“Wake up.”

Vincent shot upright. He knew that voice. Still groggy with sleep, his hand instinctively probed for the pistol on the nightstand. Eyes darted through the darkness, blinking rapidly until one adjusted. Sierra lay undisturbed under her covers, her breathing slow and steady. Faint rays filtering through thin curtains dusted the room in ash. The bathroom was vacant as it ought to be.

It must have been a dream, Vincent told himself. Just an echo of Wayne that often visited him when least expected. With that strange figure heading a stampede, the old man had to be on his mind, even if below the surface of conscious thought. Springs creaked beneath him as he resettled in bed. Tired eyes closed.

“Wake up.”

Hot breath whispered in his ear. Vincent leapt out of bed. He scrubbed his ear, desperate to erase the lingering voice burrowing into his skull and crawling across his skin.

“Which one?” 

Pin pricks replaced the shivers sending his hairs on end. Vincent moved silently to the window. He flattened himself against the wall and peeked through the curtain’s gap.

“Try them all.” Three men split up. One strolled further down the length of the motel rooms. Another took the stairs. The last one lingered. He flipped a lighter under the cigarette hanging from his lips. Dim fire light briefly outlined the suit he wore.

Sierra mumbled as he scooped her up, finally coming to consciousness.  “Wha—?” Vincent hushed her as they crossed into the dark bathroom. Cold porcelain penetrated her warm bundle. The pillow that followed cushioned the hard tub beneath her. “What’s happening?”

Vincent found her worrisome gaze in the dark. “Stay quiet.” He drew the shower curtain, and disappeared. 

Sierra’s tremoring breaths echoed around her. She stared at the black slit beyond the gray curtain and listened to muffled steps coming from the room. Her imagination crept in like the rust staining the bathtub. Thumps pulsed in her ears, her chest. Zaps surged in her legs. They seemed to know she needed to escape, but refused to move. Minutes lurked by, dragging like a dead weight until the hinges creaked. The door gently shut. Sierra sank below the rim. 

Swishing denim neared her. It paused, then the toilet cover tapped the seat. “I’m here,” Vincent's voice was barely a breath. Sudden pounding on the front door silenced him. “You’re doing fine,” he said between beats. “Just stay quiet, and I promise we’ll get out of here.”

Voices drifted through the hotel room, fading by the time they reached the bathroom door. Heavy thuds followed. Sierra flinched, her heartbeat matching each blow rhythm. The hollow door finally relented. White noise seeped into the silence. Vincent's muscles tensed as his ear followed the intruders’ steps on the cheap carpet. A pregnant pause marked the moment the intruders knew the room was “vacant”.

“Check the bathroom.”

Vincent steadied his breathing. Quickly he flexed the fingers wrapped around the grip of a sleek black automatic rifle loaded with an extended magazine that suggested he was compensating for something. Both his eyes were fixed on the door, but only one really saw it. The knob fidgeted. The door thrust open. Vincent fired. 

Dying wails overpowered the rifle’s echo. Muzzle flashes burned silhouettes in Sierra's unblinking eyes. The Vaquero hit the wall, tumbling to the floor. White knuckles clutched the edge of the tub as she anticipated another banging explosion. Ringing ears calmed to a hum as the silent void seeped back in, and with it, the doubt Vincent was still there. A trembling hand rose to the curtain. She curled a finger around the edge. The dark chilled her knuckle.

“Ring-a-ding-ding, baby.”

The flashlight switched on before Benny finished his sentence. Vincent jumped less than a second later but his light’s aim stayed true, unfortunately. “Fuck’s sake man, could’ve came it with your wrinkly ballsack out and it’s be less traumatizing than that.”

“Oh, this?” Benny pointed at his butchered face with his own gun. “My bad—Your own work offend you? I was hoping we could be twinsies.”

Vincent chuckled. “Not really my style, but I can give you another makeover if you’d like—”

Lightning whipped the room in rapid bursts. In seconds it ended, and so did the confident grin on Vincent’s face. Bullet holes stained white checkers maroon. Benny looked down, scared lips dangled over his yellowed teeth. “Now you come for my suit?” His head swung up as he shrugged. “Baby, this won’t do…”

Gunmetal winked at Vincent. He jerked his aim for Benny’s hand, and fired.

 “Fuck!” Benny wailed, clutching the mangled meat hanging from its blown out joint. 

Vincent launched himself at Benny, hunting knife leading the charge. Benny stumbled over the Vaquero’s body. They collided with the wall. Fueled by a vicious fire that wasn’t snuffed the first time he mutilated Benny, Vincent plunged the knife in the man, throwing his shoulder and body into every hasty thrust. Benny squealed like an overgrown gecko too fat to run. Shredded hands and arms flailed to protect a lost cause. Sierra’s screams mingled with Benny’s. She screwed her eyes shut. Pressing her hands to her ears until it hurt her skull did nothing to quiet agonizing screams. There was little left of Benny the second time around, and done in record time. 

