Marilynne hadn't slept a wink in days. She had slaughtered several vampires that night with holy-water soaked bullets. She was known as Joshua to almost everyone, and her real gender was always hidden. She knew that women didn't make it very far in the society she'd grown up in, and that was the exact reason she did it. She lied about her name and sex everywhere, and got away with it because no one saw under all those baggy clothes.

"Dang undead, they're everywhere." Her voice, raspy and masculine, had an imposing tone. "I'll make sure they don't fulfill the prophecy."

"You won't get away with this, Sorrenson."

Luther smiled from atop the rock he was currently seated on. He let out a laugh as he turned his dark eyes over towards the source of the voice. "Those are big words, Marshall. Coming from a man with no legs."

The lawman, pale from the blood loss from his severed limbs, glared at him from his place underneath the wreckage of the stagecoach he was pinned under. Despite his grievous injuries, the man's voice remained calm and strong, without a flicker of the pain or fear he felt. "You won't be able to keep dodging justice forever. One day, and I pray to God that day is soon, you'll meet your end. And if there's any fairness in the world, that end won't be pretty!" This last part he spat out, as his face and shoulders shook from fury.

The outlaw just gave the dying man a dry chuckle, pulling his Gaucho-style hat off his head to wipe away at his sweat with a calloused hand. "That's the problem, Marshal. This world... it ain't fair. If there was a thing such as justice, don't ya think I would've been taken out a long time ago?" Sorrenson slid off the rock, landing upon the dry dirt of the desert floor upon scuffed, dusty black boots. "Ever read 'On the Origin of Species,' Marshal? Interesting book. It's by an English guy, can't remember his name. Well, basically it says that through constant struggle, through natural selection, the best, brightest, and strongest animals kill off the weaker ones so that their traits can survive, thus making the species stronger. Survival of the fittest. I like that." Luther began approaching the wrecked stagecoach, stepping over pieces of wreckage as well as the corpses of the three other lawmen he had killed.

"Is that how you justify it to yourself? All your stealing and killing? You actually trying to tell me you're doing it to make Mankind stronger?" The Marshal spat, utterly disgusted.

Luther stopped right over the downed lawman, another mirthless chuckle flowing from his thin lips. "Not really. I'm just offering you an alternate theory, to your 'God and Justice' spiel." The outlaw drew his Schofield and aimed its sights down at the other man's head. "There is no God, Marshal. There is no justice." His thumb cocked back the hammer, causing the revolver's cylinder to cycle. "Just dog eating dog. One man's skills versus another. Total equality through slinging iron. The stronger beast overcomes the weaker. That is the ultimate fairness."

Sorrenson's finger tightened on the trigger, and the Marshal didn't even flinch. He met the outlaw's dark stare with his own.

Suddenly, Luther laughed and pointed the gun away, decocking the hammer and slipping it back into its holster. "I like you, Marshal. You got balls." He reached down next to the downed lawman and pulled the sawed-off shotgun he had been carrying out from under where it had been trapped beneath him. This caused a cringe of pain from the Marshal, one which the outlaw ignored as he began walking away.

"What? You not going to kill me?" The Marshal asked him.

"No. It'd be a waste of a bullet." Sorrenson turned back and gave the other a malicious smile. "Besides, you're as good as dead anyway. If you don't die from lack of blood, the coyotes and buzzards'll get you in a few hours." He turned his attention up to the sky, the wide brim of his hat shielding his eyes from the intense glare of the sun. "Either that, or the sun'll fry you up." Sorrenson glanced back down and gave the lawman another smile. "I love the desert. It makes my job so much easier." With that, he turned away and began walking off.

"D-damn you, Sorrenson!" the Marshal shouted. "Damn you, ya hear? You'll get yours, mark my words! You'll get yours soon enough! I'll see you in hell, you bastard! I'll see you in hell!"

Luther ignored the shouting. He stopped by the rock he had vacated and picked up a small satchel that was leaning next to it. Inside were the items that he had scrounged up from the dead lawmen and wrecked stagecoach, and consisted of ammunition, extra clothing, bits of food and two canteens. He then began walking east, towards a small town he remembered the stagecoach had passed. It was called Ironshade, if he recalled right.

The Marshal continued to scream and shout at him, but the outlaw ignored the voice. As far as he was concerned, dead men said nothing that was worth listening to.

