Rohm holds the stagecoach driver by the back of his neck. Claws planted into the man's spine, the smallest movement – the slightest resistance – sends agony across his every nerve. Rohm maneuvers the driver, pain searing his bones, to face the other outlaws. While still obscured by a veil of shadow, the darkness is thin, and the driver can make out more of their visages than his stomach can stand. Crooked teeth. Sharp pieces of metal rendered blunt by layer atop layer of crusted blood. Narrow eyes. Green bits of bodies strung together in necklaces. Translucent skin. Lips twisted into grins brewed with a mischievousness from blackest hell. The driver looks away, knowing the torture it will put him in.

"Meet Egon, Dobry, Dnieper, and Kurtis!" Rohm pushes the coachman's eyes back to the bandits and extends his free hand with a flourish. Egon and Dobry bow. Dnieper spits. Kurtis scratches himself. The driver can't bring himself to speak. The driver can't bring himself to breathe. Rohm wheels the man around again to his carriage. "I believe you're already familiar with Annika and Duncan."

The two men who made a move for the stagecoach – Annika and Duncan – return now with a family in tow. A mother, father, and two little girls. All in fine dress. Annika knocks the wealthy family down, and in the center of the shadow-strewn sand, they're made to cower surrounded by dirty men.

"Mr. Wayland!" The driver calls out. He tears himself from Rohm's grasp and tries to move toward his passengers, but after a single step, he collapses. The strength leaves his legs. A cascade of red. Rohm's hand no longer holds the coachman back, but Rohm's hand never let go of the coachman's neck. Instead, Rohm now holds a patch of cloth and meat, and the driver's consumed with wholly new abandon from where moments ago was flesh. He falls until Egon catches him. The bandit hoists him up by the collar and forces his hand into the fissure shorn by Rohm's clasp. Silent and helpless. Egon fashions the driver into a puppet made to witness the coming comedy.

Dobry watches the driver whimper. The gunman follows his eyes to the family – specifically the mother – trembling in the sand. Dobry paces toward the woman and, wiping snot from his hand, grabs her by the scalp.

"What do we have here?" Dobry inquires.

"Money? Are you looking for money?" Mr. Wayland shouts. He pushes himself toward his wife, but Dobry sends him away with the back of his hand. "I'll give it to you! As much as you want! Just let her go!"

But Dobry doesn't let go. Instead, his hand tightening around the woman's curls, he forces her nose to the dirt.

"Please don't hurt us..." Mrs. Wayland gasps.

The outlaws laugh.

"What gives you the idea we want to hurt you?" Kurtis asks. His fingers run over the outline of a heavy hammer slung from his belt.

"We don't want any trouble," the father begs. He grabs hold of his two girls.

"This isn't about what you want," Egon taunts, striding toward the man with the coach driver his helpless pet. Kurtis keeps him back. Still in the center of the circle, still with his hand wrapped inside the mother's hair, he brings the woman to her knees. His thumb traces her cheek as his eyes look to her husband.

"Please... Don't..." Mrs. Wayland weeps.

"I'll give you money! All I have!" The father shouts. He reaches into his pocket and throws a stack of bills at the sand, but not a man dashes after them. "If it's not enough to save my wife and children, just don't kill me!"

"There it is..." Kurtis sighs. He releases the mother's mane.

The woman stares at her husband behind an ocean of tears. Her hand becomes an animal, and she swings at his head. Mrs. Wayland decks Mr. Wayland across the jaw. He staggers, falters, and falls. The outlaws laugh.

The stagecoach driver watches it all. Still Egon's puppet, still the sick creation's doll, the coachman can't step away, but so very close to the gangster, he can do something else. In this moment, the stagecoach driver makes the only move he can. In this dreadful instant, he reaches into Egon's holster. He hopes his attackers' guards are down. He steals Egon's gun. He wishes his attackers' guards are down. He draws the weapon. He prays his attackers' guards are down. He lifts the thing. He places the pistol against Egon's skull. He squeezes the trigger. He fires into Egon's brain. Confusion. Humor. Horror. The dirty man swerves his head. Egon wraps around the driver and snaps his arms, shoulders, and spine. Egon sinks his teeth – fangs – into the man.

The coach driver lets out a cough. Blood. He dies. The smoke and fire of the driver's bullet along with his soul float up into heaven.

The mother, father, and little girls stare. Frozen in fear. Neither breath nor sound escape their lips. Then, the lifeblood emptied from the driver, Egon drops his corpse to the ground. The coachman smashes into sand, his last moment still etched on his face. His blind visage burns away at the family. Agony, anguish, and terror.

Dnieper kicks the corpse. He stares into Egon with two slits.

"Be more careful," Dnieper spits.

"Jealous there's nothing left for you?" Egon laughs, wiping the ruby from his lips.

"No," Dnieper barks back. He says no more, but no further words are needed as there's a fleshy hole in his center. The bullet destined for Egon – dodged by the demon's preternatural reflexes – instead carved itself into Dnieper's chest. Blood gurgles as he makes a face. Dnieper grunts, and through his sheer force of will, the round spills from his trunk. The red bullet falls beside the father's banknotes. Not caring any further about the crack in his chest, Dnieper inspects his blood-soaked shirt. He scowls before turning his interest to Mr. Wayland's starched linen.

"That's a nice shirt," he tells the man.