Vincent stood panting over the pulpy mess slinking down the wall. His knuckles were white around the knife's hilt, ready for the supposedly impossible – for his tormentor to rise again. The adrenaline began to ebb, leaving him hyper-aware of the cool night air drifting through the open door. His gaze snapped to the diner across the parking lot, framed in the doorway like a stage set for the next act of this unending nightmare. Figures inside moved with sudden urgency.

Sierra’s ears registered the unusual silence. She squinted at the soft yellow glow illuminating the bathroom’s doorway. The curtains jerked back, revealing Vincent crouching next to her, blocking her view of the hallway. 

“Time to go.” He scooped her up, the world blurring as they raced for the motorcycle. The night air hit Sierra like a slap, thick with exhaust and the promise of more violence. Dark shapes poured from the diner, their shouts carried on the wind. Engines roared to life. Her joints were numb when the trance wore off. The viciously pointed diner roof stretched towards a hazy, bruised sky like an accusing finger, growing smaller until it was swallowed by the encroaching darkness – along with their pursuers.

Sangria fog obscured the highway ahead, behind, and the desert consuming them from all angles. Wherever the pursuing Vaqueros were, their headlights couldn’t penetrate the mist. Vincent wasn’t partial to any of it though. The road barely stretched a couple feet in front of him. Exposed skin seemed to burn at the mist’s cool touch. Breathing it in felt like inhaling ethanol vapor. He glanced at the mirrors, checking on the girl clinging to him like a tumor, her body surely wracked with tremors in the biting wind. The fuel gauge's needle dipped dangerously low. He’d have to stop eventually, both too soon and too late. Yet as when that thought popped in his head, so did the faint glow in the fog appear. Vincent's eyes narrowed, half-convinced it was a desert mirage created just to taunt him. 

Vincent depressed the brakes as his eyes focused on the neon whispering in the dark. Whatever the original name was, he couldn’t discern but the letters that still beamed in glowing irony, named it ‘hope’.  

He pulled into the dirt lot. Argon lightning split the sky, searing the motel's decrepit silhouette into Vincent's retinas. Two-stories. Abandoned. The second floor had intact doors and windows under sanded planks. Molars crushed together at the thought of having to leave his bike out of reach. The arms around his waist shivered. Vincent continued on, finding a hiding spot for his bike through a short corridor where the back of the motel stared down the wasteland. An overgrown desert broom would have to protect their only way out. 

His muscles screamed, hauling Sierra, his arsenal, and stores up the stairs. Inside their second-floor sanctuary, Vincent fortified their position with grim efficiency. Sierra curled into herself on the bed, a defensive ball of raw nerves, as he dragged furniture across threadbare carpet. Each scrape and thud made her flinch. Vincent took a step back to catch his breath and evaluate his work.  The guns weighing down on his shoulders gained some pounds as he plotted a final stand should he need it.

The distant rumble of engines shattered fragile peace. Vincent peered through a crack in the boarded window, watching headlights pierce the fog. The Vaqueros had found them.

But something was wrong. 

The men dismounted in a frenzy, their movements jerky with panic. A voice, cracking with terror, cut through the night: “The mist is coming!” Vincent's blood ran cold as he witnessed the approaching mass of maroon clouds. Below, the Vaqueros scattered like roaches, desperately seeking shelter. “Second floor! Second floor!”

Boots thundered up rickety stairs. Vincent tensed, his hand instinctively reaching for his weapon. The thick veil covered the night. Headlights vanished in the dark. Lagging Vaqueros on the ground vanished. Horrified screams were snuffed in seconds. Survivors scrambled for shelter, pounding door to door, closing in on theirs. A chill touched Vincent’s spine, receding only when the dead men moved on to the next. 

The ground level disappeared in the haze. Through the wine tinted gloom, Vincent watched the last Vaquero at the end of the walkway wrestling a locked door. The mist reached through rust-eaten bars, reaching for him, swirling around his legs. Then Vincent saw it—a figure in the dreamy vapor closing in faster than nuclear dust. Indistinct, more shadow than substance, but undeniably there. Lumbering steps thumped, preceded by velvety fog. The Vaquero howled, begging, and pounding the door that would not open. 

Thump.

He spun around.  His back pressed to the door. 

Thump. 

He stared down his impending doom shrouded in the mist, crying and screaming the same as when he entered this world. 

Thump.

Shrieks cut abruptly. Blood sprayed the window and Vincent flinched. He fumbled backwards. With trembling hands, he raised the assault rifle, positioning himself between the door and Sierra. Humming silence festered. Floorboards creaked in the corridor. Heavy footsteps approached, counting down the minutes where it paused outside their room. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as Vincent held his aim. Muscles burned with effort. Vincent's finger curled around the trigger. Sweat beaded on his forehead, strolled down his back, and drenched him in a way the Mojave never could. The silence was deafening, broken only by Sierra's muffled whimpers and the pounding of his own heart. Evenly paced steps resumed, fading as they moved down the hall. Vincent waited. He counted the distancing thumps, waiting minutes after he heard absolutely nothing to finally lower his rifle. 