The cheap handless piano tinkled endlessly with the same old song, a lively and inviting song that sounded eerily similar to what would be the song ice cream trucks would play in the coming century. It was friendly, announcing to all the desert folk to ‘come on in! Have a drink and take a look at our girl! She’s a pretty one if you know the meaning of the word and is sure to show you a good time for a price affordable at any budget!’ Of course that was a lie, Filly Rotwell was not affordable to most men but still managed to bring in almost half the amount of money the liquor in the place did, which was an accomplishment in itself. The saloon was a grin little place, the wood always being worn by the sandy winds and then repainted in the same old gaudy colour. It was a shade caught somewhere in between brick red and maroon and looked just awful in the glaring sun of the desert. It sure caught attention though, just as the stencilled sign reading SALOON in thick black letters did. The inside of the place was always gritty, no matter how many times the owner mopped the place down. It smelled of sweat and liquor without fail and sometimes an added bonus of the leery odour of blood or sour vomit. Five little tables were situated around the floor, the biggest set in the corner with a velvet cloth set over it. That was for the card players, who caused more brawls than they did games. The bar shined greasily with polish and was rarely empty, even if it was only occupied by the same old man who came in at nine o’clock and left at nine that night.

Filly lived in one of the rooms upstairs, seeing as the place doubled for an inn for travellers willing to pay a few more dollars to be closer to the alcohol than at the HOTEL across the street. The little room consisted of a four post mahogany bed with a faded pale pink coverlet. There was a vanity in the corner with a little stool, a wardrobe in the opposite corner and a little breakfast table in the adjacent corner. Filly could always be found in one of the corners, typically sitting at the vanity.
That’s where she perched that bright desert morning, wearing nothing but an ivory slip and a lacy pair of thigh high stockings that clipped to her under garments black strips of cloth attached to little buttons. Red lipstick, black liner she’d bought from an Asian fellow and plum coloured shadow. Her hair was tied carefully into a ponytail and then adorned with a violet coloured bow. Filly cast a glance at the mirror, pleased with the youthful vixen that stared back at her. She made her way lithely to the wardrobe and drew out a deep red dress adorned all over with black lace. She drew out a corset and wearily laced it up just tight enough to get the job done but not so she would be out of breath throughout the day. She slipped into the dress, managing to button the back without help and got into her only pair of heeled boots.

If only her Daddy could see her now.

Filly walked daintily down the stairs, pleased to see that it was too early for anyone to be looking for her. She cast a brown-eyed glare at the place she called home and settled into a chair, legs crossed in manner of boredom. It was going to be a long, hot day in Ironshade.

Marilynne holstered her revolver and mounted her horse. The black, shiny furred animal she called Cethin had served her well over the past years she had him. She dreaded the day she'd have to put a bullet through his skull. 'Joshua' rode down the trail towards Ironshade, where she'd investigate the reason for the vampires. A man rode behind her, as if she owed him money or something.

"What are you doing, sir?" she asked.

He gave no answer and resumed following. She paid no more mind to the creepy man as she knew she'd be in Ironshade soon.

"Listen, cowpoke, stop following me!"

Her demand was met with a gunshot to her horse's leg. She dismounted quickly and drew her gun before Cethin toppled over. As the man shot at her, she shot back. A bullet grazed her shoulder so close that one inch to the left would have proved fatal. 'Joshua' was the better marksman, and put several bullets into the creep. The dying beats of his heart were demonstrated clearly by the pulses of blood which shot out from each wound.

Turning back to see her horse, she put another bullet into the chamber. The loyal animal lay bleeding in the sand, kicking his leg in pain. BANG. One shot took care of the misery of the beast, and filled Marilynne with sadness. She didn't even think she'd have to shoot her beloved horse. She moved on, though. Leaving Cethin behind for the buzzards and other desert scavengers, she walked the rest of the way to Ironshade. She saw a saloon across from a hotel near by, and stepped into the saloon. She needed a drink right about now.

Luther "Black Eye" Sorrenson continued his trek, headed east towards the last town his doomed carriage had passed. It was rough plodding through the desert on foot, especially with the unforgiving sun still blazing overhead. Luther took a long swig from his canteen, wondering if maybe he had gone in the wrong direction, when the sounds of distant gunfire erupted.

"East," he muttered, referring to the direction of the noise. Looks like he was headed in the right direction after all.

The outlaw continued his walk and managed to find a well traveled trail in the sand and sagebrush. He followed it for a bit until he spotted movement in the distance. He smirked as he saw a lone horse, dark brown in color and healthy in looks, rushing towards his direction. He dropped the satchel he was carrying and rushed towards the fleeing animal, running in front of it with his arms waving. The spooked creature stopped its mad dash, rearing up and neighing wildly. Luther managed to calm it down a bit, using soft tones and gestures. Pretty soon it huffed in annoyance and remained still, allowing the human to approach it and grab its reigns.

"Well now, what's a nice fella like you doing out here all alone?" Luther patted the horse's neck, and saw that it was wet with blood. "Well, I guess whoever owned you previously won't be minding too much if I make you use of you, now will they?" He chuckled before checking the saddlebags. The fugitive smirked as his luck seemed to still be holding; inside were three fresh boxes of .45 caliber ammunition. There were also some clothing and rations, but the ammunition would serve his purposes better.

