Chapter One: A Feeling of Dread

Geoff couldn’t do anything. On May twenty-third, at sometime-past-midnight on the roof of the Rooster Teeth inn, after days of chasing, little sleep, no food, being one man down, surviving the largest lead-war the town had ever seen, and a body count in the fifties, they’d lost. The Sunny Gang had lost. There wasn’t a sign of life from his eagle-eyed sniper, the lack of gunfire on the street below boded nothing positive for his brother in arms, his partner was in the wind, and Ryan was miles away protecting the remainder of their families. This was it.

“All you had to do was follow the rules!” the captor screamed over roaring rain, digging the barrel of his gun deeper into the Brit’s temple. “I wouldn’t have had to do this if you’d just followed the rules, Ramsey!”

He swallowed a knot in his throat, willing away fearful tears as the British man whispered, “Tell Meg I love her.”

Geoff’s chin quivered, his cold fingers twitching next to his head uselessly. “Gavin, hang in there-” Ray had to be somewhere nearby. He had to. He just… had to.

The captor laughed again. “You’ve lost, Ramsey!” he taunted, stepping closer to the edge of the rooftop. “Admit it! This is your fault! You did this! All you had to do was stay out of my way! But this is what happens when you want to be a hero, Ramsey; people get hurt!”

Gavin squeezed his eyes shut, and for a moment �" just a moment �" Geoff could almost hear Gavin’s heart slowing down as he said two words, accepting the end, right before a gunshot doused the night in red.

In a smallest, saddest tone a voice could’ve taken, Gavin’s voice was heard.

 

“Goodbye, Geoff.”

Three Days Earlier

Battering rain and roaring thunder rattled his train car, lightning blocked by the hat draped over his eyes as he reclined in a make-shift bed of his shawl thrown over a pile of hay. The sprig caught between his teeth was flicking about in thought from time to time, usually in tune with thunder cracks that shifted his thoughts; it was getting shorter and shorter by the hour, and would soon be so small he’d need to switch to another one. A black and white bandana was tied around his neck loosely enough to be pulled over his face whenever he wanted or needed it to be. He wore a simple black jacket, black plaid shirt, jeans with a leather belt, and black boots, the spurs of which he’d taken off and placed in separate pockets so he could walk quieter and not worry about them jingling around. His gun was in a hip-holster that his father had given him over twenty years ago, and was branded with Haywood in an old English script. Two other guns were strapped to his legs, under his jeans, and he had spare magazines and extra pockets for clips lining the inside of his jacket; He learned quickly in his profession that gun stores were few and far between the exact moment they were needed.

The 014 train was slowing down as it approached Red Bull Station, a moniker given to it by residents of Rooster Teeth; the original name, Vincent Cross Station, fell out of favor for Red Bull �" red being the color of 014’s engine, and the bulls being cattle and rodeo bulls for auction and sales that made the economy of Rooster Teeth. The kink in the tracks would be on the far end of the station, where the last few boxcars would end up, as the cattle cars were near the middle of the train, where it was most stable, leaving relatively empty boxcars near the end for people to fill up. In that hour, 014’s conductor, Brandon Farmahini, would run the length of the train, pulling open every red boxcar and any other one that wasn’t filled to the ceiling with something or another, hollering names of Rooster Teeth residents that he remembered hitching a ride. Sometimes, residents stuck notes on the door of his engine denoting what car they were in, where they’d be getting off, and how many people �" if any �" were with them; if he saw these notes, he made sure to pack small bags of food to hand out various stops. This time, he’d handed them out at Luscious; the bags had turkey sandwiches and home-made biscuits with the usual jars of water.

After surely an hour, his door slid open, the soft voice voice greeting him with a “Howdy, Haywood.”

Ryan tilted his hat off his eyes, a grin spreading on his face. “Are you being more careful because I’m catching a ride?” he questioned, a faint Georgia accent dancing in his voice, “Because you normally check from the front to the back, not the other way around.”

Mr. Farmahini, though pale and miserable in the rain, seemed to go a little red in the face. He shook his head with a nervous smile and stepped aside, beckoning the passenger from his bed of hay.

Ryan stood with a grunt, brushing himself off haphazardly, wrapping the shawl around himself and readjusting the bandana. He decided to tie it around his face again, seeing as it had become a little looser during the train ride. While knotting it, he spoke in an expecting tone. “Am I right to assume Edgar is doing well? I heard him trying to trot around in that car.”

Sheepish laughter was drowned out in thunder, a tiny, “He’s a crafty horse, that one,” buried in the noise. Ryan’s eyebrows came down like storm clouds over his eyes, now narrowed so much, the normal blue looked black.

“What do you mean, Farmahini?” he grumbled through the fabric, his tone low and dangerous.

The conductor held his hands up in innocence. “No! No, Ryan, Edgar is fine, I assure you! He managed to undo the knots on his own, but he didn’t move.”

Ryan turned away, scanning the hay for any belongings that may have tumbled out of his pockets. “Is he still in the car?” he asked absentmindedly, nudging his makeshift-bed with a foot.

“Edgar is waiting for you in the stable.”

Ryan nodded, placing the hat on his head, rummaging through his pockets as he approached the door, squatted down, and then hopped off. Water �" to his disgust �" splashed into his boots and soaked his socks. He seized Mr. Farmahini’s hand quickly, surprising him, and thrust a roll of paper into his palm before a protest could begin. Poor Mr. Farmahini never made enough money running the 014 train, so whenever one of the Sunny Gang hopped aboard, they paid him decently, often met with the conductor urging them to take their payment back. They’d resorted to leaving it in the jars he re-collected, so that he didn’t have the opportunity to confront them; Ryan, however, merely put on a scowl and the man accepted the money �" often without complaining. He walked in the direction of the stable quickly.

“Sh-shall I expect you back soon, Ryan?” Mr. Farmahini called from behind him.

Over his shoulder, Ryan answered, “None of us for a while, no.”

The conductor smiled and returned to the train, telling Ryan to give them all his regards.

The Tracker-Musician waved a hand over his head. “I will!”

Edgar, a brown and white Arabian horse that was a few years past his prime, was indeed waiting for Ryan in the small, dilapidated shed that was named the Red Bull Stable. It was run by Kerry Shawcross, a small roundish character that had short hair, a funny voice, and years of hay stashed in the stable for travelers’ horses. He was a nice man to the Sunny Gang, usually in charge of watching the animals if Gavin was out of town. He brushed his fingers through the beasts mane.

“Hey, buddy,” Ryan cooed in the same voice he used for his son, “How about we head back to Geoff’s Saloon? Laurie and Eli are waiting probably for us.”

The horse made a small, sad sound, kicking his hooves in the way that told Ryan his companion wasn’t too fond of leaving the stable. The horse wasn’t as young as he used to be, so being in the rain or the cold made the creature less than happy. Ryan’s solution was to wrap Edgar up in some warm blankets and a tarp before saddling up, but it never prevented Edgar from attempting to remain in a warm, dry environment.

