Samson’s collar had turned dark red. The blood from his nose and temple had drained down his neck, pooling up on his collar. He could barely breathe, the world around him was fuzzy. The debilitating pain in his collar bone and head made the pain from being dragged seem nonexistent. Saint dragged him to the left side of the church just before the desert foothills. There the three graves stood. Samson stared up at the night sky. The stars were clear and pure, letting off small beams of light. Samson hoped he would be sent there soon. His gaze was broken by the piercing pain of several tiny barbs stabbing into his side. Saint had thrown him into a prickly pear cactus with ease. Leaving him there in pain as he made his way to the first grave.

It was white granite stained red and brown by time. Dusty pink lines painted the corner of the grave, giving it the impression of pink lighting. Saint propped himself against the grave, digging his fingers into the caked-on dirt that covered it. Each scrape screeching against the stone like finger nails on a chalk board. The more he scraped more of the grave was revealed, such as an embedded cross on the top of the grave. Yet, there were no words, names, or dates, just a blank head stone covered in dirt. Saint growled and spit on the grave. Samson rolled his eyes back and fell unconscious.

His dream was violent. The world was a sickly yellow and he was falling into a putrid green whirlpool. Before he struck the water, he was grabbed by a demon with a black crocodile head and large black talons. His wings were fleshy and had several gaping holes. He tossed Samson carelessly to another demon, cackling a laugh as he did. The talon tore the skin from Samson’s arm down to the muscle. Samson screamed a weak cry. The other demon was a twin to the first, yet he was red. Laughing, he tore at Samson’s stomach throwing him to a white demon who tore the muscle from Samson’s neck. The game picked up the pace as more demons joined in the fun, each tearing more off of Samson until he was nothing but a skeleton. Yet, he was still alive, screaming and shouting as the demons laughed and gnawed on his shredded flesh. Continuing to use him as play thing, they began removing his bones. Samson felt the torment would never end.

“SAMSON!” A roaring voice called out from above them.

The demons disappeared into nowhere and Samson’s skin had been returned to his body. He continued to fall toward the disgusting whirlpool. He looked up the sickly yellow sky and saw a faint white light come towards him.

“Samson!” The roaring voice called again.

Samson believed the voice was coming from the light. His descent into the whirlpool was nearly at an end. The green liquid bubbling close to his skin. The light had almost reached him and Samson extended his hand to it.

“Samson!” Saint’s gargled voice broke through.

Samson awoke from the nightmare to find Saint had thrust a shovel into his collar bone. It was old iron, rusted at the tip. The handle was mangled and splintered. He pushed the shovel off him and rolled out of the cactus onto the ground, again staring up at the night sky. Before he could enjoy the view of the stars, Saint pulled him into a sitting position. Saint reached into his duster and pulled out a mason jar filled with a purple liquid. Unscrewing the lid, he brought it to Samson’s mouth.

“I can’t have you going into shock, drink this.”

Samson closed his mouth and pushed Saint’s hand away. Even it was medicine, Samson would not take anything from him. Saint pinched Samson’s mouth and poured half the jar down Samson’s throat. The purple liquid ran down Samson’s neck, staining his frock even more. He coughed and spit blood on the dirt. He could feel his headache subside, the pain in his collar bone was minimal. His nose and temple stopped bleeding. Even the pricks from the cactus barbs seemed to disappear. He felt alive again. Saint shoved the shovel into his gut.

“Dig,” Saint ordered, pointing at the grave.

Samson pulled himself up and threw the shovel in the dirt.

“No, I won’t desecrate a grave for your sick pleasure.”

Saint towered over him clicking his teeth and lifting his hand next to Samson’s face. Samson stood strong waiting to be struck.

“Kill me if you must. But I won’t help you.”

Saint smiled and closed his hand into a fist. Purple tears drained from Samson’s eyes and he sank to his knee in unbearable pain, worse than his headache or broken collar bone. He curled up trying to scream but the pain was too great. Saint laughed.

“I love that concoction. Makes your muscles feel like they are years younger all the while choking your nerves into place.”

Samson whirled on the ground as purple liquid leaked out his ears and nose.

“I have more than just this jar. Perhaps I will feed it someone who’s a little more…frail.”

