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.