He pet the horse as he walked around him, removing his shawl as he went. Edgar keeled down in the hay so that Ryan wouldn’t have to struggle wrapping him up, a gesture appreciated by the latter. He wondered when Edgar had become so aware of what he wanted; it wasn’t uncommon for him to appear when he was distressed, upset, in danger, or even frightened without being called for. It seemed that every moment he opened his mouth to call for him, hooves trotted his way.

The rain and lighting had gotten worse in the time it took him to saddle up, which wasn’t that long, considering he’d been doing it since he was ten years old, so he hadn’t the time to even think because he had to redirect Edgar to the shortest route possible. Half of him wished he’d kept his shawl on because it was so cold, but it didn’t matter; Geoff’s Saloon was known for its warming coffee and hot chocolate that would no doubt be waiting for him. His heart warmed considerably, a smile breaking on his features as he envisioned his wife’s hug and little Eli hopping up and down at his feet, waiting to be picked up by his father.

.....

“Geoff, I’m going to get Millie into bed,” a soft female voice spoke, “Ryan might be a while in this weather.”

A robust male with intricate tattoos on his arms and a moustache that prompted jealousy from the men in Rooster Teeth made a small clicking sound, grumbling something small about Ryan being too reliable for rain to stop him. Griffon was sitting at one of the far tables with Millie, who was reading a book about caring for horses. She was correcting her pronunciation of unfamiliar words as she read them, eyes darting to a grandfather clock behind the bar every so often. Millie would’ve been in bed hours ago, but she insisted on staying up until Ryan was home, an offer her dad couldn’t resist taking up on.

The saloon was as it always seemed to be afterhours, minus Ryan’s help with stacking dishes. Geoff was rinsing glasses and passing them to Ray, a smallish Puerto Rican man with black hair, black glasses, and short, stubbly facial hair, for polishing; Michael, a slightly taller and more built male with a New Jersey accent, curly hair, and delicately framed glasses, was carrying a metal bucket filled with soapy water and washing down tables and chairs; Gavin, a thinner English fellow with a humorously large nose, trailed behind, rinsing and drying the surfaces; and Jack, a burly, tall man with a thick beard and glasses, mopped the floor while humming to himself. The women were all busy in the kitchen storing leftovers, throwing together a super late dinner for them all to eat, stocking supplies for tomorrow, and denoting who was going to prepare what for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Any other day, they would’ve had the saloon cleaned and prepped an hour ago, but in waiting for Ryan, they’d all become a little lazy, much to Geoff and Laurie’s annoyance; they didn’t quite feel like being in the middle of cleaning when Ryan returned after four weeks of tracking down one of the worst bandits Texas had ever seen. Laurie also wanted to have hot food waiting for him, which was going to be impossible at the rate they were working.

Eli had fallen asleep ages ago and was wrapped up in a blanket on a wide lounge that made sure he wasn’t going to fall off if he rolled over; Lindsay, Michael’s wife, whose shoulder-length red hair was in a bun, was watching him, just to be safe.

The clock struck half-past midnight when boots could be heard climbing up the patio steps with a slow, methodical air, the lack of spurs and the slight hesitation before knuckles rapped hard on the door telling them all who to expect. Laurie had, that very instant, dried her hands and checked that Eli was still peacefully asleep, her features lighting up enough to brighten the room a little upon hearing the knock. Ray hesitated by the door, looking to Laurie with a small head-gesture that was asking if she wanted to be the one to open it.

“Ray, I know you’re there. Open up,” Ryan’s voice demanded, muffled through the door. He unlocked it and wrenched it open, purposely standing behind it so that the first person in Ryan’s view would be his wife.

Time stood still for a small moment, a tired grin on Ryan’s features, and four-weeks-worth of pent up love spelled out in Laurie’s tear-filled eyes. They both took two long steps and embraced, Ryan swaying her back and forth with mumbled exchanges of sweet nothings, the faint sounds of a kiss to Laurie’s forehead and a kiss to Ryan’s cheek lost in more thunder that rumbled more aggressively above them; she gripped to the back of his soaked jacket so tightly, her knuckles turned white, as if she was afraid that if she let go, she would wake up from a dream and he’d be gone again. In the room, everyone else became silent �" Ray hadn’t even closed the door �" to allow the couple precious moments they both needed so dearly.

“Oh, I missed you so much!” Laurie cried, muffled in Ryan’s shoulder.

“I missed you more,” he replied, letting go to study her face at arm’s distance. He then glanced around, asking where Eli might be.

“He’s asleep over here,” Lindsay mentioned with a wave. “It’s good to have you back!”

Ryan, unable to contain the loving father in him, removed his wet jacket, darted through the tables, and hauled his son off the lounge with strong arms, hugging the little boy as close to himself as he could, peppering tiny kisses on his forehead and cheek. The toddler remained oblivious to the world around him, lost in the blissful sleep of childhood.

After his son was back under the diligent watchfulness of Lindsay, the rest of the gang moved in for their greetings. Geoff was first, scooting around Michael, who was still holding the bucket, to clap both hands heartily on Ryan’s back, his moustache elevating to reveal very round cheeks in his infamous “Ramsey smile;” next was Sheriff Jack, who muttered deep words of appreciation for helping with the case; Michael, who’s very Jersey “welcome home, Boi” followed a bear hug; and then finally Ray and Gavin, both whom remained unusually silent for their obligatory Big Brother hugs.

“You not gonna say much, Kiddo?” Ryan asked Ray.

He cracked a small smile. “Guess I’m just tired. We’ve been waiting for a while. All day, actually.”

Gavin had retreated to the bar, drying the counter in a haste that only amplified irritation already flowing off his clammy skin; he wasn’t too happy about the saloon not being pristine yet. Geoff, who acted more like Gavin’s father than anything else, asked how he was. He waved a dismissive hand and continued cleaning.

“Gavin,” Griffon piped up, “Something’s wrong. You’ve been acting strange all day.”

“By strange, you mean not clumsy, right?” Michael joked.

“Hey! Be nice,” Laurie scorned, setting out food, “Ryan shouldn’t have to come home to bickering!”

“Sorry!”

Ray chimed in with a surprised, “What? You didn’t give a crap when Matt came home last month!”

Laurie crossed her arms defiantly. “Ray, who stayed up for two hours to prepare him some pizza?”

“Fine, fine, you win,” he muttered, holding out a tray of water-filled glasses for her to take.

“Where is Matt?” Lindsay asked.

Jack answered, while everyone, except Lindsay, who took a plate to her spot by Eli, seated themselves at their usual circular table, “Asleep upstairs. He got into a scuffle with Kdin earlier today, so I told him to sleep it off… He ate already,” he added.