Luther retrieved his satchel and tied it to the horse's saddle. He then mounted up and turned the horse around, aiming it east and towards the direction of what he hoped to be Ironshade. He then rushed the horse forwards, eager to get into town. He needed a bath, some food, and maybe a drink or two. After that, he'd spend a few nights recuperating, have the local doc check on his wound, and then be off to meet up with his gang. His stagecoach wasn't due to Fort Miller for another week, and he figured it would take the law a few more days after that to send out a search. He most likely had two weeks of free time, which was more than enough to get the hell out of the area.

After about ten minutes of riding, the outlaw came upon the grizzly sight. Laying across the path was a dead horse, and some feet away lay the body of a man, who by his appearance was most likely a bandit. Luther stopped the animal near the scene and dismounted. He checked the body for anything valuable, and found nothing of value except for a the rounds of ammunition on the man's belt. He picked up the corpse's pistol, checking to see if it had any value, but unfortunately it was in horrendous shape. Whomever the dead man was, it was obvious he didn't take very good care of his gun. Luther sneered down at the former bandit. "If you don't take care of your weapons, my friend, they'll eventually let you down," he told the corpse as he flung the revolver away. "But then, I guess you already knew that."

Luther also checked the horse, but found that its saddlebags were gone. So it was obvious that this horse was not the dead bandit's. Maybe the horse he now owned belonged to the poor bandit with horrible gun maintenance skills. So that meant that the dead horse's rider would still be about.

"Good for them." He glanced over at the dead bandit. "Stupid fool. Even a greenhorn bushwacker knows that you shoot the rider when you ambush somebody. Shooting the horse just wastes bullets." Luther laughed as he strode back to his horse. "Looks like that English naturalist was right again. Survival of the fittest. And you, my friend," Sorrenson spat at the corpse's direction. "Are not fit."

The outlaw mounted the horse, then rode off. He continued traveling east until he saw the wooden buildings of the small town of Ironshade in the distance.

Filly had just been dozing off into her arms when the half doors of the saloon swung in, ringing a little bell attached to the left one. On busy nights the owner took the bell off or else it would sound like someone was playing a tambourine all throughout the night. The tall girl rose gracefully and stalked behind the bar, casting a dismal eye on the bar tender. He was curled behind the bar, a bottle of whiskey held in his grip like a beloved child. “I’ll be taking that.” She murmured before snatching the bottle from his hands and planting a firm kick to his ribs. He coughed briefly and opened two glassy, bloodshot eyes before falling promptly back asleep. Filly sneered momentarily before turning to the early bird customer. Her eyes flicked over the rounded, smooth chinned man before her a little smile coming to her lips.

“You look like you need a drink cowboy.” She poured the remaining whiskey into a glass and slid it over to him, returning the bottle to the tender by means of dropping it on his chest. She was not supposed to be tending the bar, but she would gladly accept any tips until the owner made his entrance. Filly leaned against the serving counter and tilted her head to the side, watching the man bleed from a fresh looking wound from his shoulder. Bandits typically roamed on the outskirts of town and it wasn’t unusual to see the traveler prove the better gunfighter. One rarely met bad shots who traveled alone. “That’s a nasty snag. The doctor’ll charge you a few dollars to patch you up.” She spoke in a bored manner, wishing for something more exciting than a gunshot wound. She glanced around the familiar room again before looking back to the man at the bar. Something was off about him, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

“You heard about the murders in our town?” She asked nonchalantly, folding her arms under her bust. Filly really hoped he hadn’t, she loved talking about them. She’d run out to see each and every corpse and developed an unhealthy obsession with them, as teenagers often do. She was a little old for such things, but nothing exciting ever happened in Ironshade.

"Thank you for the drink, ma'am" Marilynne said, she gave the girl a bit of money. "This bullet wound's nothin, I've had much worse. I'll be fine and able to patch myself up, but I can't say the same about my horse. He needed a dose of metal in the head, his leg was shot up in a gun fight." She downed the drink halfway, then heard the word 'murder', "I'm actually investigating them. I'm not allowed to divulge little more than that, but I have taken down a few of the culprits." She accidentally flipped her hat up a little, exposing her eyes, as she tried to scratch an itch at the bridge of her nose.

Her voice was still gruff, even when she lowered the volume, "It's the work of supernatural beings, and that's the maximum of what I can say. You seem very interested in this kind of stuff, you may be of some use to me somehow." She cleared her throat several times, "Civilians such as yourself can be sort of...undercover. None of the suspects would suspect you." She took a finger and dipped it in the drink, then rubbed it on her wound. It stung, but she did not wince. Then she downed the rest of the drink.

The handless piano stopped dead mid note, "Must have been a cheap piece of new fangled machinery. The better ones don't break down just like that" Marilynne noted. She went over to examine it, there was something jammed inside of one of the mechanisms. She plucked out what appeared to be a pallid human finger, "I guess humans aren't made durable any more." She slipped the severed finger in her pocket. "Maybe the work of the the same people responsible for the wave of murders".