The Gore #3 – Hollow Bullet - 1765 — The desert sun beat down like a goddamn hammer, scorching the cracked earth beneath Samuel’s trembling hands. A hollow bullet had torn into his side hours ago, and the pain was a slow-burning hell, rising with every breath. Blood darkened the sand, seeping from the ragged wound like hell’s own shadow. Josiah knelt close, eyes sharp and grim. “We can’t stay here, Sam. This damn desert won’t wait for us to get our breath back.” Samuel’s voice was ragged, soaked in dust and sweat. “Hell’s fire... I’m holding on, Josiah. Just... hold on with me.” Around them, the desert stretched wide and merciless—a vast graveyard for those who’d lost to its hunger. The wind whispered with the voices of the damned, and every step forward felt like wading deeper into hell. Josiah gripped his rifle tighter, the wood worn and stained from their long trek. “We’ll find a way out of this hell, or we’ll die trying. No goddamn other choice.” The sun dipped low, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts across the sand. The night promised no relief—only colder hell and darker dangers. But between the two men, something fierce and damn unyielding burned—the will to fight, to survive, to carve their names out of hell’s endless night. The cold came fast as the sun vanished behind the jagged hills, and with it, the hellish heat gave way to a biting chill. Samuel’s breath came shallow, each inhale a jagged knife twisting deeper into his side. Blood stained his shirt, dark and sticky like the curse that clung to them both. Josiah worked quickly, tearing a strip from his own shirt to bind the wound tight. “Damn it, Sam, you gotta hold on. This hell won’t finish us.” Samuel’s eyes, glassy but burning with a stubborn fire, locked on Josiah’s face. “Hell’s damn cold out here. Feels like it’s trying to drag me under.” The wind howled like a goddamn banshee through the empty plains, carrying with it the scent of death and dust. Somewhere out there, the desert waited—silent and patient as hell itself. A sudden crack—sharp and brutal—broke the silence. Josiah’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing into the dark. “Stay close,” Josiah hissed, raising the rifle, the hollow bullet still weighing heavy in his mind. “Hell’s damn hungry tonight.” From the shadows, movement flickered—quick, desperate. Two figures emerging like specters from hell’s own pit. Samuel’s hand found Josiah’s arm, weak but sure. “We ain’t done yet. Not till hell’s had its fill.” Josiah nodded, voice low and fierce. “Then let’s make damn sure hell takes the hardest fight of its life.” The desert night swallowed them whole, two men bound by blood and hell, standing against a world that wanted them dead. The sun sank low, bleeding red like a wound across the barren sky. Samuel’s breath rattled, ragged and shallow—each gasp a hellish struggle. Josiah’s hands shook as he tore strips from his own shirt, pressing the bloody cloth against the wound that drank Samuel’s life like hell’s own thirst. “Damn it, Sam,” Josiah hissed, voice rough as desert stone. “You can’t give up. Not here. Not now.” But Samuel’s eyes, glassy and burning, stared into the endless horizon—hell itself made manifest in the scorching sand and cruel winds. The damned desert showed no mercy, and neither would the cursed fate that gripped them tight. Around them, the desert moaned with a goddamn fury—whipping dust and dry heat like the breath of hell itself. Josiah felt it crawling beneath his skin, a fire colder than damn death, gnawing at his soul. He looked down at his friend—brother-in-arms, cursed with the same hell-bound fate—and clenched his jaw. “We’ll make it through this hell,” he promised, voice shaking but fierce. “I swear by Jesus Christ, we’ll drag ourselves out of this goddamn wasteland.” But the night came quick and cold, an unforgiving hell between the stars and the cracked earth. Josiah wrapped Samuel tighter, sheltering him from the chill like the last flicker of a goddamn dying flame. And in that hellish silence, beneath a sky soaked with a thousand cold stars, the two men clung to the damn fragile hope that hell itself hadn’t claimed them just yet. The night dragged on like a goddamn curse, heavy and unforgiving. The desert around them was a graveyard of shadows and silence, broken only by the bitter hiss of the cold wind slicing through the cracked bones of the earth. Samuel lay still beneath the threadbare cloth, his breathing shallow and ragged, each inhaling a battle fought deep inside the hellish prison of his chest. Blood seeped through the torn fabric, a dark, sticky stain that marked the fragile line between life and death. Josiah sat beside him, his fingers numb and trembling as they clutched the bloody bandage tighter, trying to stop the damn crimson tide. His eyes burned red from the dust and tears he refused to shed—tears for his friend, for the hell they’d walked into, for the goddamn cruel fate that had trapped them out here with nothing but the merciless desert and the endless sky. They had been traveling for days, chasing a promise of freedom, a chance to carve out a new life in the untamed west. But that promise had turned to hell, folding in on itself like the scorched earth beneath their feet. The horses were long gone, stolen