“Are they both okay?” Ryan queried, taking his seat.

“Yeah, they’ll be fine by morning.”

“What were they fighting about?”

“Matt tried breaking up an argument between Kdin and some other guy,” Michael explained, “I don’t know the full story, but I’d wager that it was about the inn again.”

“It was Officer Marquis.” Jack clarified.

“Someone just needs to buy that damned inn already!” Gavin hissed, slamming his fist down on the table and making the dinnerware jump.

“And what would that solve?” Jack demanded.

“Well, I dunno if you know this, but sharing ownership of anything makes for disagreements left and right.”

“He’s not wrong,” Ray said through a mouthful of barbeque chicken, earning subtle nods from around the table.

“What’s the deal with it now?” Ryan asked, peering over the rim of his glass. “I didn’t hear much about it when I left, so enlighten me.”

“Okay,” Michael began, his more enthusiastic tone signaling irritation, “so, you remember when Meg owned the joint, ages ago when no one gave a sh*t about the damned place?”

Ryan softly reminded the Jersey native, “Watch the language, and yes, I do remember that.”

“My bad; forgot Eli was down here. But, anyway, after she gave up the place to Hullum-“

“Wait, didn’t she sell it?”

“No, she didn’t,” Gavin intervened, “She told me that Hullum forced her to give it up after drowning her in false debt. He’d been trying to snatch it for years, but she was putting up a good enough fight to avoid losing it. Six months ago, she called me from her parent’s house and said that she was being pushed out of the inn and that Hullum wanted her house, too.”

Geoff grumbled, “That sad excuse for a man ripped her house and inn away the day after you left. She’s been staying here since; she’s asleep upstairs right now.”

“I’m pretty sure he was waiting for you to leave.”

“I don’t know, Gavin. Michael’s the Bounty Hunter.”

He snorted. “Yeah, well you’re a bloody lunatic!”

Ryan paused. “Okay, I’ll give you that.”

“But, yeah,” Gavin digressed, “The inn is owned by the whole town now, at least until someone buys it, and everyone has their own way of running it. Lately there’s been an issue about whether or not visitors should be allowed to stay on the top floor or some rubbish like that.”

After a brief pause for thought, Ryan said, “It’s kind of hard to believe Matt got into a fight with Kdin for something so trivial.”

“That’s what I said!” Michael chimed in, “But, to be fair, Kdin swung first, so Matt had the literal right to hit him back.”

“Oh, well of course,” Ryan joked, “That’s the way it works out here.”

Laurie huffed sadly, whispering, “Poor Matt. Did you see how bad that cut on his cheek was? It’s going to leave a scar.”

Bewildered, Michael’s hands shot up in the air, voice rising a good octave. “Did you not see how messed up Kdin was? He had to be carried to his home!”

“He just got knocked in the head!” Griffon declared, “He didn’t even bleed!”

Before Michael could formulate a rebuttal, a very angry, fluffy white cat hopped on the table, hissing and drawing up her fur to resemble an irritated porcupine rather than a feline, startling everyone but Millie, who giggled at the sight of Arya, Matt’s pet, attempting to shush them.

“Arya! Not on the table!” Griffon growled, shooing her onto Laurie’s lap, where she continued to hiss. Laurie, being the town’s veterinarian, had a way with animals, so she glossed a hand over her fur, calming her.

“Alright, alright, we’ll be quiet so Matt can sleep,” Ray dismissed lazily.

Silence.

“What?” he asked, looking at everyone in turn.

Griffon glanced nervously at Geoff and Gavin. “You really are tired, right?”

“Uh, yeah, but I'm fine. Why? Why’d you all go quiet so suddenly?” the Puerto Rican asked.

Ryan, ever so attuned to the behavior of his friends, suggested that Ray head to bed early, but instead of pointing out that Ray sounded like he was extremely anxious, noted that he was struggling to keep his eyes open. As if right on cue, Ray contained a long, wide-mouthed yawn into the back of his hand. He agreed, taking his plate and glass in hand to drop off at the sink.

“Can you take Arya back upstairs, too?” Laurie requested.

He nodded. “Yeah, sure. Come on, Arya, let’s go check on Matt,” he cooed, ushering the feline up the stairs with a final wave.

When he was safely out of earshot, Ryan, still looking over his glass’s rim, noted, “He’s not feelin’ too great.”

Millie finally spoke, asking, “Is he getting sick?”

Ryan explained, “No, it’s more like he’s not feeling good about something. Sometimes people don’t realize things what their subconscious picks up on, and when that happens, they can sometimes feel a little… weird.”

“What does that word mean again?”

“Subconscious?” Griffon clarified.

“Yeah! What’s that mean?”

Griffon began explaining the word to her, assisted by Gavin and Michael, who served as examples in a mock-situation she constructed to aid her daughter’s understanding. While she continued to explain, Geoff slowly shifted towards Ryan more, using his glass of gin and tonic to shield his mouth. His lips barely moved when he murmured an old memory.

“Remember the last time that happened?”

“Yeah. Jack got shot.”

.....

He couldn’t quite understand why he felt the way he did; he couldn’t decide if it was the off feeling itself, or the fear of knowing what that off feeling meant. It was as if someone was twisting his stomach and shoving something down his throat all at once, making his legs feel wobbly and his head feel lighter than air in the most uncomfortable way possible.

Upstairs, the saloon turned into four floors of rooms for the Ramsey family, the Haywood family, Gavin and Meg, Michael and Lindsay, Ray and Tina, Jack and Caiti, Matt, and a few others that may want to stay overnight. The Ramseys and Haywoods had the top floor, Gavin, Meg, Lindsay, and Michael had the next one down, Matt, Ray, and Tina had the one under that, which left Jack and Caiti in the room closest to the stairs on the lowest floor. Ray grinned broadly, remembering Gavin’s complaints of wanting “Team Nice Dynamite” on one floor so he wouldn’t “get scared at night.” Of course it was a joke, but after Gavin moved downstairs, off the Ramsey story to make room for the Haywoods, he sought company in Michael, who naturally filled the role of being a brother-figure. Geoff had insisted that the kids be kept on the upper floor, as the locks up there were child-proof and would ensure none of them would wander around at night.

Mewling from Arya brought Ray back to reality, where he had been standing in front of Matt’s door for a while. She was scratching the door meekly, not being her aggressive self because she was quite fond of Ray and was waiting patiently for him to open it. He rapped five times with a bent knuckle, pausing to listen for sounds of stirring. Arya mewled loudly again, as if to announce her presence. Sure enough, sheets rustled and floorboards creaked with every step Matt took towards the entrance. He pulled it ajar just enough to let Arya dart in and trot towards her bed.

