The air in the small frontier town of Red Hollow was thick with dust and suspicion. The sun had barely set, but lanterns were already glowing along the street, painting the wooden buildings in hues of gold and shadow. Outside the saloon—its swinging doors creaking and its windows fogged from cheap whiskey and louder men—a crowd had gathered, hushed but eager. At the center of it all stood a figure dressed too fine for this weary town: a tall man in a long black coat, its edges brushing against his boots, and a black top hat tilted just enough to hide his eyes in shadow. His beard was neatly trimmed, though the lines of his face suggested he was still young—perhaps forty at most.
This was Dr. Jeremiah Crowe, though some in the crowd whispered the name like it were half curse, half miracle. To most, he was the healing magician. The man who had drifted across county lines and territories, bringing bottles of strange-colored liquids that folks swore could fix everything from rattlesnake bites to pneumonia.
"Crowe," a man muttered, clutching his stomach with a hand that trembled. He was around fifty, skin pale and waxy, sweat slick on his brow even in the cool evening air. His voice cracked with weakness as he spoke to his neighbor. "I heard tell his potions do wonders. Saw a ranch hand last year near Abilene take one, and the very next day the boy was back in the fields as strong as two oxen."
The neighbor only shrugged, though his eyes never left Crowe. "Or maybe the boy just got better. Don't mean the bottle did it."
The sick man coughed hard, doubling over, and spat into the dirt. Red flecks marked his spit. "Don't rightly matter if it's true or not," he wheezed. "If there's even a chance it'll save me, then I'll take it."
From the center of the crowd, Crowe finally raised a hand. The murmuring died at once. His voice carried smooth and steady, like a preacher at the pulpit, though his words curled and twisted as though half the town weren't meant to understand them.
"Good folk of Red Hollow," he began, his tone warm yet solemn. "You see before you no common charlatan nor a snake-oil peddler with false promises. You see a man who has traveled through dust and storm, through cities where plague blackened the air, through battlefields still soaked in blood from this nation's late and terrible war."
He paused, his gloved hand resting on the brim of his hat. The lamplight flickered against his beard as he leaned forward slightly. "I have walked among suffering. I have held the hands of mothers who knew their sons would never rise again. I have bent my ear to the dying whispers of soldiers whose lungs drowned them in their own fluids. And in that suffering, I did not despair—no, I sought an answer."
The crowd stirred. Some nodded, others frowned in confusion. Crowe's words fell like riddles, half-wrapped in poetry.
"I have studied the hidden knowledge of far-off lands," Crowe continued, his voice rising, "the tinctures of the East, the secrets of European apothecaries, the forgotten practices of the ancients. And from all of it, I have drawn one purpose: a cure. Not merely a remedy for coughs or fevers, but a cure to end all sickness. An end to the wasting of the body. An end to the suffering of flesh. A cure for you, and for those you love."
He reached into his coat and drew out a glass bottle. Its contents shimmered faintly in the lantern-light, a liquid of strange, shifting hues that seemed at once red, green, and gold. Gasps swept the crowd.
"For but ten dollars," Crowe said, lifting the bottle high, "you may hold in your hands the salvation of mankind. Drink but a sip, and your pain shall vanish. Your sickness shall fall away like dust in the wind."
The sick man's breathing grew ragged with hope. He pushed his way forward, stumbling until he stood face to face with Crowe. With trembling fingers, he drew out a wad of bills from his vest pocket. Ten dollars—nearly a month's wage—but he pressed them into Crowe's hand without hesitation.
"You've saved me, doctor," the man whispered, clutching the bottle as if it were holy.
Crowe gave a humble nod, his smile small but sincere. "Salvation does not come cheap, my friend. But it comes sure."
The man hurried home that night, the bottle clutched tightly to his chest. His wife helped him inside, and his children—two boys, both hardly more than teenagers—watched with wide, frightened eyes. By lamplight, he pulled the cork and drank deep. The taste was strange, sharp, burning on his tongue, but he forced it down. He sighed, relief flooding him, and told his family, "Tomorrow, I'll be strong again."
But by morning, he was worse.