or died under the cruel sun’s wrath. Water was nothing but a memory, a goddamn cruel joke whispered by the dry wind. “Sam,” Josiah whispered, voice cracked and low, like the rusted hinges of a forgotten tomb. “You gotta hold on. Hell won’t take you—not while I’m breathing.” Samuel’s eyelids fluttered, veins dark beneath the skin as his blood thudded slow, heavy as hell itself. “Josiah…” he rasped, voice barely more than a hell-curse lost on the wind. “I’m... sorry.” “Don’t you dare, damn it,” Josiah snapped, swallowing the knot of despair. “We’ll burn through hell and back before I lose you.” The night deepened, turning colder than damn death, freezing the sweat and blood on their skin like the cruel touch of hell’s own breath. Josiah’s mind raced with goddamn desperation, searching the hellish black for anything, anything at all that could save them—water, shelter, a sign that goddamn salvation wasn’t just another lie in this forsaken wasteland. Suddenly, the wind shifted, carrying a faint sound—a whisper, a rustle, like a goddamn prayer lost in the endless night. Josiah’s head snapped up, ears straining through the hell-thick silence. His heart slammed against his ribs like a damned war drum. “Sam,” he hissed, voice raw. “Did you hear that?” Samuel’s eyes cracked open, dull but burning with hell’s stubborn flame. “What?” Josiah crawled toward the sound, dragging Samuel’s weight with him, every movement a fight against hell’s icy grip. The desert seemed to pulse around them, a living hell breathing slow and cruel beneath the stars. Ahead, shadows twisted and shifted like hell’s own demons in the moonlight. Josiah’s breath caught. There, cradled against the jagged rocks, was a shallow pool—mirage or mercy, he didn’t care. The water was dark and still, but it was goddamn water. He barely hesitated. Dragging Samuel toward the pool, he pressed his lips to his friend’s cracked mouth, forcing air into the lungs starved of life and hope. The desert wasn’t done with them yet—not while Josiah still held hell’s flame burning inside. As the night waned, Josiah tended the wound, his hands trembling as the blood mixed with the dirt—dark and damn sticky. Samuel’s skin was pale as hell’s own ash, but his breath steadied, slow and steady like a goddamn prayer answered in the worst kind of hell. The dawn came weak and bloody, bleeding light across the hellish horizon. The desert stretched out like a goddamn battlefield, endless and merciless. But Josiah and Samuel were still alive, still fighting the goddamn curse that tried to drag them down into hell’s cold embrace. Josiah’s eyes burned with hell’s fury and goddamn hope. “We’re not done yet, Sam. Hell might try to claim us, but we’ll claw back every damn inch.” Samuel nodded weakly, the ghost of a grim smile on his cracked lips. “Hell’s fire never dies... and neither will we.” Together, broken but unbowed, they rose—two damned souls trapped in hell’s desert, but not yet swallowed by its cruel darkness. Their journey was far from over. The hell they faced was only just beginning. The desert’s cold dawn burned weakly against their faces, but it was enough to light the hell in their eyes. Samuel leaned heavily on Josiah, every movement a goddamn battle. His breath came ragged, each inhale a knife twisting deeper into his side, but his grip on life was iron-willed, held tight by the goddamn promise they’d made to each other. Josiah scanned the horizon, his fingers twitching against the rough wood of his rifle. The desert was silent—too silent, like hell itself was holding its breath, waiting for them to break. Every step they took left a goddamn mark on the scorched earth, a bloody testament to their suffering. The hollow bullet still lay heavy in Samuel’s side, a devil’s thorn feeding slow poison through his veins. “Sam,” Josiah muttered under his breath, voice low but fierce, “we keep moving. We don’t stop. Hell’s got plenty of time, but we don’t give it any.” Samuel’s eyes fluttered open, burning with hell’s stubborn flame. “I ain’t done yet, Josiah… not while I still feel the sun on my face, and hell’s fire in my blood.” A tremor passed through him, sweat and blood slick on his skin as Josiah wrapped the last of the bloody cloth tighter around the wound. The desert wind howled, dragging with it a dry taste of death and dust, as if hell itself was mocking their goddamn struggle. Hours bled into one another, the sun riding high and cruel overhead. Josiah helped Samuel forward, supporting him through the burning sands, each step a struggle, each breath a damn victory over the relentless hell eating away at them. The earth beneath their boots was cracked and thirsty, and their mouths tasted like ash and old damn memories. Josiah’s eyes burned red, rimmed with dust and exhaustion. He didn’t dare think about water—just the damn idea made his throat close up tighter than a noose. But he had to keep hope alive—for both of them. Because if he lost that, hell was certain to claim them both. “Look,” Josiah said suddenly, voice hoarse but sharp, pointing toward a jagged silhouette against the horizon—a crumbling ruin, blackened and twisted like some goddamn monument to the damned. “Shelter,” Samuel whispered, the word barely more than a breath, but enough to kindle hell’s flicker in their