His brown hair was sticking up in odd directions at the top of his head, most of the other strands haphazardly pushed out of the way of his eyes, the crystalline blue of which seemed not just worn out… but angry, even if the rest of his face didn’t show it. Matt was wearing one of his soft, solid-colored t-shirts that he wore when he cared only for comfort and plaid checkered sleeping pants that looked too unwrinkled for him to have been sleeping in. He leaned a forearm on the doorframe, other hand still on the door handle.

He really did take quite a hit to the face.

The peach skin of his face and brown of his beard were interrupted by a long, jagged, just-scabbed wound that stretched from his temple to almost the corner of his mouth, surrounded by a good centimeter of inflamed red, purple, yellow, and green flesh. His cheekbone and jaw were also bruised, and his lips were dry, cracking, and pale. Upon taking a closer look, Ray noticed that Matt’s eye was also watering just a little �" either from pain or irritation.

“Are you going to stand there forever?” he asked, tone so soft, words so gentle, they hardly disturbed Ray’s thoughts. He was indeed the understanding one of the group, the one they went to when all they needed to do was throw a lifeline out, to let someone know and bear witness to them going through whatever bullet storm was hitting them because Matt did one small thing everyone greatly appreciated; he didn’t joke about their problems. No one was insensitive in the Sunny Gang, but the wisecracking stopped entirely when Matt was listening, opening up the floor to whatever demons needed to escape the cages all of them carried around.

“You don’t look too great, Ray.”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck in a show of uncertainty. He couldn’t quite find words to describe how he felt, so he made a gesture to Matt, pointing out, “I didn’t get attacked by someone.”

Matt shrugged.

“Doesn’t bother you?”

“No, not really. I mean, it’s just a cut. It’ll probably make me look like a badass when it scars,” he chuckled.

“Casey would probably beg to differ.”

“She doesn’t beg.”

“Haha. Very funny.”

“Are you really going to stand there until I close the door? We both know something’s up, so spill the beans already; and if it’ll take more than ten seconds, have a seat.” He opened the door wider and stepped aside, inviting Ray. Taking a few seconds to think about what he was going to say (and coming up empty-handed for a short version), he stepped inside the small, cozy room.

There were always three armchairs arranged in a loose triangle near the back of the room, next to a bay window presenting a beautiful view of Red Bull Station against a backdrop of mountains rising up into the ever-changing sky, currently overtaken by monstrous fluffy clouds rumbling with thunder, sparking with lightning, and pelting the ground with needle-like rain. Off in the distance, somewhere past their humble mountain range, lightning was much fiercer, crackling across clouds nonstop; it was heading their way. Ray seated himself in the chair facing away from the window, smoothing his hands over his knees.

Matt closed the door and turned to his little refrigerator, clanking of glass telling Ray that he was looking for a beverage to sip on while they talked. With his back still to Ray he stated, “I heard Griffon yelling at Arya when she tried shushing you guys downstairs.”

“What? How’d you hear that all the way up here?”

Matt straightened up with a beer and a bottle of water in his grasp and pointed to his ear. “I don’t shoot as much as you all, so my hearing’s still intact.”

“I call bullcrap...” Ray muttered.

“I’m serious!”

“I know!” Ray smacked his hand down on the armrest, “And I don’t care! You still shouldn’t be able to hear through two floors…”

He restrained a grin tugging at the corners of his lips, probably from fear of tearing the cut open again, while he settled down in the armchair opposite of Ray, handing the water bottle to him. He sat with his legs folded up, resting his beer on his knee after expertly popping the cap off with his teeth. “Alright,” he pointed to Ray, taking a sip, “talk to me; what’s up?”

“I’ve been feeling really strange for the last couple days �" ever since we saw the storm creeping up on us, actually,” Ray began. “I keep feeling like I’m missing something really, really important, but I just can’t figure out what it is.”

“Like you’re forgetting something?”

“No, not like I’m forgetting something, but more like I’m not seeing something that I know is supposed to be there. Like I’m not catching the most obvious thing in the world! I keep feeling like something is wrong, but nothing is; everything is perfectly fine!”

Matt held up his hand. “Just to clarify: you feel that something is wrong? Right now?”

He nodded.

“Are you sure it’s not a feeling of dread?”

Ray’s eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. “‘Feeling of dread?’”

“Yeah, like something is about to go wrong-”

“I know what that is,” he interjected, “But I don’t know what I’d have a feeling of dread for. This isn’t our first storm, and like I said, nothing seems wrong. Nothing’s out of place, I haven’t seen or heard anything suspicious, no shady characters have been at the saloon, no weird phone calls, nothing.”

“That you know of,” Matt added.

Silence.

“You’re not wrong, Matt. You’re not wrong.”

.....

“Thanks for helping out with the dishes, Ryan,” Geoff heaved, setting the last stack of dried plates in the cabinet they belonged in, “You really could’ve just gone to bed with everyone else.”

Ryan dried his hands, tossed his rag onto its hook, and faced Geoff, leaning back on the bar counter. He folded his arms across his chest, giving Geoff an expecting look.

“Things haven’t been right around here,” the bartender opened up, beginning his usual OCD-like sweep of his whole saloon, adjusting every glass, mug, plate, bowl, spoon, knife, fork, napkin, and barstool so that they were perfect, just to have something to do while he spoke.

“I’m all ears.”

“Jack keeps telling me about this strange sh*t he hears left and right, always about that f*cking inn that shouldn’t have ever been ripped away from Meg. Hullum’s been incredibly hush-hush about the joint since he pushed her out; he even wants to restrict access to the highest floor now, even though he said the inn belonged to the town, not him, so he shouldn’t even be able to do that! And he insists Meg handed it over willingly!”

“Okay, but that’s been going on for months.”

“I know that!” Geoff whispered harshly, “But that doesn’t at all explain why he’s booted every single one of us from Central! I found out through Kerry that Hullum sent you after The Hillside Bandit because he didn’t want Michael on the case.”

“Wait, wait, wait, Jack sent me,” Ryan reminded him, “Jack sent me after him because he didn’t want to risk anyone from the town getting yanked into the commotion. The Austin Police Force took care of the f*cker for me so my family wasn’t put at risk; they wouldn’t have done that for anyone else because I know everyone down there.”

Geoff had begun shaking his head halfway through Ryan’s statement. “Hullum forced him to. And from what I can gather, it was to get you out of town for a while. You’re the only person he won’t cross because all your fans would rally behind you.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that, but a ploy to get me out of town so he can steal an inn doesn’t seem too crazy to me. Maybe you’re overthinking it.”

Geoff grumbled, annoyed. “I’m not overthinking it! You saw how Ray was acting yourself! That kid may be unpredictable as f*ck, but he doesn’t just start being weird for no reason!”

Ryan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, Geoff, just because we had one incident of sh*t going down when Ray was feeling off doesn’t mean that every time it happens, sh*t will hit the f*cking fan! He’s not a goddamned prophet!”