He lay in bed, sweat soaking the sheets. His skin had gone gray, his veins dark and raised like cords beneath the flesh. Vomit stained the floor beside him, and his breath came in shallow gasps. His wife dabbed his forehead with a cloth, tears streaking her cheeks.
"Pa?" one of the boys whispered. "Is the doctor's cure working?"
The man groaned, rolling weakly to his side. "Can't… can't feel nothing but the sickness, boy. Can't move…" His voice faltered, and for hours he drifted in and out of delirium, his body wracked with pain. By the time the sun sank again, he had gone still, his chest no longer rising. His wife wept bitterly, clutching his cold hand.
But then, with a sudden lurch, his body jerked upright. His eyes opened, but they were wrong—clouded, milky, filled with a hunger that no man's eyes should hold. His mouth opened wide, and he lunged, sinking his teeth deep into his wife's neck.
She screamed, blood spraying across the bed. The children shrieked in terror. One boy bolted for the door, sprinting into the street. The other froze, his body trembling, his mind unable to understand what he saw as his father gorged himself on his mother's flesh.
The screams carried through Red Hollow, soon joined by more. Within hours, the sickness had spread. Men and women stumbled through the streets, pale and ravenous, biting and tearing at their neighbors. Gunfire cracked, horses screamed, and houses caught fire as lanterns toppled in the chaos.
From the edge of town, Crowe watched in horror. His hands shook as he smashed bottle after bottle against the ground, the liquid hissing as it seeped into the dust.
"No… no, no, no," he muttered, his voice breaking. "What have I done? What devilry have I brought upon these people?" He clutched at his head, his face pale beneath the brim of his hat. "It was supposed to heal. To end their suffering. What could have possibly gone so wrong?"
Behind him, flames consumed the town. Figures staggered through the firelight—some screaming in terror, others groaning with inhuman hunger. The sky glowed red with smoke, embers rising like stars.
Crowe stumbled back, his shadow stretching long across the dirt. His eyes darted to the horizon, where the sun beat down relentless, a merciless burning disc over the desert beyond.
And as the cries of the dying and the damned echoed behind him, the world seemed to tilt from the burning town to the burning day, where the heat of the West promised no comfort.
---
The sun bore down mercilessly upon the plains. The earth shimmered under its weight, waves of heat rising from the dry soil like smoke from an invisible fire. Cicadas buzzed in the long grass, and the smell of dirt, sweat, and life clung to the air. Not far from Abilene, the Brooks farm stretched across the land, wide fields framed by weathered fences and a modest homestead that stood firm against the open sky.
At the heart of it all, a boy worked the earth like a man.
Elias Brooks drove the iron teeth of the plow through a strip of soil, sweat dripping from his brow, his hands hardened by years of farm labor. The garden he tilled was meant for corn—rows and rows of it, the lifeblood of the farm. His shoulders flexed beneath a simple cotton shirt damp with sweat, and his sun-browned arms bore the strength that only years of hard work could give. Though just seventeen, Elias carried himself with the posture of one accustomed to toil.
His hair—brown and stubborn—stuck out at odd angles no matter how often he combed it. The sun caught in his green eyes, eyes filled not with the weariness of age but the fierce light of youth, unbroken and unbowed. He muttered to himself as he pressed the plow forward.
"Damn rocks," he growled, kicking a stone loose from the furrow. "Always in the way."
Still, he pushed on. His stubbornness was well-known in the family. If the soil refused to break, Elias would only grip the handles tighter, jaw set, and force it to yield. It was the same stubborn streak that often got him into arguments with his father—but it was also what made him dependable, the kind of boy who would sooner break his back than leave work undone.
By the time the sun tipped westward, Elias leaned against the plow, panting, his shirt clinging to his chest. He wiped his brow with a ragged cloth and stood back, surveying the long dark lines of turned earth. A small, tired smile tugged at his lips.
"Good enough for today."
At the well near the house, he pumped water, splashing it over his face and arms, the cold striking against his sun-baked skin. He scrubbed the dirt from his hands until they looked almost new, then straightened his shirt and stepped inside. The smell of supper already lingered in the air—beans, bread, and salted pork.
Inside, the Brooks family gathered around a wooden table that had seen years of meals and more than a few arguments.