Exhaustion hit him like a physical blow. He collapsed at the foot of the bed, every nerve in his body screaming along with its rusty springs. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep, but Sierra's quiet sobs pulled him back. He twisted around. Still balled up with ratty blankets and pillows fortifying her position, she sniffled as she wiped the tears threatening to invade her ear. 

He wasn’t sure what to say, but he got up, knees cracking and huffing like Wayne used to do slipping off the bar stool. Vincent sat on the edge of the bed, next to Sierra but cautious not to invade her claim, wearing as gentle of a look as he could muster. “Being scared is a normal thing to feel.”

“I can’t take this anymore!” Sierra screamed, her voice thick with despair. She buried her face in her hands, muffling the frantic cries choking her. 

“You can get through this.”

“That’s easy for you to say!” Sierra shot him a sharp and glistening red glare. “You’re stronger—”

“I wasn’t always strong,” Vincent asserted. “Nobody’s born strong. Or brave, or anything other than knowing how to breathe.”

“I still can’t walk.”

“That won’t hold you back.”

“Am I gonna crawl away when they—” Sierra’s smoldering scowl cooled. Bloodshot eyes flooded.  She refused to let the words escape. Nails dug into the pillow under her. Vincent recognized her tormented expression. He wore it often when one of many terrible memories abruptly surfaced without his consent. “I tried to get away—” Words knotted in her throat. Squeezing her eyes shut wouldn’t block out the memory. Frenzied hands swatted at imaginary bugs crawling on her exposed skin. “I can still feel them touching me.”

Vincent turned away his reflexive grimace. Torturous wails pierced his ears, digging up things forgotten to the chasms of his consciousness. In another life, it was him in a dingy room like this if he could afford one at all, crying his eyes out of their sockets but also burning with a white hot rage because he felt so defenseless. 

“Sierra.” Vincent hesitated. The blubbering girl quelled for a bit as he continued. “I’m going to tell you something. It’s going to stay between us. Whatever I say—whatever you say.” She sniffled and nodded, her tear-stained face half-hidden by the pillow she clutched.

Vincent took a deep breath, his gaze fixed on some distant point. “When I was younger, about your age, I ran away from home.” He wasn’t sure if he wanted to revisit that memory. It was still too visceral despite the years that passed, and the wisdom might have been lost on the girl but Vincent continued, only because he had started and may as well for whatever it was worth. “I got in a lot of bad situations, and in one of those, I was sleep deprived, hungry, and scared. I’m shivering in an alley, and a man approaches me. Says he can help me. I look at him and I’m filled with dread because I know this scabby creep isn’t helping anyone but himself, and I freeze. I don’t know what to do. He then says I just have to do something for him in exchange. He grabs my hand and with his other hand he yanks open his pants. He shoved my hand down his pants.”

“I’m horrified where this could go, but also fucking livid. I felt so powerless. I was frozen, humiliated, scared—”

Sierra hugged her pillow. A weak sniffle escaped. Vincent swallowed the ball expanding in his throat that manifested every time he spoke about these things. He pondered it happened to shut him up, like some kind of survival reflex. 

“I-I remember where my hand is so I clamp down on his balls. He’s screaming his head off. I dig my nails in. Clawed at him with my other hand—just unleashed hell on ‘em.”

Silence hung between them for a long moment. Sierra's voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. “What happened after?”

What happened after repeated in Vincent’s head. It made his heart race as though he was back in the grimey downtown alley. Accosted his palms with the sharp and gritty asphalt. The nauseating smell of burning rubber, human crotch-funk, and hot blood mixed together. It was a mess—A lucky break. Those types of situations weren’t always forgiving. “It wasn’t the last time something like that happened. Even when those moments are long gone and over, it’s like you’re still living them. They keep you up at night. Come up in your mind even though it’s the last thing you’re thinking about.”

Vincent slowly reached to the girl, setting a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You been dealt a tough hand, no doubt about that, but you don’t have to play at the table alone.”

Sierra tugged the ratty blanket over her head. Half of her face peeked out between the pillow and the sanctity of her covers. “The man wanted me to do something. H-he—” She squeezed her eyes shut and sniffled. “I tried fighting, but he hit me—my back, and-and I screamed. He freaked out and ran off, to the other man, I think. I couldn’t move. You showed up before he came back.” Doughy eyes blinked at him, already swelling with the next round of tears but she blinked them away.  “You think I’m dumb and weak…”

“I never said that and I’m not thinking it,” Vincent said, letting a faint smile through. “You’ve made it this far. What I do think is you ought to get some sleep.”

As Sierra drifted into an uneasy sleep, Vincent settled into a watchful vigil. Any sleep he wanted to get vanished with a shivering peek out the window. The world no longer existed beyond the purple-red hue chilling the glass. Its unnatural color was a constant reminder that he wasn’t in Vegas anymore. He was beginning to think he wasn’t even on Earth. But for now, in this moment of fleeting peace, he did what he always did. The only thing he could do as an impotent sack of flesh at the mercy of everything that could possibly go wrong—be determined to survive no matter the odds.