“Griffon’s ‘Mom Danger Sense’ has been through the f*cking roof, too! She keeps getting up at night to check on Millicent!”

“Ah, that’s just her being a mom. Laurie does it too.”

“Eli is significantly younger than Millicent, dumbass. Come on, can’t you feel it too? Something’s not right. By a mile.”

Ryan heaved a long, tired sigh, taking his hat off and combing through his hair. He indeed knew what Geoff was talking about, but part of him chalked it up to fear of the colossal storm brewing in the sky; however, after Geoff pointed it out, something did feel strange.

“I keep feeling like someone is watching me, as if I'm being scrutinized by every pair of eyes that walk through the f*cking door. Whatever is going on, we’re being shut out,” Geoff disclosed, “And I don’t like it one bit.”

“Okay. What do you want me to do?”

“If Jack’s not saying anything, someone’s shutting him up, or he legitimately doesn’t know what’s going on. One of us has to talk to Joel during breakfast in the morning; if anyone knows what the f*ck is going on, it’s him. And if he clams up, ask him who you should talk to.”

“Will do.”

“Good. Now go get some sleep, you look like sh*t.”

“Well, gee, thanks for the compliment!”

“Anytime, brother!” Geoff called, ascending the stairs.

“Don’t ‘brother’ me!” Ryan answered, following him.

.....

F*ck this storm. F*ck this stupid, loud, obnoxious, bright, and irritating as sh*t storm.

Awoken after five hours of sleep, Griffon Ramsey often marveled at how quickly her husband seemed to fall asleep after having a dose of alcohol; he was out like a light bulb the instant, instant, he crawled into bed and whispered his usual “goodnight” and “love you,” despite ceaseless thunder crackling and rumbling so strongly, she could feel the entire saloon shudder beneath her. Instead of drifting off to the sleep that she so badly needed after waking up at four in the morning that day, her eyelids refused to flutter shut for more than three seconds at a time, which �" at that measly rate �" was nothing more than blinking slowly. Instead of her thoughts being relatively void of fear or worry, they were teeming around in the pain that occupied the space behind her eyelids, as if they were the dorsal fins of sharks slicing through clear, blue ocean. She worried about her daughter, whose room was directly behind the headboard in their apartment, sound asleep. Normally, without a raging storm, she could hear her daughter’s every turn in bed, ever movement her little form made even in her sleep, bringing her comfort in knowing she was perfectly safe; not being able to hear her sparked a fear in the pit of her stomach that only a mother could feel; it was the same fear a new mother felt, a fear that would cause her to rise out of bed and stare at her newborn to ensure it was still breathing, that its little life was still there.

She sat up when “what ifs” filled every particle in her brain, carefully slipping out of the covers to avoid disturbing Geoff, who had become more than a little annoyed with her Mom Instincts over the last few days. Her feet padded the carpet lightly, hands trembling a little when her cold fingers made contact with the door handle, a very sudden pang somewhere in her chest accompanied by a racing heart and breathing rate telling her that something indeed was direly wrong.

Geoff woke up when she turned it and yanked the door wide open.

“What is it?” his groggy voice asked in the dark.

“Something’s wrong, Geoff,” she panted, “Something is really wrong.”

She heard him get out of bed instantaneously. She vaguely registered the pounding of hooves as she darted around the hallway to her daughter’s room, flicking a light switch, but being met with darkness. She flipped it up and down twice in a blind haste, not fully understanding why the lights weren’t on.

“Griffon!” he whispered, “The power is out!”

Feeling panic set in, Griffon cried, “Millie! Millie, sweetheart!”

Nothing.

Geoff burst his daughter’s door open and saw what he only associated with nightmares: her bed was empty, the window was wide open, and his daughter was nowhere to be found. Griffon, who had come into the room behind him, screamed.

“MILLIE! MILLIE! OH MY GOD, SHE’S GONE GEOFF! SHE’S GONE!”

“MILLIE!” He roared out of the window, “MILLICENT!”

“No, no, no, no,” she sobbed, “No, no, she can’t be gone! GAVIN! RYAN! JACK! SOMEONE HELP! MILLIE’S MISSING! SOMEBODY HELP!”

No more than ten seconds later, Gavin slammed open the main door, running to them, quickly registering what had happened, and bolted back out, hollering at Meg to take care of Geoff and Griffon.

Using flashes of lightning and memory of the saloon to figure out where he was going, he howled down the hallways and stairs for help, rousing everyone as he made his way to the back of the house, right under Millie’s window, where he figured her kidnapper might still be. Michael and Matt were already running there, guns in hand, also yelling for everyone. He grabbed a massive kitchen knife and followed them into sheets of rain, calling for Millie so loudly, his throat stung and burned for mercy, and he squinted against icy water to look for something, anything that would signal someone was out there, but to no avail. Ryan’s voice telling Laurie to hang onto Eli, Jack’s shotgun click, and Ray’s bellowing joined the mix of people running around the perimeter, shouting for the little girl as if their lives depended on it. The women inside were turning the saloon inside-out.

But they came up empty.

Geoff sprinted down to them, silent in shock, tears welling up in his big blue eyes. “Where is she?” he demanded, “Where’s my little girl?”

“She’s gone, Geoff!” Ryan yelled from outside, “Nobody’s here!”

“SHE CAN’T BE F*CKING GONE!” he ran towards the door, stopped by Ryan, who extended both arms to grab him.

“Geoff! Listen to me! GEOFF! They’re looking, okay, you need to stay inside!”

He shoved the taller man away from him angrily, “NO, I HAVE TO FIND HER!”

“Geoff, right now you need to think! Think about who would want to take her!”

“NOBODY! SHE NEVER DID ANYTHING WRONG TO ANYONE!” he cried, fresh tears streaming down his reddened cheeks, “She never hurt anyone…”

“I know that, but you need to think broader! If we can narrow down who it might be, we can interrupt their getaway!”

“SHUT THE F*CK UP! LET ME LOOK FOR HER!” he shrieked.

“Ryan, the phone’s ringing!” Tina, Ray’s girlfriend who had a robe coiled around her, exclaimed among the chaos.

“Pick it up!” he ordered, still struggling to restrain Geoff.

“Geoff, listen to me, listen to me!” Ryan asserted, finally getting through to the distressed father, “Calm down!”

“Ryan, someone’s saying they have Millie! They want to talk to Geoff!”

The receiver was ripped out of her hand in an eye blink, leaving her standing next to the phone dumbfounded.

A male voice spoke. “Ah, yes, Mr. Ramsey?”

“You son of a b*tch! What did you do to my daughter? Who are you? What do you want?”

“Your daughter is fine, but she won’t be if you don’t listen carefully to my instructions. Do you understand?”

He didn’t say anything.

“Should anyone beyond the saloon find out about this incident, be it you telling them, you investigating, or you changing your daily routine, Millicent will not be returned to you. Tell them Millicent is with her grandmother for a while. Understand?”

