End Of Dusty Gulls

The wasteland stretched on forever, cracked earth shimmering under the punishing sun. Rex and Colt trudged forward, every step heavier than the last. Their canteen rattled nearly empty, and each breath burned in their throats.

Rex gave it a shake, heard nothing but a faint splash, then passed it to Colt.

Colt tipped it back, took the smallest sip, and grimaced. “We’re not gonna make it like this.” His voice was raw, barely more than a rasp.

“Then we keep walking,” Rex said flatly, eyes fixed on the endless horizon.

Hours dragged by. The land gave them nothing — no water, no shade, not even birdsong. Then, as the afternoon heat shimmered like a wall, shapes began to rise against the distance.

At first Rex thought it was a mirage, another cruel trick. But as they drew closer, the shapes sharpened into rooftops, crooked fences, and the silhouette of a leaning water tower.

“A town!” Colt gasped, stumbling into a jog.

Rex’s chest tightened with hope, though his revolver stayed in his hand. “Careful. Could be raiders.”

They reached the outskirts as the sun dipped lower. What had once been a town was now husks of houses with shattered windows, doors swinging loose on rusted hinges. A half-rotted saloon sign creaked faintly in the breeze.

Silence pressed down on everything.

“It’s empty,” Colt whispered, voice thick with disappointment.

“Empty don’t mean useless,” Rex said, eyeing the water tower. “Let’s look.”

---

They searched building after building. Most were stripped bare, but in the saloon they found a few cans of beans. In a shop, they unearthed dusty jars that hadn’t yet spoiled. The real prize, though, came at the pump beneath the tower.

Rex threw his weight against the handle, and after a painful screech, brown water sputtered out. Not much. Not clear. But water.

Colt fell to his knees, splashing his face, while Rex filled both canteens as fast as he could. Relief washed over him — not safety, but a reprieve.

That evening, they camped in a small house at the end of the street. Its roof held, and the door could shut. They ate beans straight from the can, washing them down with the lukewarm, metallic water.

For the first time in days, their stomachs weren’t empty. For the first time since Red Rock, they felt almost safe.

Almost.

---

That’s when the footsteps came.

Slow, steady, crunching against the gravel outside.

Colt froze mid-bite, eyes wide. Rex already had his revolver drawn, moving to the door.

The footsteps stopped. The hinges groaned. The door creaked open.

A man stood in the doorway. Thin, ragged, beard streaked with gray, eyes sharp beneath the brim of a battered hat.

He raised both hands slowly. “Don’t shoot, boys. Ain’t lookin’ for trouble.” His voice was cracked and dry, but steady.

Rex didn’t lower the gun. “Who are you?”

“Name’s Jeb,” the man said. He stepped into the fading light of the room. “And this here’s Dusty Gulls. What’s left of it.”

Colt frowned. “What happened here?”

Jeb leaned against the wall, gaze distant. “Used to be fifty folk. Families, traders. We had crops, water from the well, and walls to keep raiders out. It wasn’t much, but it was life. Then the drought came. The well ran dry. Crops withered. We hauled water from the south, but raiders followed. Took what little we had. Killed some, scared off the rest. Bit by bit, everyone left.”

Rex lowered the revolver slightly. “Why didn’t you?”

Jeb gave a tired shrug. “Nowhere else to go. Someone had to keep the ghosts company.”

Colt glanced at the pump outside. “But the tower’s still got water.”

“Not much,” Jeb said with a dry laugh. “That’s just what’s left in the pipes. Won’t last long. A week at best.”

Silence fell. The relief Colt had felt drained away, leaving only the weight of reality again.

Then Jeb studied them with sharp eyes. “You boys got a destination?”

“Havenrest,” Rex said.

At the name, something flickered across Jeb’s face — disbelief, maybe hope. “Heard plenty speak of that place. Some said it was a lie, others swore by it. Either way, you’re in for a long walk. From here…” He scratched his beard, thinking. “Two hundred and ten, maybe two-fifteen kilometers northwest. On foot, that’s ten, maybe twelve days if luck’s on your side.”

Colt’s eyes widened. “That far?”

“Closer than Red Rock,” Rex said quietly. His jaw tightened. “We’ll make it.”

Jeb gave a slow nod. “Then leave at first light. Dusty Gulls ain’t a place you linger. Shadows move here at night — and not all of ‘em are human.”

---

They didn’t sleep much that night. The wind whistled through the broken streets, carrying strange creaks and groans. Rex sat awake most of the night with his revolver across his lap, while Colt dozed restlessly.

At dawn, Jeb was gone, his chair rocking faintly in the corner as though he’d never been there.

Rex and Colt filled their canteens one last time and stepped out into the rising sun. Behind them, Dusty Gulls stood silent, a town of ghosts and warnings. Ahead of them stretched another two hundred kilometers of wasteland — and, perhaps, the hope of Havenrest.

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