Samson nodded and grabbed the shovel handle. Saint released his fist and the pain stopped. Samson leaned against the shovel, limping towards the grave. He dug the shovel blade into the hard sun baked earth and began digging. Saint positioned himself on the top of the headstone, glaring at Samson like a vulture waiting for its prey to die. The first couple of scoops were hard. The earth was tough and rocky, but the more Samson dug, the more the ground became moist. The plant life helped keep the soil form becoming too dry.

He dug for what felt like an hour. A fairly large pile of rock and dirt building it’s self-up on his right with every swing. Saint never moved from his perch, constantly watching but never saying anything. Samson stared to the foothills. The land was littered with trash from the present and the past. Several structures from the old west could still be found out there. He saw the kids from his church use an old well as a pommel horse. The memory made him smile. He doubted he would ever give another Sunday sermon. The shovel clacked against a wooden plate. Saint jumped from the headstone looking down in the grave.

“Open it,” he gurgled.

Samson took the tip of the blade and scraped away the dirt revealing more of the plate’s border. He wedged the shovel into the far end of the border and using the torque of the handle, he tried to pry the lid off. The rotted wood snapped, shattering into several pieces and tripping Samson. The hole left by the rotten wood revealed a decayed skull and the head of a coffin. Saint snapped open his lighter and ignited it in the same motion. He stood over the grave holding the flame close to the skull nearly touching it. His sharp teeth ground against each other. He stared at the skull for a good minute before slapping the light shut and growling.

“Next one.”

Samson crept over to the next one, again stabbing the ground and breaking through the hard earth. Saint took his same position on the headstone as Samson began his labor. He had only been digging for about ten minutes when a bright light broke the darkness. It was on the other side of his church; the glow created a halo effect around the entire church. The lights went dark and car door being slammed sounded in the darkness.

“No, no no,” Samson thought to himself.

Saint stood up and pushed Samson down into the freshly churned up soil and hovered over him. His long duster creating a sinister curtain around Samson’s whole body, he leaned his face against Samson’s ear, grazing the lope with his teeth.

“One sound and I will do them three-fold what you have received.”

Samson pushed his bruised eye into the soil. He felt if he didn’t even move that whoever it was would just leave. The sound of the ebony doors shutting reverberated in his ear. Samson held his breath. He prayed it was anyone but her. Anyone else could get away except her. He grew cold inside just thinking about it. The ebony doors slammed again, and the crunching sound footsteps on the dirt made their way towards them. Samson started to sweat. As the footsteps grew closer, he could hear Saint growl in his throat. The footsteps stopped.

“Hello? Samson?” a woman’s voice called out.

Samson clenched his jaw trying to not cry. Saint cupped his hand around Samson’s face making it hard to breathe. Samson looked out into the darkness and saw her. The pale light from her phone lit her up in the darkness like a beacon. She had thick dark hair, the front strands were dyed teal and formed an arch around her face. She was young but, like Samson, time and stress had made her face seem weary. Her skin was a light dark which showed her Native American heritage, but her face seemed more European. She called out again.

“Samson, if you are there please answer me. I have been calling you for the last hour.” She said.

Samson’s heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. He wanted to warn her, to do something more than lie there.

“Just get in your car and drive away,” he thought, hoping it was enough.

She began to walk into the darkness towards them. Samson could feel Saint’s boots digging into the earth, waiting to jump. He tried to move, thinking he could give her a running start. Saint pushed him further into the soil, pinning him down with his knee. She stopped. Samson looked up and saw she was using her phone light as a flashlight. He hoped it wasn’t strong enough to see them. She turned the phone off, pocketed it, turned and walked back toward the church. Samson’s heart sang and he started whimpering small “thank you” prayers. Saint chuckled.

“Clever broad, she’s going to get the police. When they all arrive, it will be a blood bath,” he laughed in a whisper.

Her car door slammed, the lights returned casting the same halo around the church. But as quickly as they returned, they vanished as the car sped into town. Saint stepped off him. He pulled himself up, attempting to rub the soil out of his eye.

“Perhaps if I find what I am looking for. I can be gone before they get here,” Saint mocked.