He still didn’t utter a sound.

“I expect you to answer me.”

“Yes. Yes I understand.” Geoff gritted, clenching his fist so hard, blood seeped through his fingers.

“Good. You will have Michael Jones drop off thirteen-thousand dollars outside Vincent Cross Station tomorrow by noon. He will be alone and he will not have a single weapon on him. I promise you that he will be unharmed, so long as you stick to the rules. Am I being clear?”

“I don’t have thirteen-thousand dollars!”

“I’m confident you’ll figure it out. Goodbye.”

“No, no, NO! DON’T HANG UP!” Geoff begged; the line was already cut. He threw the phone at the floor, making Tina jump, and stood there, shaking from head to toe with a reddening face.

After half an hour of searching, the rest of the gang retuned inside, soaked to the bone, silently processing the events that unfolded before their very eyes. Ryan could see Laurie holding Eli near the entrance of the kitchen with a white-knuckle, trembling grip on the back of the toddler’s shirt. Gavin sank to the floor where he stood, holding his head in his hands, mumbling incoherent words, and rocking back and forth. Matt had blood mixed with water streaking down his face from his cracked wound and sopping hair. Ray was deathly pale and swaying, supported by motionless Michael, whose eyes were depicting horrifying amounts of his infamous rage. Jack hadn’t let go of his gun yet and was leaning against the wall with an expression of pure disgust. Tina was watching Ray’s face with her hands covering part of her mouth in a silent prayer.

Ryan’s thoughts were interrupted by Geoff burying his fist in the wall, a sickening crunch, followed by a guttural scream from him making Laurie bolt into the kitchen with Eli, who began to cry. Ryan managed to grab both his arms before he did it again, but Geoff twisted out of his grasp and stormed upstairs, shouting for Griffon. Lindsay, who was the only level-headed one, came flying down the stairs with towels for them after Geoff left; she tossed one at Ryan, who positioned it on his shoulders so he could hold Eli without soaking him, draped one each on Michael and Gavin, who didn’t move at all in response, gave two to Laurie (one to dry Matt and one to keep blood off the couch), who was gathering supplies to take care of Matt’s injury, passed another to Tina, who had her arms wrapped around Ray and was directing him to the shorter couch, and a final one to Jack, who only nodded stiffly, set his gun on one of the tables, and removed his glasses. Meg called from upstairs asking Gavin if he needed her, and he weakly asked Ryan to tell her to stay with Geoff and Griffon, which he did. He then helped the Brit to unsteady feet with his free arm, leading him over to their round table to sit. He slumped forward in his chair and pressed the side of his face to the cold, hard surface to stare blankly at the door, muttering a thanks when Ryan replaced the towel over his head and shoulders.

“If anything happens to Millie,” Michael mumbled, causing Gavin to whimper faintly, “I swear to God, I’ll murder the son of a b*tch who took her. Nobody does that to a little girl… nobody.” Lindsay, who was standing behind him to dry his hair, looked at Ryan nervously.

“I’m heading out to find her,” Matt declared while Laurie stuck Band-Aids to the cut, “Ryan, Jack, come with me; you guys know this town better than us.”

Michael turned around in his chair, butting in. “Well, I’m going with you! F*ck this; I’m not going to sit here when Millie is out there!”

Ryan shook his head, “The weather’s too bad for horses.”

“Then I’ll f*cking walk! I have legs!”

“You won’t get more than half a mile out in this weather.”

Michael got to his feet suddenly, his chair toppling backwards and clattering to the floor, scaring Eli into a renewed fit of tears, “Alright Mr. Factoid, how long do children survive after abductions?” he yelled, “Tell me, you a*shole; HOW MUCH TIME UNTIL WE HAVE A BODY?”

“You’re already letting this guy get into you head?” Ryan noted, “I understand what Geoff is feeling �" believe me, I’m holding my son right now �" and all I can be certain of is that whoever the kidnapper may be, he’s really intelligent. He knew enough about all of us to know when to take Millie, how, who to talk to on the phone, and how to manipulate us into a corner; pulling a writhing nine-year old out of a window and down a tree is no easy feat �" you know how much Millie can fight back �" but you’re also forgetting that we can’t let anyone know about this incident, or �" God forbid �" we won’t get her back. And I don’t know about you, but people are bound to get suspicious if we’re all outside! Right now we need to focus on the abduction itself, gather as much information about this as we can so we’re not blindly following his lead.”

Michael’s hands balled into fists. “That is what I’m focusing on!”

“No you’re not!” Ryan asserted, his voice finally rising, “You’re hell-bent on revenge right now! You want to get this guy and make him pay for taking Millie! You’re clearly not thinking logically about it, either!”

“WHAT IS THERE TO THINK ABOUT? YOU WANT TO DO YOU PSYCHOANALYSIS BULLSH*T, GO AHEAD, BUT I’M GOING OUT TO LOOK FOR HER!”

Lindsay stepped between them both, putting both hands on Michael’s chest to get his attention. “Stop yelling, please. You’re scaring Eli.”

Michael looked like he was about to scream at her, too, but restrained himself after seeing the pleading look in her eyes. Ryan forfeited Eli to Laurie while he steadied himself; less than twenty-four hours of being back, Millie was gone, he’d gotten howled at by Geoff, whose hand was most likely broken, and he was arguing with easily the most dangerous member of the Sunny Gang. Perfect.

“Michael,” Matt said, putting a hand on his seething friend’s shoulder, “Ryan’s right. We can’t go out there.”

“The captor is asking you to drop off thirteen-thousand dollars by noon at Red Bull. He also doesn’t want a single weapon on you.”

Michael’s eyes widened in surprise. “Me? Why me?”

Ryan gestured to the space between them, “Because of this… He’s trying to get into your head and subsequently drive a rift between us. You know more than me just how dangerous we can be as a team. You also know how capable we are of tearing each other apart. Right now we can’t let this b*****d get under our skins; it’ll only spell disaster.”

“He’s right, Michael,” Lindsay sided, brushing her fingers through her husband’s hair, “we need to back up and try to figure this out; get a step ahead and not turn into his puppets.”

“Exactly.”

Ray softly asked, “Where are we going to get thirteen-thousand dollars from by noon?”

“I’ll sell some of my horses,” Gavin said slowly, “It should get us thirteen grand easy.”

“What is that, four Arabians?” Michael calculated, fury buried under a calm voice.

“One Thoroughbred and an Arabian foal,” Gavin clarified, “Barbara wanted the little guy; Jeremy will take the Thoroughbred.”