At the head sat Thomas Brooks, the father, a man carved by hard years and harder work. His beard was streaked with gray, his shoulders broad, and his voice carried the weight of authority whether he meant it to or not. He was quick to anger, stern with his children, yet every glance toward them was edged with fierce protection. His rules were hard, but the land was harder, and Thomas believed in preparing his kin for both.
Beside him sat his wife, Margaret Brooks. She had a softness that the years of labor had not managed to wear away. Her hands were calloused, her back strong from endless chores, but her eyes—gentle and warm—belonged to a woman whose world was her family. To Margaret, there was no higher calling than keeping her children fed, clothed, and cared for.
Elias slid into his place at the table between his sisters. To his right sat Sarah Brooks, just fifteen, with the same bright eyes as her brother. Where Elias was stubborn, Sarah was endlessly kind, almost painfully so. She carried an innocence that refused to fade, even in a world that demanded toughness. She spoke often of the suffering of others—neighbors, strangers, even animals—and carried every sorrow as if it were her own.
To his left sat Veronica Brooks, the eldest sister at twenty-two. She bore the look of their father: steady gaze, squared shoulders, and a will as strong as iron. But unlike Thomas, Veronica had a softer hand and a kinder tongue, though she never hesitated to roll up her sleeves and do the work that needed doing. She was, as Elias often teased, more dependable than any man he knew—so dependable he often wondered aloud how she had managed to trick someone into marrying her.
That someone sat beside her now. Judas, twenty-three, wore a face that split easily into grins, though the hard work of farming had already begun to carve its lines upon him. He and Elias shared a brotherly bond, forged over hunting trips and long days fixing fences. Judas had taught Elias to track deer, to set snares, and—most dangerously—to handle a rifle with skill. If Thomas ever found out how much Judas had shown his son, there would be hell to pay.
The family bowed their heads, Thomas giving a short prayer—plain and to the point, just like the man himself—before they began to eat.
Conversation sparked as the food made its way around the table. Sarah asked about the new calves born last week. Margaret reminded Elias to mend his shirt before it tore clean through. Veronica scolded her brother for leaving tools out in the rain.
"Always on me," Elias muttered with a grin, stuffing his mouth with beans.
"Always deserving it," Veronica shot back, giving him a swift flick to the ear.
"See? Cruelty runs in the family," Elias said, rubbing his ear.
Judas laughed, shaking his head. "Boy, if you'd seen her before she married me, you'd know she's twice as soft now as she ever was."
"Soft?" Veronica smacked his arm playfully. "You hush."
Even Thomas cracked the faintest of smiles at their bickering, though he quickly hid it by raising his cup.
As the plates emptied, the talk turned quieter, the sounds of crickets drifting in from outside. It was then Veronica cleared her throat.
"While we were in Abilene," she began, glancing between her father and husband, "we heard something strange. Rumors about Red Hollow."
Thomas grunted, slicing the last of his pork. "Plenty of rumors in Abilene. Most ain't worth repeating."
"This one…" Veronica hesitated, then pressed on. "They said a sickness is spreading there. A dangerous one. People dying fast. Folks said the dead were… getting back up."
Sarah gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "That can't be true."
Elias snorted, leaning back in his chair. "Sounds like one of those ghost stories old man Thompson tells when he's deep in whiskey."
Thomas finally set down his knife, his eyes hard. "That's all it is. Nonsense. I heard the same talk—dead rising, biting, eating. Foolishness. If it were true, the whole territory would be up in arms, and the army'd be out there with rifles putting it down. Don't go filling your heads with tall tales."
"But what if—" Sarah began, her voice small.
"No." Thomas's tone cut sharp. "Ain't no what if. Death is death. Man goes in the ground, he stays there. You hear otherwise, it's a lie."
The table went quiet after that, only the sound of crickets and the faint clatter of dishes filling the silence. Elias glanced between his father's stern face and Veronica's worried one, his own green eyes narrowing in thought.
Out beyond the farm, the wind swept across the fields, carrying with it no sign of sickness, no cries of the damned. Only the endless whisper of the plains beneath the burning Texas sun.