The Hollow Herd, Part 4

4. The Hollow Herd

The ridge loomed ahead, the earth beneath them darker and more oppressive with every step. The fog had thickened, swirling around them like a living thing, and the air tasted of iron, as if the land itself had been steeped in blood for centuries.

Mercy kept her revolver close, her eyes darting between the shadows that seemed to move of their own accord. The hollow cattle were still out there — circling, watching, waiting. The low, eerie howl of their strange calls echoed through the mist like distant thunder, a warning, a promise. Mercy could feel them closing in.

Ezra stumbled beside her, pale and shaking, his eyes wide with fear.

“They won’t stop,” he muttered, barely able to keep his feet. “Not until they’ve fed. Not until the land is empty.”

“We’re almost there,” Mercy said, trying to keep her voice steady. The well was just over the ridge, hidden by a patch of dead trees that looked like twisted, skeletal hands clawing at the sky. “You said it was the source. The root of all this.”

Ezra nodded, his face drawn with horror. “The well… it calls them. It’s old, older than anything out here. It takes, it twists… and it makes them.” His voice trailed off, and his gaze flickered to the ground. “I never should’ve come back. I never should’ve…”

Mercy’s patience thinned, and she snapped, “Don’t go losing your nerve now, preacher. We’re not dead yet.”

Ezra opened his mouth to say something, but then stopped, his eyes widening in alarm. He grabbed Mercy’s sleeve, his fingers trembling.

“There,” he whispered.

Out of the mist, a figure emerged. At first, Mercy thought it was one of the hollow riders — a man, clad in tattered rags, with a gaunt, hollow face and eyes that glowed like burning embers. But as he stepped closer, she saw that it wasn’t a man at all.

The thing that stood before them was not flesh and blood. Its form shimmered in and out of focus, its body rippling like water in the wind. Its face was human, but stretched and warped beyond recognition — a grotesque mask of hunger and rage. Its eyes were black as night, empty, and the darkness within them seemed to reach out and pull at the very air around them.

“It’s him,” Ezra whispered, backing away slowly. “The Man of Bone.”

Mercy didn’t need to ask who or what that was. She could feel the unnatural cold that radiated from the creature, the pull of its presence as it loomed over them. It was a thing born of the well, a twisted soul that had once been a man, now turned into something far worse.

The Man of Bone lifted a skeletal hand, its fingers long and sharp like claws. “You should’ve stayed in Coldwater,” it rasped, its voice like dry leaves scraping over stone.

Mercy reached for her revolver, but before she could draw, the ground beneath her feet seemed to shift. The earth cracked, splitting open like the jaws of some great beast, and the well revealed itself — a dark pit, swirling with a black, oily liquid that writhed like a living thing.

The hollow cattle began to appear, phasing in and out of existence, their eyes glowing with that same unholy light. They circled the well, moving like a ritualistic dance, their hooves pounding the earth in time with some unseen rhythm.

Ezra collapsed to his knees, tears streaming down his face. “We… we can’t stop it. We can’t stop him.”

The Man of Bone stepped forward, the ground beneath him cracking as he moved. “You think you can kill me? You think you can stop what’s already begun? The well is mine. And so are they.” He gestured to the cattle, and their eerie cries rose in response, a chorus of hunger and madness.

Mercy didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward, her revolver raised, and fired.

The shot rang out in the heavy silence, but the bullet didn’t hit the creature. It passed through him, like he wasn’t even there. The Man of Bone laughed, the sound like the rattling of bones in a windstorm.

“You’re wasting your time, girl,” he said, his voice cold and mocking. “The well has claimed me. It will claim you, too.”

Mercy’s heart pounded in her chest, but she wasn’t done yet. She had one last card to play.

She turned to Ezra, her voice low and sharp. “You said it wasn’t bullets. What is it then?”

Ezra’s eyes were wide with terror, but he reached into his coat and pulled out a small, twisted charm — a weathered bone, carved with strange runes. He held it up, and the Man of Bone’s laughter faltered, a flicker of fear crossing its features.

“Burn it,” Ezra said. “Burn the well.”

Mercy didn’t waste time asking questions. She ripped the charm from his hands and hurled it into the well. The moment it touched the black liquid, the ground shook violently, and the sky above them darkened as if the sun itself had been blotted out.

The well began to writhe, the liquid bubbling and churning as though something beneath it was trying to break free. The hollow cattle began to howl, their cries rising in pitch, and the air grew thick with the scent of burning flesh.

Mercy grabbed Ezra, pulling him away from the well as the ground beneath them split further, the very earth beginning to crack open.

The Man of Bone screamed, a sound like metal scraping against stone, as the well seemed to swallow him whole, pulling him down into the darkness.

With one final, horrific roar, the cattle vanished into the mist, their forms flickering out like smoke. The ground stilled, and the air cleared, the unnatural pressure lifting, leaving nothing but the silence of a land that had been scarred for too long.

Mercy stood, panting, her eyes scanning the broken landscape. The well had been sealed, but at what cost? The land would never be the same, and neither would she.

Ezra was on his knees, weeping, his hands pressed to the earth as though seeking redemption. But Mercy knew there was no redemption here, not for him or anyone else. The cost of the curse was too great.

She turned away from the preacher, her hand resting once more on the grip of her revolver.

The Hollow Herd was gone — for now.

But the land would never forget.