Michael snaked both arms around Lindsay, encouraging her to rest her head on his shoulder, and nodded with closed eyes, offering to help him with the sales. Unknown to the rest of the group, Gavin and Michael had made an agreement to gift Springy, the foal, to Lindsay on their next anniversary to serve as a means for her to cope with the loss of her previous horse, Penny, who died from old age. He was looking forward to declaring her favorite equestrian friend as a gift, but, given the current circumstances, he couldn’t care less about it. Springy would go for five grand; the Thoroughbred, nine or ten.

Gavin switched the side of his face that lay on the table so he could see Matt, Ray, Tina, and Laurie. His right cheek and temple were still damp from constant pressure, and his hair flopped down in one sheet to cover most of his forehead.

He said, “Geoff keeps candles on the shelf next to you, Tina. They’re in a green box.”

She got up immediately and shuffled through it.

Ryan added, “That’s a good call; I’ve got a lighter upstairs.”

They dotted candles around the high surfaces of the saloon �" the bar counter, high tables, round table, tops of three bookshelves, and windowsills �" on small metal plates resembling saucers with spikes in them to hold three candles each. Laurie retrieved some metal serving trays from Geoff’s neat stack of them to put under each plate, so that if the candles did happen to fall over at some point, they wouldn’t cause a fire or spill candlewax everywhere. Warm orange and yellow contrasted heavily with shadows cast by furniture, resembling monsters crawling along the floor and attempting to clamor up Ryan’s legs as he paced around, engrossed in details about Millie’s kidnapping, his bare feet making nary a sound to disturb brief moments of silence between deafening cracks of thunder.

“When can we sell the horses?” Ryan asked, still pacing.

“Now, if you like, but we’ll need the bank to be open for us to get the money.”

“The bank will be open in one hour. Jack, can you head out then and ask Barbara and Jeremy to come buy the horses? Stick to the scaffolding; you’ll be sheltered from the rain under there.”

“Yeah, I can do that.”

“How the f*ck do I know I’m not going to get jumped?” Michael suddenly spat. “How do I know they’re not just trying to eliminate me because I’m the biggest threat, huh?

Ryan swallowed. “You don’t.”

“IT WAS RHETORICAL!” he screamed, kicking a chair over, “I’M BEING SENT TO DIE! DON’T YOU SEE IT? HE’S TRYING TO KILL ME! And you all are just letting it happen!”

“Michael, don’t say that!” Gavin wailed, gripping his hair in both hands.

“THAT’S WHAT’S HAPPENING, GAVIN!”

“No, no, no, don’t say that!” he choked amidst a strangled sob, “Michael, please don’t say that! You’ll drop off the money and come straight home! I promise.”

“I wasn’t going to interrupt earlier, guys,” Tina squeaked, “But the guy on the phone promised you’ll be fine so long as we follow the rules-”

“I can’t just trust a guy who took a child!”

“No, no, that’s not the only thing he said,” She illuminated, “He didn’t say ‘Red Bull Station;’ he said ‘Vincent Cross,’ for some reason. Does that mean anything?”

“Yes, it does, Tina,” Ray answered. “Everyone in Rooster Teeth calls it Red Bull, but the name written on the sign is ‘Vincent Cross.’ No one in town has called it that in decades. In fact, Hullum was going to change it at some point, but didn’t because it would be confusing to any other train coming through.”

“So who would call the station ‘Vincent Cross,’ someone from out-of-town?” Gavin pressed.

Ray added, “Or someone who wanted to seem like they’re out of town.”

Matt groaned, “So, anyone under the sun, basically?”

“No, not just anyone,” Ryan disagreed, “someone still connected to Geoff.”

“Couldn’t it be someone connected to any of us? Yeah, Geoff was targeted by Millie’s kidnapping and the phone call, but that could be out of convenience.”

Gavin acknowledged, “Millie’s room is right next to that tree; apart from Jack and Caiti, none of us have rooms that are accessible from the outside. She’s also easier to carry than an adult.”

“So who does that leave?” Matt pondered, “We haven’t pissed off many people, so that’s got to narrow the list, right?”

“It could be someone from Geoff’s Bounty Hunter days, and that is a long list.”

“Of unknowns,” Michael added to the statement, “Geoff took down a lot of outlaws by nicknames and characteristics; back then, names weren’t required for positive IDs. Also, how many of them do you reckon had family or something that would avenge their whoever-the-f*ck got captured? A lot.”

“So… back to everyone under the sun,” Matt chimed.

“Goddammit…” Michael whispered. “And we can’t ask around at all!”

“Tina?”

“Yeah, Gavin?”

“Do we have any warm bevs in the kitchen? Like coffee or tea, or even hot chocolate? I’m freezing.”

She scratched her head. “No, it don’t think we do, but I can make some for everyone; it’s a good idea to help you all warm up. What do you all want?”

In unison, they all said, “Coffee.”

Laurie offered to run some up to Geoff, Meg, and Griffon when they heard stairs creaking. Geoff and Griffon were holding onto each other tightly as they descended in front of Meg, who also looked equally as upset as Gavin. How she was managing to take care of them both, Gavin didn’t know, but he greatly admired and appreciated her for it.

They sat on the couch together, taking deep breaths to steady themselves while they denoted jobs; Geoff, for obvious reasons, wasn’t going to bartend, but instead would “work in the kitchen with Griffon,” which he did often enough to not seem suspicious at all, leaving the bar open to Ray and Matt; Jack could’ve served as well, but he was the sheriff, and the sheriff spending an entire day at the saloon and not patrolling around and kicking an armadillo or two was going to be noticed immediately. Meg and Lindsay offered to serve and take orders so that Gavin would be able to sell the horses; Michael was going to drop off the money with the help of his horse, Hidalgo; Ryan was going to walk around town and greet everyone, like he usually did when he returned from being away, and he was also going to find some way to covertly ask Joel what was going on in town, just in case he was in on the plot. If that didn’t pan out, he was going to play the part of eavesdropper and get the scoop around the station by striking up a mock conversation about The Hillside Bandit with Jack and straining his senses to detect anything else going on.

“Bank’s due to open soon, so I’ll head out,” Jack said, grabbing his shotgun, “If I need you to swing by the station, I’ll call from there and ask you to give me a rundown of Hillside if I can’t find anything. And I’ll stop by the stable before Michael leaves to tell y’all what I know.”

“Okay,” Gavin nodded, “Be careful.”

“I will.”

.....

It was eleven on-the-dot when Gavin ran through hellacious rain and into the unlit Rooster Teeth Stables to have a good think about what was going to happen in an hour. His legs carried him on autopilot to the farthest stall from the shed door, the only unused one, so he could flop down in the hay and not have to worry about being interrupted for a few short minutes. He blinked back tears with all his might as he reminded himself repeatedly that Michael was going to come straight home after dropping off the money at Red Bull, that they had some reason to believe the man on the phone was telling the truth, that no harm would reach his closest friend, the other half of team Nice Dynamite, that he had nothing to fear, and that he wasn’t lying to himself while resting in a pile of hay surrounded by the distant familiarity of how his life used to be. He stopped himself for cursing Michael for being afraid, stopped himself for blaming Geoff for putting Millie in that room by the window, and stopped himself from thinking that it should’ve been him solely out of fear for wishing misfortune upon himself; no, this wasn’t the movies, this wasn’t a “it should’ve been me” scenario. It was a “this shouldn’t’ve happened to anyone” scenario.