Samson didn’t believe him but knew he had to try. He rammed the shovel into the ground and began throwing piles of dirt every which way. Swing after swing not bothering to look up. Only five minutes had passed when the familiar sound of the wooden plate rang out. Samson thrust the shovel through the wood, shattering the covering and cracking the skull that was inside. Saint lit his lighter again and hovered over the grave. Samson climbed out and rushed over to the third grave not looking back.

“Hold!” Saint shouted.

His guttural voice echoing out through the desert. Birds off in the distances squawked in fear. Samson frozen, his heart still beating out of control. Saint went back to staring at the grave. He shut the lighter and gave Samson a dismissing wave.

“Continue,” he barked.

Samson didn’t waste any time. He jumped on the shovel, plowing through the hard earth in a second, making his way to the soft soil in under a minute. The sweat built up on his brow and under his arm. The mangled handle started cutting into his palms. He pushed past all the pain and continued to dig. Saint did not sit on the head stone for this one. He stared out into the desert, as if he was waiting for something. Samson had dug far into the ground in less the five minutes. His headaches had returned, and he began spitting blood and phlegm constantly. The shovel blade stuck the wooden plate as before, but Samson did not stop, hacking away at the wood as if the shovel was an axe. He shattered the wood, breaking all the way through the coffin down to the earth beneath it. Saint clutched the end of the shovel, preventing Samson from digging.

“That’s enough.”

Samson stepped out of the hole and looked back towards the town. He could see the red and blue lights flicking in the dark. He held his breath. Saint snapped his lighter on again looking closely at the hole. Samson’s mouth was dry, he spit some phlegm and tried to catch his breath. The lights were getting closer; they would be at the church in minutes. He glanced over his shoulder at the desert and spotted the old well the kids used as a pommel horse sitting on the at the top of the foothills. Samson guess it was filled with spider and snakes but that might be worth it to get away. Looking back at Saint he began creeping towards the well. Saint slammed his lighter shut violently and snarled.

“It’s not here!”

He punched the headstone cracking it in half. Samson, without thinking, started running to the well. The flashing lights were moving in on the church. Saint called after him.

“Where are you off to? You are going to miss the show!” He yelled.

Samson didn’t look back. Tripping over his feet, kicking up the brush and the rock as he scrambled toward the foot hills. His head began to swell again, the world was returning to its fuzziness. Behind him he could hear the scraping of the ground as Saint dragged his foot. He was almost at the well. The stone was boarded up dashing his hopes of escape. He stopped at the well abruptly. Scrambling against the wood, pulling brittle nails out with his bare hands as he tore off the wood. The dust irritated his bruised eye, and the nails sliced his hands, but he continued to push through.

The boards were mostly cleared. He pulled himself on top of the well, lifting his right leg down the hole, he prepared to jump. Purple liquid streamed out of his tear duct and he fell back on the dirt clutching his head. The unbearable pain had returned. He turned over and over trying stand up, but the pain was too great. He opened his eyes to see Saint’s boot step on his throat. Saint released his hand and again the pain was gone. Saint pressed the boot hard on Samson’s throat as Samson frantically kicked up the dirt.

“Did you forget I own you?” Saint laughed.

He picked Samson up by the hair again and held his head over the well.

“So close you almost-”

Saint’s words were cut short and he dropped Samson on the rim of the well. Saint was frozen, facing the emptiness of the desert. Samson looked out into the blackness. His eyes were still swollen but he thought he could see a pair of yellow eyes looking back at them. He tried to make out the shape even more but couldn’t see anything other than the yellow eyes.

“Get in the well,” Saint said with fear in voice.

Samson was shocked by his quiver. The mocking giant he had been dealing with seemed to have vanished. Saint lifted Samson up by his feat and tumbled him down the well. The fall down the well was only twelve feet, but the darkness made it feel longer. Samson landed hard on a pile rocks, cutting his hands even more. He lay on the ground, hoping the fall had paralyzed him. He heard Saint’s boots digging into the side of the well as he climbed down. He was thankful at least there would not be a blood bath. Saint jumped to the ground, landing just as hard as Samson and losing his footing. He clutched the wall to stabilize himself. Reaching into his duster he pulled out his lighter and struck it, revealing an opening in the bottom of the well that spanned out into a labyrinth of caves. Saint grinned.