The sun was rising in the east like a slow-burning fuse when Seth Gecko drove that stolen pickup through the Mexican desert, knuckles white on the wheel, blood on his collar, and ash in his throat.He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe right. Not since Richie. Not since the vampires came crawling out of that bar like hell had cracked open its ribcage just to spit them out.

The Titty Twister was a crater behind him now, still smoldering. He didn’t look back.His hands were shaking—barely. Not from fear. From rage. From adrenaline. From the kind of grief that doesn’t cry—it burns.The truck’s radio crackled static. No music. Just the hum of empty frequencies. It was fitting. The world felt… hollow.

When the gas ran low, he pulled off-road into a stretch of cracked land where vultures circled even when nothing was dead yet. He left the engine running, stepped out, and lit a cigarette with fingers still stained red. The desert was quiet, but not dead. There was something in the air. Watching. He could feel it. He looked up at the pale sky and muttered, “You sons of bitches took my brother. That was your last mistake.”

Behind him, something howled. Not a wolf. Not a man. Something in-between.

Seth flicked the cigarette into the dirt, grabbed the sawed-off shotgun from the backseat, and muttered to himself with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes:

“Round two, motherfuckers.”