The Damned Walk Among Us

Prologue

The year was 1861, and in the remote reaches of the Wild West, darkness descended like a shroud, casting a sinister veil over the land. The day had been swallowed by twilight, and now, the blood-soaked plains lay eerily quiet, the battlefield was stripped of all life, save for the relentless mist that crept over the dead. It swept low over the ground, clinging to bodies left strewn across the terrain like broken dolls abandoned by fate. The air, thick and chilling, was pungent with the metallic scent of death, a grim reminder of the clash that had turned brothers into enemies, and neighbours into nameless corpses. Coyotes circled the dead like phantoms, their eyes gleaming with hunger. Their howls filled the valley, a ghostly dirge for the fallen, as they slinked in and out of the mist, their teeth flashing as they tore into flesh.

The last gunshot had died with the sun, leaving only the unsettling stillness that marked the end of the violence but not the end of the suffering it left behind. In this valley of death, amid the shadows and drifting fog, a lone figure stepped forward from the ridge above, her silhouette outlined by the faintest threads of light. She moved with deliberate slowness, a shadow amongst shadows, her figure striking against the darkening sky. A cascade of red hair flowed from under a black Stetson, casting a shadow over her face and lending her a ghostly aura. The wind whipped at her leather coat, tugging at its edges like hands holding her back. Yet nothing in her posture suggested hesitation.

The woman took in the scene with a calm, practised gaze. She had seen her share of death and desolation, but this time, her focus was different. Her purpose tonight was not to mourn the fallen nor to assess the damage of the skirmish. She was hunting something more elusive-and far deadlier-than any man could comprehend. Her eyes scanned each body, trained to pick up on the subtle details most would overlook. Beneath the layers of blood and grime, she sought tell-tale signs of a threat that had slithered into the living world from the depths of nightmares. Something far darker than war had left its mark here.

She moved between bodies, pausing now and then to examine a corpse with meticulousness that bordered on reverence. Her gloved hands turned heads, brushed away collars, and peeled back uniforms in search of something beyond the brutality of human weapons. What she sought were not bullet wounds nor sabre cuts, but marks that spoke of an ancient horror-a hidden predator that feasted under the veil of conflict. Her fingertips traced over necks and throats, her sharp eyes narrowing as she searched for anything that might betray the presence of this enemy.

After several moments, she paused by a soldier's body twisted unnaturally, his limbs splayed out in grotesque angles. The dried blood that coated his neck did little to hide the two small puncture marks just visible beneath the collar. They were barely discernible, but she'd seen enough in her years to recognise them for what they were. A tremor passed through her as she reached into her coat, retrieving a well-worn revolver. Its silver gleamed faintly, but the bullets it held were unlike any ordinary ammunition. They were crafted from wood, unadorned and plain except for the polished metal necessary to fire them ammunition reserved solely for dispatching creatures, defined the natural order.

With her free hand, she pulled a small flask from her belt, its surface embossed with holy symbols. She unscrewed the cap and carefully poured a few drops of its contents onto the open wound of the fallen soldier. Holy water, consecrated and blessed by rituals known only by a select few, sizzled slightly as it touched the dead man's skin, sending up a faint wisp of smoke. This was no ordinary corpse. Her suspicions were confirmed the man had fallen victim not only to war but to the thirst of the undead.

She muttered a quiet prayer, her voice steady but carrying an unmistakable edge of despair, and aimed her revolver at the soldier's chest. She pulled the trigger. The wooden bullet pierced his heart, and the body convulsed once, then fell still. She waited, her revolver steady until she was sure that the taint had been purged. Her eyes drifted to the valley below, her heart weighted by the knowledge that this was only one of many. The vampire responsible for this slaughter was out there, weaving its way through the blood and chaos like a vulture among carrion, feasting on the broken, the wounded, the unsuspecting.