The high-noon sun shines down on me in a straight beam of what feels to be more than just its nature, casting waving mirages all around me. I look left, then right, then right again and again; desperately searching for what it used to be behind and in front of me. Before I marched into the deserted West, I had but a compass. Not exactly the ideal mechanism of direction amidst a world engulfed in fire and solar heat, but far better than plain guessing where North was before... before that thing appeared.

Not the first one of its kind I had seen up close and, if I somehow make it back alive to the forsaken village of Wells, it will not be the last I kill. They're twice as tall as me, many times faster and stronger than any man I know of and ugly as the Devil himself, but a high-caliber bullet into the eyes will kill them as they would any other miserable animal born in the fires of the desert.

Damn it, I thought... I thought I had killed the whole pack, but I appear to have missed a single juvenile of these Devils. It tracked me down, my scent carrying the fresh essence of death. Many believe them to be mindless, soulless. As someone who've looked into their eyes more than once, I can't say that they are; but any experienced wanderer of the wastes has at least one tale to tell about the single most dangerous quality of the Devils: Their talents for revenge, talents I have yet to see if they will claim me by the end of the day. The young Devil pounced on me — despite their size they can be quiet too until they decide when to reveal themselves at a time usually too late for any prey to escape.

But I survived. My compass and my map did not.

When I came to, the sun had shifted just enough to tell me time was still moving, whether I wanted it to or not. My head rang like a cracked bell, and sand clung to my tongue and eyelids. I spat, rolled onto my side, and took inventory—the way you learn to do after the first few close calls in the wastes.

Both legs still worked. One arm burned something fierce where a claw had caught me, but it moved. My rifle lay half-buried a few paces away, stock splintered but barrel intact. That alone felt like mercy.

The Devil was gone.

That worried me more than if it had been standing over me, drool dripping, waiting to finish the job. Devils don’t retreat unless they plan to return smarter. The young ones especially. They learn fast—too fast for comfort.

I dragged myself upright and scanned the dunes. Wind erased tracks quickly out here, but not all of them. The sand told a story if you knew how to read it: a broken slide where I’d fallen, a wide, heavy impact where the Devil landed, then a long, deliberate drag circling away from me. It hadn’t fled. It had watched.

I laughed once, dry and bitter.
“So you’re patient,” I muttered. “That makes two of us.”

Without my map or compass, Wells might as well have been a myth. But I knew one thing the Devils hated more than bullets—stone. They ruled the open desert, but rocky ground dulled their speed and stole their silence. If I could reach the badlands by sundown, I might live long enough to regret it.

I tore a strip from my sleeve and bound my arm tight, then checked what remained of my pack: one canteen, half full; three rounds of high-caliber left; a knife worn thin from use. Not much. It would have to be enough.

As I started west—guessing, always guessing now—I felt it again. That pressure between the shoulders. The sense of being measured.

Somewhere behind me, beyond the mirages and heat-haze, the juvenile Devil followed. Not rushing. Not snarling. Learning how I walked. How I limped. How long I stopped to rest.

They say the wastes are empty.
They're wrong.

They're watching.

I took one sip from my canteen. Cold and clean water was nothing but a distant memory, but hell if this warm and sulfurous swill wasn't the greatest thing I'd tasted today. Nearly half a day after my encounter with the Devil pack, the juvenile hadn't killed me yet.

Perhaps it really wasn't after me anymore. Even Devils weren't totally immune to the dangers of the wastes--or to other Devils. But I'd seen enough to know better. There's a feeling you get when you struggle against these things long enough. You almost sense when they're watching you. One man I knew in Soleil called it the "scorching eye," the feeling of cold fire on the back of your neck. He said it was a survival instinct developed by the people of the wastes. I think it's the Devils playing with their food.

No wonder most wanderers die young.

I hung the canteen back on my belt and took yet another shaky step onward, cresting the top of a dune. A light wind had picked up, and I knew that the wind usually blew East in these parts. With sand whipping in my face, I stopped to rest atop the dune, where at least I could see my surroundings.

I almost cried out in relief. On the horizon ahead of me, spires of stone stretched toward the sky, their shapes barely distinct in the distance. The badlands. If I could make it there by dusk, I had a chance after all.

For a few minutes, I regrouped, taking another sip of my precious water and readjusting the binding on my arm. Then I set out toward the stones, moving much more quickly and purposefully now that I had a real direction. The stones and spires grew slowly larger... much more slowly than I would have liked. My whole body tensed, ready to grab my rifle at a moment's notice. This was it. They seemed so close now as I staggered up yet another dune, spitting sand out of my mouth. The sun, ever-present in the fiery heat of this world, sunk closer to the horizon and gave my eyes a bit of respite.

The scorching eye, the tense feeling of being watched by the Devils, never faded. But I had hope, and hope was a powerful thing to keep a man going. The juvenile Devil hasn't killed me yet, I repeated to myself. It hasn't killed me yet. Maybe I should have seen that as suspicious, but I only saw it as the favor of Lady Fortune. I smiled, thinking of returning to Wells with a story to tell. One saloon there had the best cactus wine in the whole wastes, and the best dancing too. Perhaps I would live to see it.

I reached the top of this dune and looked down at the badlands, my rocky salvation. But as I watched, the stones flickered and vanished, leaving nothing but bare sand. A mirage. The damn badlands had been a mirage all along. My hope drained away like sand, changing to panic as I reached for my gun.

In the light of the setting sun, my pursuer appeared at last, its long, curved horns framing its head. It bared its fangs at me, and I knew it took pleasure from seeing my hopes dashed.

Never let anyone tell you the Devils are mindless. They are cunning and cruel.