead, listening silence again. I stand just outside the Airstream with the Colt raised, sweeping the darkness in slow, controlled arcs. The fire has burned down to coals, throwing just enough light to keep the immediate ground visible while everything beyond it dissolves into black shapes and hard shadows. The wind has died completely.

Even the rocks seem to be holding their breath. My shoulder throbs where the pellets grazed me, a hot, steady pulse that keeps me anchored in the moment. I **** myself to ignore it and keep scanning. The ridgelines. The gaps between boulders. The road where the truck disappeared.

Anywhere a body could move without being seen. Nothing breaks the silence out in the canyon, and I do not hear an engine, footsteps, or even the faintest trace of voices carried on the night air. That almost scares me more than the gunfight. I lower the revolver just enough to check it.

The cylinder clicks softly when I thumb it open, confirming what I already knew. Every round is gone. My fingers tighten briefly around the grip before I exhale and turn toward the trailer. I move fast but quiet, slipping up the Airstream steps and inside. The door shuts behind me with a dull metallic thud that feels too loud in the confined space.

The air inside is stale and warm compared to the desert outside, thick with the smell of dust, old fabric, and spent gunpowder. I drop to one knee beside the dinette and grab the box of rounds I left there earlier. My hands move automatically, flipping the Colt open again, reaching for the bullets.

Something shifts behind me, subtle enough that I almost miss it, but my body reacts before my mind catches up. I freeze in place as the instinct hits me hard and fast, and I realize immediately that whatever made the sound is not outside in the canyon but inside the trailer with me. I start to turn. They come out of the shadows like they were always there.

Lizard is the first one I really see. He peels out of the narrow space near the rear of the trailer, tall and wiry, his body all corded muscle and stretched skin. His hair hangs in filthy, uneven strands around a face that looks carved wrong, the features just slightly off in a way that makes it hard to focus on any one thing. His eyes are bright and wet in the dim light, fixed on me with a kind of eager curiosity.

Mars steps out behind him, broader, heavier, filling the narrow aisle with sheer presence. His beard is thick and dark, his curly hair matted with sweat and grime. There is something solid about him, something deliberate in the way he moves, like every step is chosen instead of taken. A long knife hangs loose in one hand, the blade catching a dull glint from the overhead light.

They do not rush me, because they do not need to. The space inside the trailer is too tight to maneuver, the only exit sits directly behind them, and the windows offer no real escape. I am cornered. I push myself up slowly, bringing the empty revolver up between us anyway. The motion feels absurd even as I do it, but I level it at Mars’ chest like it still means something.

“Don’t,” I say. My voice comes out steady.

Lizard tilts his head, studying me like he is trying to figure out how I work. Mars’ eyes flick down to the gun, then back up to my face. He smiles a little, and there is nothing friendly in it. “That one out there,” Mars says, his voice low and rough, “Cyst… he can’t count to six.”

The words hang in the air for a second. Then it clicks. His eyes flick to the revolver, to the open cylinder in my hand. “But we can,” Lizard finishes. Silence presses in around us again.

Lizard’s grin spreads slowly across his face, showing too many teeth. His gaze drifts over me in a way that makes my skin crawl, lingering just a second too long on every detail. “She’s real pretty, ain’t she, Mars?” he says, almost conversational.

Mars glances at him, then back at me, that same small, humorless smile returning. “Yeah, Lizard” he says. “She is a real prize hog bitch, got all her teeth and everything. It'd be a shame to have to bring her back to Papa Jupiter without taking our turns, first. He always wallows out them tight little holes.”