battered souls. They pushed forward, the last of their strength clawing from the damn pit of hell beneath the desert’s cruel heel. Each step felt like wading through goddamn molasses, but the promise of refuge drove them on, past the skeletal remains of dead bushes and the cracked bones of creatures long swallowed by the sands. The ruins loomed closer—broken walls like the ribs of a giant beast long dead, shadows pooling like blood beneath the sun’s fading glare. Josiah eased Samuel down against a fallen stone, pulling what water they had left from a battered canteen. The liquid was warm and tasted like hell’s own fire, but Samuel drank greedily, the fire in his veins stoking anew. “We’re not dead yet,” Josiah muttered, pressing a hand to his friend’s burning forehead. “Not while hell’s breath still warms your skin.” Samuel’s gaze drifted skyward, where the first stars blinked through the fading daylight. “Jesus Christ… I never thought hell could look so damn cold and beautiful.” Josiah chuckled grimly, a sound cracked and ragged like the desert wind itself. “Beauty’s just another kind of hell, Sam. You learn that quick.” The night deepened, colder than the devil’s own spit. The ruins offered little comfort—shadows moved like ghosts, and the wind whispered prayers that tasted like curses on the cracked stones. But they had to rest, to gather strength for the hell yet to come. Josiah wrapped his arms around Samuel, holding him close against the cold. “We’ll find a way through this hell,” he promised, voice fierce with goddamn determination. “Hell may try to break us, but we’re made of fire and grit.” Samuel’s breathing evened, slow and heavy, but his eyes never closed fully. The hollow bullet was a cruel ghost inside him, and the desert was a living hell, but somewhere in that goddamn wasteland, a spark of hope burned stubborn and bright. They were broken, bloodied, but not yet beaten. And hell, they would fight to the last breath to carve their names out of this cursed desert. Because sometimes, the only way out of hell... is through it. The silence shattered with the crack of gunfire, sharp and unforgiving in the cold desert night. Josiah’s heart slammed against his ribs as he raised his pistol, the weight of every shot heavy in his hand. Samuel’s breath was shallow, the wound burning deep, but his eyes were fierce, refusing to yield. Figures moved like shadows, ghosts in the moonlight, pressing closer with cold determination. The desert seemed to hold its breath, the wind still, as if waiting for the deadly dance to unfold. Josiah fired, the pistol’s roar a harsh promise. A man staggered, falling hard, swallowed by the sand. Another returned fire—bullets hissed past them, kicking up grit and dust. Samuel’s fingers trembled but did not falter, squeezing the trigger again and again. The night was thick with danger, the air charged with the raw taste of fear and resolve. The attackers pressed on, wild and relentless, but Josiah and Samuel fought like men possessed—each shot a defiant stand against the hell that sought to claim them. The desert, cold and endless, bore witness to their desperate struggle. When the last echo faded, silence reclaimed the night—broken only by ragged breaths and the distant whisper of the wind. Josiah lowered his pistol slowly, eyes burning with fierce determination. “We’re still here, Sam. Hell can try, but it won’t take us—not tonight.” Samuel nodded, a faint, tired smile tracing his lips. “Not tonight.” The dawn crept slowly over the jagged horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and angry reds. Samuel’s breath came in ragged gasps, each one a battle fought beneath the weight of his wound. The desert was unforgiving—an endless sea of cracked earth and merciless sun, a place where hope dried up faster than the meager water they carried. Josiah’s hands were blistered and raw from dragging Samuel, their bodies coated in dust and sweat. His eyes scanned the endless expanse, searching for anything—a landmark, a trace of a trail, a sign that this hell they were trapped in had an exit. But all they found was the same merciless sun, the same scorching winds, and the same endless sands. “We can’t stop,” Josiah growled through clenched teeth. “Not now. Not after everything.” Samuel’s voice was barely more than a rasp, but his eyes burned with stubborn fire. “Hell... damn it, Josiah... I’m not done... not like this.” They moved like ghosts, silhouettes carved from dust and pain, shadows crawling across a land that seemed bent on swallowing them whole. Every step was agony. Samuel’s wound throbbed, a dull, constant roar that echoed the pounding of his heart. His strength was slipping, but his mind clung to the hope Josiah carried in his voice. The sun climbed higher, burning through the thin fabric of their clothes, scorching their skin raw. Their mouths were cracked, tongues swollen, thirst a cruel whisper that gnawed at their minds. The desert’s silence was broken only by their ragged breaths and the shifting sand underfoot. Josiah kept his hand steady, wrapping a makeshift bandage tighter around Samuel’s side. “We’re gonna make it. We have to. I swear it.” Samuel forced a weak nod, eyes flickering with the ghosts of memories—home, laughter, the life they were trying to claw back from