The Hollow Herd, Part 3

3. Crossing the Deadwind

The wind kicked up the moment they crossed the border of Coldwater’s broken land, howling across the flat, featureless expanse of the Deadwind Plains. Dust swirled in unnatural spirals, hanging in the air like the remnants of a ghost’s passing. Mercy could feel the weight of the place pressing down on her, the land itself uneasy and full of secrets.

Ezra rode beside her, his shoulders hunched, eyes scanning the horizon like a man waiting for a bullet to strike. The preacher had said little since leaving the mission, but his haunted glances toward the barren landscape spoke volumes. Every now and then, he muttered under his breath — prayers, curses, or perhaps just the ramblings of a man who’d been too close to things no one should understand.

They passed a wrecked wagon, its wheels half-buried in the sand, the remnants of a fire still smoldering weakly at the side. Broken crates, scattered tools, and the unmistakable smell of death hung in the air. Mercy’s horse shied away from the wreckage, its nostrils flaring, but she held the reins steady.

“This where they came through?” Mercy asked, nodding toward the wreck.

Ezra swallowed hard, nodding grimly. “Cattle didn’t care for the wagon, or the folk in it. They trampled ‘em all. Didn’t even stop to eat.”

“Why’s that?”

“Don’t know. But the way they moved, the way they killed—it weren’t natural. It was like they was hunting something… or someone.”

Mercy’s grip tightened on her reins. She didn’t like where this was going. “Who?”

Ezra didn’t answer, just urged his horse on faster, the strange, thin trail of dust swirling around them.

They rode through the day in uneasy silence, the land stretching out forever in every direction. The sun seemed to crawl lower and lower, heavy as a stone, until it hung in the sky like a sickle-shaped blade.

As night began to fall, Ezra pointed toward a rising hill in the distance. “There. The well lies beyond that ridge.”

Mercy nodded, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Something felt off—like the ground beneath her feet was shifting, the land itself holding its breath. She spurred her horse forward, but as she did, a sharp cry split the air. A high-pitched scream, not quite human, echoing across the plains.

Ezra’s eyes went wide, and his horse reared back in panic, nearly throwing him. "They're here," he whispered, breath ragged. "Hollow cattle."

Mercy didn’t need him to say it again. The scream came again, closer this time, echoing off the hills, followed by a sound that made her blood run cold—the thudding of hooves.

At first, it was just the wind, whipping across the plains. But then it was louder, a rhythmic pounding, like a thousand hooves marching in time. Mercy snapped her head around, her eyes scanning the darkening horizon.

There, emerging from the fog, were the shapes — ghostly, indistinct, moving too fast. The hollow cattle.

They were nothing like any creature Mercy had ever seen. Their bodies were massive, but their forms seemed to shift with every step, as if they were barely tethered to reality. Their eyes were black as pitch, empty pits where nothing lived. Some were twisted, their flesh rotting and hanging in tatters, while others shimmered in and out of focus, as though they existed between this world and the next.

"Ride, damn it!" Ezra shouted, his voice cracking with fear.

Mercy didn’t need to be told twice. She urged her horse forward, spurring it into a gallop, her heart hammering in her chest. The hooves behind them grew louder, the hollow cattle closing in fast.

Through the swirling dust, she could see them now—riders atop the beasts, men as twisted and malformed as the cattle themselves. Their faces were hollow, skeletal, eyes glowing with a malevolent light.

Ezra’s horse bolted ahead of her, but one of the hollow riders veered toward him, a blackened spear raised high. The preacher screamed as the creature slammed into him, knocking him from his horse in a brutal crash.

Mercy didn’t hesitate. She wheeled her horse around and drew her revolver. Three shots rang out, each one hitting the rider square in the chest. The creature jerked back, but it didn’t fall. Instead, it snarled and reared up, its body flickering, its form phasing in and out like an unfinished nightmare.

“Goddamn it!” Mercy swore, her horse skidding to a stop. She leapt from the saddle, landing hard on the ground, and aimed at the rider again, her gun flashing in the pale light.

But before she could pull the trigger, the beast and rider vanished into the fog, leaving only an empty patch of dirt in their wake.

"Get up!" Mercy shouted to Ezra, who lay crumpled in the dust, his face pale and covered in dirt. He groaned but didn’t move.

A low rumble of thunder echoed across the plains, but it wasn’t from the storm. The hollow cattle were coming again, their eyes glowing in the dark. Mercy could feel them, pressing closer. The land was alive with them.

She grabbed Ezra by the arm and hauled him to his feet. “You said you knew the way,” she snapped. “Then show me.”

As they moved toward the hill, the cattle and their riders circled, but they didn’t charge. Not yet. They were watching. Waiting.

And Mercy could feel it — the land was shifting beneath them, the air growing heavier with each step they took. The well was close. And so was the darkness that called it home.