"You... You're..." The father stutters. It's all the reply he can bring through tremoring teeth.

"Yeah," Dnieper nods.

"We all are," Egon smiles.

"You ought to have known better than to have left the main trail," Annika speaks. "Sure, you can maybe shave a few hours off the trek, but you can also meet some unsavory people deep in the desert."

"No..." The mother sobs. "No, don't..." Between her children and the vultures, the woman pushes her girls behind her dress. Kurtis stomps. He reaches to wrap the mother again in his claws, but Rohm halts him. He hushes the gang and pushes them away. He steps in front of the little family.

"Let's all calm down and stop our crying and our shouting. We don't want to kill you," Rohm coos. For a moment, a sliver of hope wobbles atop the mother and father's eyes, yet its appearance is a fruitless one, sunk by Rohm's next utterance. "No, that's a lie. We do, but we also want you to live to watch your daughters die in the desert before making it to the nearest town. It's a tough choice, actually. Maybe we slaughter almost all of you and leave one alive to tell all you ever meet to be afraid?" Rohm pauses. He sniffs the air. He bites his lip. Acutely aware of the family's frenzied hearts, the animals in the outlaws begin to wake. Twitching. Blood stains the sand around the driver's corpse. Salivating. The father throws more money to the ground. Wholly uninterested in the offer, Rohm grinds his boot into the paper. "You know, you should have paid your driver more."

"You probably should have hired one who could keep his wits or was, at least, a better shot," Egon adds.

More money. The father turns his pockets inside out. He empties everything he's carrying on the desert floor. A ring and pocket watch. An engraved cigar case. A fountain pen embellished with gold. All drop into dust. There are murmurs among the outlaws.

"We could buy a sheep with that," Dobry whispers as he makes a move for the treasures at his feet. The sound of breaking bone. Between Dobry and the gold, Duncan drives his fist into his brother's back. A pop and then blood. Pulling his fingers away, pieces of vertebrae sink into Duncan's flesh.

"We could kill a sheepherder and keep it," Duncan chides. He picks pieces of Dobry's spine from his knuckles and tosses the bits of backbone atop the wealthy man's money. Still standing despite a shattered spine, Dobry recedes from the worthless riches.

Mr. Wayland throws his coat, shirt, and shoes at the bandits. The once polished man now has nothing. Naked and sopped with sweat, he begs for his life. Yet bare, dripping skin and a frantic heart only serve to damn the man more.

"It'd be a shame to let you folks go to waste," Kurtis speaks, the predator breathing the liquor of Mr. Wayland's perspiration deeply in. The outlaws' eyes, glowing now, burn inside their skulls. They alternate between the man and the scared little women. It's only a matter of time. Resigned to her fate, the mother tightens her grip on her girls. She kisses each on their forehead. Mr. Wayland, though, thumps his chest. He stares down his imminent death.

"Kill them!" He commands, his voice breaking. "Spare me!" Mrs. Wayland holds her children. Her hands cover their eyes and ears. Her own eyes don't rise from the sand. Shaking his head at the sight, Duncan pets the mother and brings his mouth to the father's ear. His lips part, and the sharp cold of his fangs cradles Mr. Wayland.

"But that rich blood of yours must taste so very sweet," Duncan whispers. His teeth tug on the man's skin. "You probably never worked a day in your life."

"How about this?" Rohm inquires. The bandit pushes Duncan aside and stands in the center of the black and red sand. His hands rest atop his hatchets, and his eyes bore through the last of Mr. Wayland's resolve. "We kill you last." He steps atop the man's clothes, money, and gold. "We let you watch as your family's devoured before we slaughter you." Mr. Wayland has nothing to say. Out of his mouth dribbles only animal despair. And with that, Rohm's words not so much an offer as an order, the outlaws are upon them. Swallowed up, the man, woman, and their children disappear. The vampires, dogs, tear the mother and her daughters limb from limb. And for one fleeting second, the father's spared. He sees his family become nothing, and then Rohm's lips touch Mr. Wayland's cheek. Teeth glistening, the thing lets loose a bark.

The father's transformed into bone.

Now, from the place farthest from the sun, one last man grows a form. Japan black hair frames a snow white face set with two midnight eyes. A sable duster flaps. Departing from the shadows with graceful steps, he brings a hand to his mouth to conceal a yawn. He cracks his knuckles and neck. He watches the pack – his pack – eat.

Egon drinks the brains out of one of the little girls. Dobry laps marrow from a snapped bone. Dnieper stuffs Mrs. Wayland's entrails into his gullet. Annika chomps a tendon in two. Kurtis pops the driver's eyeballs into his mouth one by one. Duncan sucks blood from the sand. Rohm strips the flesh from Mr. Wayland's backbone. The last man made of shadow approaches.

Rohm backs away immediately, morsels of meat still hanging from his teeth. His head bowed and arms raised, he addresses the final black creation.

"Master Volga, please eat your fill."

With eyes obscured by wire frame glasses, Master Volga observes the scene. He stands a solid head above his tallest man. His lips pull back, his translucent skin wrinkling in ugly ways.

"To think, all I told you was to stop the coach," he smiles. Volga doesn't approach the meat. Instead, turning from his pack, he brings his dark eyes to the end of the earth and the adversarial sun. He takes in the horizon. "Liam hasn't returned yet. Egon, Duncan, find him."