the edge of damnation. The desert was a goddamn prison, but their souls were caged in iron wills. Hours passed like lifetimes. The horizon didn’t change; it never did. Time lost meaning, a cruel joke played by the gods of this forsaken place. Samuel stumbled, the world blurring at the edges, but Josiah caught him, steady as a rock against the hellish tide. “Just a little further, Sam. Just a little more.” But the desert didn’t care about “a little more.” It gave nothing but heat and dust and silence. As the sun began its slow descent, casting long shadows like reaching hands, Samuel collapsed—pain crashing over him in waves that stole his breath. Josiah dropped to his knees beside him, heart hammering, hands trembling but steady as he pressed the bandage once more. “We’re almost home,” Josiah whispered, voice breaking but fierce. “We’ll see the fields again, Sam. I promise.” But the desert was patient, a cruel mistress that waited for the last spark to fade. And in that endless wasteland, two men fought against the slow, creeping dark—against the hell of their bodies, the hell of the land, and the hell that whispered that maybe, just maybe, this was the end. The sun was a dying ember behind the jagged peaks, bleeding the last of its light across a desert that had long since stopped forgiving. The world was a hollow shell, dust swirling in the cold wind like forgotten ghosts. Samuel lay crumpled against a cracked stone, his breath shallow and uneven, the bloody bandage around his side stained dark and failing its fight against the relentless leak. Josiah sat beside him, body trembling from exhaustion, skin drawn tight over aching bones, eyes burning with a storm of grief and fury. His fingers clenched around the worn stock of his rifle, knuckles white as the shadows grew longer, swallowing what little warmth remained in the day. “Sam,” Josiah whispered, voice raw, cracking like old leather. “You gotta hold on. Just a little more. We’re almost out of this hell.” But Samuel’s eyes, half-lidded and rimmed with red, were glassy pools of something Josiah couldn’t name—resignation, maybe, or the flicker of a soul slipping away. His lips parted in a whisper, a breath caught somewhere between defiance and surrender. “Hell...” Samuel rasped. “Josiah... I’m sorry.” Josiah’s heart shattered in that moment. He swallowed the bitter knot rising in his throat, forcing the words from broken hope and raw pain. “Don’t... don’t you dare say that. We fight till the last breath, damn it.” A dry cough wracked Samuel’s chest, blood flecking the sand like drops of damnation. The sun dipped below the horizon, and the desert exhaled a cold, cruel night. Stars blinked cold and indifferent above them, as if the heavens watched their suffering with cruel amusement. The wind carried the scent of dust and death, whispering cruel lullabies of defeat. Josiah pressed his forehead against Samuel’s trembling hand, tasting the bitterness of loss on his cracked lips. “We’re gonna make it,” Josiah lied, the words bitter in his mouth. “We have to.” But deep down, he knew. The desert had claimed too much. It was a slow death, a thief in the night, relentless and cold. The promise of home, the warmth of life—it was slipping through their fingers like the sand beneath their boots. Samuel’s gaze drifted to the stars, faint light reflecting the fading fire inside him. “Josiah... it’s not coming...” Josiah shook his head fiercely, desperation clawing through the crushing weight of hopelessness. “No. Hell no. We’re going to drag ourselves out of this goddamn nightmare. I swear it.” But the words were hollow, echoes lost in the endless silence of the desert night. The cold wrapped around them like chains, stealing what little strength remained. Josiah’s hands trembled as he pulled Samuel closer, wrapping his friend in a ragged embrace that spoke of brotherhood, pain, and the cruelest kind of love. “I’m right here, Sam. You’re not alone.” Samuel’s eyes fluttered closed, a shudder passing through his body. The fight was fading, the hellfire within dimming beneath the crushing weight of the wound and the merciless land. Josiah pressed a kiss to Samuel’s sweat-soaked brow, a silent prayer to a god that had long since turned away. The night deepened, swallowing them whole. Hours passed like frozen centuries. Josiah held onto the last flicker of life, unwilling to let the desert win, unwilling to face the cold truth alone. But the silence spoke louder than any gunshot, and the slow, terrible truth settled over Josiah like a shroud. Samuel’s breath stilled. Josiah’s tears fell unbidden, cutting through the dirt on his face like rivers of fire. The desert was a graveyard, and tonight, it claimed another soul. He buried his face in the crook of Samuel’s neck, trembling, broken—lost in a hell far worse than the one that had torn them apart. The wind whispered, carrying the memory of two men who fought with every damn ounce of life they had. The desert was merciless, and in the end, so was fate. Josiah stayed there as the cold crept through his bones, as the stars wheeled silently overhead, as the night pressed down like a weight too heavy to bear. The promise of home was a ghost now—distant and unreachable. And in the endless wasteland, two shadows faded into dust and silence.