The night air over Alderwood carried a weight heavier than the silence of the day. Villagers shuttered their windows early, their lamps burning faintly through cracks in wood and cloth, as though afraid of drawing attention. Only the occasional bark of a dog or the creak of wood in the cooling wind disturbed the stillness.
Zeke sat against the post of the barn that the villagers had grudgingly offered him as shelter. He kept his revolver in his lap, cylinder half-loaded, and a cigarette burning low between his fingers. The smoke curled up into the rafters, chasing the scent of hay and horse. His mare shifted uneasily, ears twitching at sounds Zeke couldn't hear.
"Trust," Zeke muttered under his breath. The word tasted bitter. These people fed him, clothed him with a spare tunic, but their eyes cut sharper than knives. Every time he crossed the village square, whispers followed: demon gun, devil's spawn, omen of fire. He understood only fragments of their language, but suspicion needed no translation.
He pulled on the cigarette one last time and flicked the butt into the dirt. "Hell, girl," he said to the mare, patting her flank, "I'd leave if I knew where the trail was."
The horse blew hot breath into the night. Somewhere beyond the fields, an owl cried, too sharp and urgent. Zeke's hand instinctively went to the butt of his revolver.
Then he heard it—low, guttural snarls riding on the wind.
He stood slowly, cocking his head. The sound came again, closer this time: a chorus of growls, uneven footsteps, like claws scraping stone. His mare stomped, eyes wide with panic.
Zeke spun the cylinder of his revolver and snapped it shut. "Guess the night's about to get lively."
---
The first goblin slipped into view at the tree line. Its body was wiry and hunched, skin mottled gray-green, eyes glowing faintly yellow in the moonlight. It carried a crude blade hammered from scavenged iron. Another goblin followed, then two more, crawling low to the ground like wolves stalking prey.
Zeke cursed under his breath. He had fought men—outlaws, rustlers, soldiers with more liquor than sense—but never things like these.
The barn door creaked open behind him. A boy, no older than ten, peeked out with wide eyes. Zeke waved him back sharply. "Stay inside. Lock it." The kid hesitated, understanding the tone if not the words, then slammed the door shut.
The goblins hissed, alerted by the sound, and broke into a run.
Zeke drew, firing a single round. The crack of the revolver split the silence like thunder. The nearest goblin's chest erupted in a spray of black ichor, and it dropped mid-stride, tumbling across the dirt.
The rest howled in frenzy.
Zeke backed toward the barn wall, keeping his gun steady, squeezing off another shot. The second goblin's head snapped back, skull caving as it hit the ground twitching.
But there were more. Much more. Shadows moved in the fields, dozens of them, rushing from every direction. The grass rippled under their charge.
Zeke gritted his teeth. "Damn it, they're pack hunters."
He shot again, again—three flashes in quick succession. Three bodies fell, but the swarm didn't slow. His revolver clicked empty after the sixth shot.
He ducked behind the barn post, thumbing cartridges from his belt, shoving them into the cylinder with practiced speed. The night erupted with screams, goblin voices shrill and manic, echoing off the hills.
The village bells began to ring. Iron clappers struck bronze, sounding alarm through the square. Torches flared as villagers scrambled from their homes, some clutching spears and pitchforks. Panic carried through the air like wildfire.
"Zeke!" a familiar voice called.
He turned—Seraphine, the armored knight who had once stood watch over his cell, now ran across the square, sword gleaming in torchlight. "To the wall!" she shouted, pointing.
Zeke slammed the revolver shut and fired past her shoulder. A goblin, mid-leap, spun lifeless through the air before hitting the ground. Seraphine didn't flinch. She charged past him, cutting another goblin down with a single swing.
"Guess we're allies tonight," Zeke muttered, firing again.
The fight collapsed into chaos. Goblins poured over the wooden fences, clambering onto rooftops, clawing at shutters. Villagers screamed, scattering. Dogs barked madly before being silenced in gurgling yelps.
Zeke shot methodically, pivoting from one target to the next. The revolver kicked in his hand, muzzle flash lighting snarling faces for split-seconds at a time. Bodies hit the dirt. The stench of blood and smoke thickened.
But for every one he dropped, three more took its place.
A goblin lunged from the side, swinging its crude blade. Zeke smashed it across the jaw with the barrel of his revolver, then planted a bullet in its throat as it reeled back. Another grabbed his leg, teeth gnashing. He kicked it loose, barely dodging an arrow that whistled past from the treeline.
"Arrows? Since when do rats use bows?" he growled.
Seraphine slammed her shield into two attackers, her blade flashing in arcs of silver. She spared him a glance, sweat and blood streaking her face. "They're organized tonight! Someone's driving them!"
The thought sank like lead into Zeke's stomach. A hunt this large wasn't random—it was a raid.
---
Hours seemed to collapse into frantic minutes. The ground became slick with gore, the cries of the wounded echoing off stone walls.
Zeke ducked behind a well to reload, his hands shaking with adrenaline. He'd already fired close to two dozen rounds. The weight of his belt was lighter—too light. He counted quickly. Four bullets left, maybe five.
He heard a shriek, high and terrible. A villager toppled from a rooftop, claws ripping at his throat before he hit the ground. Zeke snapped off a shot, blasting the creature off the corpse, but too late to save the man.
"Damn it," Zeke hissed.
The goblins regrouped, circling, their yellow eyes gleaming with cunning hunger. They weren't charging blindly anymore. They smelled fatigue. They smelled weakness.
Seraphine staggered to his side, her shield dented, armor slick with green ichor. She was breathing hard but her eyes still burned. "Cowboy," she gasped, "how many bullets?"
Zeke shook the revolver. "Not enough."
The goblins screamed in unison and rushed again. Zeke raised his revolver, firing once, twice—each shot dropping another—but the numbers were endless.
Click.
He pulled the trigger again.
Click.
The revolver's hammer fell on an empty chamber.
Zeke froze for half a heartbeat, eyes widening. Around him, the goblins closed in, claws scraping stone, blades gleaming with stolen light. The crowd of them surged like a tide, shrieking for blood.
And for the first time since he'd landed in this strange world, the cowboy's gun was silent.