He knew, deep in his chest, that he wasn’t brave enough to do this �" none of them were; nobody was prepared to send off anyone “to die,” as Michael �" he didn’t want to admit rightly �" said in his rage. Every fiber of his being was screaming for Millie, just as ever fiber of him was screaming for Michael. He didn’t want to admit that chances of anything working as planned were slim.

“Gavin?” Michael’s voice called in concern. He was standing at the other end of the stall, looking like he had a thousand pounds on his shoulders.

Gavin, realizing a tear or two had slipped down his face, wiped them away quickly and got up, plastering a broad smile on his face. “Yeah, Boi? Ready to go?”

“I better see that smile before I head out. It’d be a positive note.”

That statement, the words so heavy and honest from Michael’s mouth, all but forced tears to fall from Gavin’s eyes, which he squeezed shut in a vain attempt to hide them from Michael. The latter took a few long steps forward and embraced the younger Lad, swallowing the knot in his throat to the pit of his stomach, where it threatened to jump right back up at a moment’s notice.

“I’m sorry,” the Brit choked, “You told me not to cry. I can’t help it.”

“It’s okay, Gavin,” Michael managed to comfort without also crying, “It’s okay; you’re doing your best. I can’t appreciate you more for that.”

“You guys back here?” Ryan called, “Hidalgo’s ready to go!”

“Come on, Gavin,” Michael urged, tugging him along by the wrist, “It’s go time.”

The rest of the gang were clearly as emotional as Gavin about Michael’s risky departure; Geoff looked as close to crying as he could’ve been, but having been shedding tears for most of the day in concern for his daughter, he didn’t seem to have any left. Hidalgo, Michael’s stallion, was kicking his hooves and stomping the ground anxiously, reading his owner as well as they all could. Lindsay, who was bawling silently into a napkin, was being held up by Ryan, whose hat was low on his forehead to cover his concerned eyes. Michael grabbed his wife in a tight hug, peppering small kisses to her mouth, cheek, and forehead, stifling tears the whole way through mumbling how much he loved her, how brave she was, and how he would ensure that nothing would happen to him. He then turned around to get hugs from everyone else in the group.

“I’ll give you these,” he hiccupped, removing his guns, baton, knives, and bullwhip, handing them to Ryan. He nodded a signal he understood; give them to Lindsay, should things not go right.

He hopped onto Hidalgo, tipped his hat, and told everyone he love them. He told everyone that nothing would tear the group apart. He told them to stay together regardless of what happened at the station, for him. For him. For his sake.

Gavin whimpered one last, “I love you, my Boi.”

Lindsay hugged his hand to her chest and then kissed his palm.

And then he was gone.

Apart from worrying about thunder, lighting, pelting rain, periods of panic from sheets of hail, and frustration at Hidalgo for being so adamant about turning back, Michael didn’t have a feeling in his gut, nor a thought in his head during his gallop to the station. He pushed every thought out of his mind and willed his tears away, putting on a brave face; he wasn’t about to be vulnerable in front of whoever was at the station, not without a fight.

From a few hundred yards out, flashes of lightning illuminated uninhabited stretches of iron railing and platforms below the red-brick station’s glowing yellow windows. The station had a backup generator that kicked in whenever Rooster Teeth lost power, a built-in-feature that ensured Red Bull would be able to communicate with the outside world to divert trains away from horrid weather conditions, or request supplies or shuttles in case a natural disaster �" a tornado, namely �" ripped through town, or communicate criminals’ or outlaws’ locations to Austin PD, should they take a detour through Rooster Teeth.

The structure was over a hundred-years old, having gone through five revitalizations over the years to make it more sturdy and less of a deteriorating eyesore; the brickwork was acid-washed to remove dust and caked-on grime, the interior was re-plastered and painted, the furniture was replaced, the lighting was re-done to look less like a random assortment of dingy lamps from old houses, and a coffee-corner was added.

But no one was in there.

From the light blaring through fifty-or-more windows, Michael couldn’t see a single person in the waiting chairs or at the coffee corner; even when Hidalgo trotted up to the overhang above the closed main entrance, where the Vincent Cross Station sign hung slightly crooked. He dismounted, loosely looping Hidalgo’s reigns around a tethering post to keep him from wandering into the stables.

“You be a good boy and stay here, alright.” Michael instructed in a shaky voice, brushing through his mane. “You run right back to Geoff if…” �" he swallowed a knot in his throat �" “if anything happens. Okay?”

Hidalgo ducked down and leaned his head on Michael’s chest, detecting his hesitation.

Michael slung the bag of money over his shoulder and carefully pushed open the left door, kicking a wedge of wood under it to hold it open. Not leaving the door, he scanned everything quickly, looking for any signs of danger. He didn’t see anyone, but knew instantly that something was off. Normally, when Kerry was running the stables, he also took care of the station, keeping it clean, stocked with supplies, and orderly; as a consequence, townspeople tried their hardest to keep the station looking nice so Kerry wouldn’t have to do so much on his own.

So the mess of glass bottles, neatly coiled lengths of rope, plastic cups, and piles of burlap sacks in the nearby corner next to the men’s room was no accident. Upon realizing that his hunch at the saloon was right, Michael dropped the bag on the floor, swiftly glanced behind him, and kicked the bag as hard as he could, sending it sliding along polished floors to the middle of the room, right next to a row of chairs. Nothing, not a single thing, moved. There wasn’t a single sign of human existence anywhere past those doors.

But then he heard the unmistakable click of a gun.

He slammed the door shut, sprinted back to Hidalgo, and saddled up within an eye blink, screaming at the beast to gallop back home just as a deafening bang sent something whizzing past his horse and made him jump out of his skin. Hidalgo broke into a full gallop, adopting the serpentine pattern that Michael instructed him to follow without a moment’s hesitation, fully frightened by the shot that went off. Michael’s heart was pounding out of his chest in silent prayers, the absence of his guns hitting him so heavily, he couldn’t get air in or out of his lungs without consciously wheezing his every breath. A blinding flash of light sizzled to the ground about a mile away from him, bringing with it a bang of thunder so loud, Hidalgo bucked, sending Michael off his back and onto the sopping earth. The horse bolted ahead without him, either not hearing or ignoring Michael’s roaring pleas for him to come back. Pain surged through his back when he tried to stand up and run behind the stallion, bringing him right back to the ground on his elbows. He couldn’t stand, not even for a second because his ankle rolled badly.

And when he looked, nobody was behind him.

He was alone.