Blood and Ink

The iron pipe felt cold and heavy in Calla’s hand. It was a real thing, solid and honest, unlike the lies spilling out of Darius Bell’s mouth.

Behind him, the portable server hummed on the scarred wooden bar of the abandoned saloon. Little green lights blinked in the dark like the eyes of a digital beast. That was his altar. That was where he kept the "Highway Huntress," the version of Calla he’d built out of clickbait and blood.

"Don't do it, Calla," Darius said. His voice was smooth, but his hands were shaking as he adjusted the lenses on his camera rig. "That's the only copy. That’s your legacy. If you destroy that, you’re just another girl who went missing in the desert."

Calla’s breath was a shallow, rhythmic ghost in the quiet room. "I’m not a legacy," she said. Her voice was low, barely a whisper. "I’m just tired."

She swung.

The sound was a sickening, metallic crunch. The pipe bit deep into the plastic casing of the server. Sparks showered the floor in a bright, brief fountain of orange. The hum died instantly. The green lights flickered and went black.

"No!" Darius screamed. The sound was high and jagged, the cry of a man watching his bank account burn. "You stupid, selfish bitch! That was the finale!"

He didn't think. He didn't plan. He lunged for her, grabbing a heavy aluminum tripod from the bar. He swung the metal legs like a club. Calla raised her arm, and the tripod caught her across the forearm. The bone didn't snap, but the pain was a white-hot flash that blinded her for a second.

She stumbled back, her boots scuffing through decades of dust. Darius was on her before she could reset her feet. He wasn't a fighter, but he was larger than her, fueled by a frantic, narcissistic rage. He swung the tripod again, catching her in the ribs.

The air left her lungs in a sharp wheeze. She fell back against a rotting table, the wood splintering under her weight.

"You think you’re in control?" Darius spat. He was hovering over her, his face twisted into something ugly and unrecognizable. Gone was the charming journalist. "I made you. Without me, you’re nothing but a murderer in a dusty car."

Calla didn't answer. She couldn't. She rolled to the side as he swung the tripod down, the metal legs smashing the tabletop where her head had been a second before. She gripped the iron pipe and swung upward from the floor.

The pipe caught Darius in the shin. He grunted and buckled. Calla scrambled up, her chest burning with every breath. She didn't run for the door. She ran for him.

They collided in the center of the room. It wasn't like the movies. There was no grace to it. It was a mess of elbows, knees, and frantic grabbing. Calla clawed at his eyes; Darius wrapped a thick hand around her throat and shoved.

They crashed through the swinging doors of the saloon, tumbling out into the dry, night air. The desert didn't care about their struggle. The stars stayed cold and distant.

Darius didn't let go. He used his momentum to drive her backward, his heels digging into the loose Arizona dirt. Calla felt the ground vanish beneath her.

They went over the edge of the embankment together.

It was a short, brutal fall. They tumbled down the steep side of a dry creek bed, a chaotic blur of limbs and gravel. Calla’s head hit a rock, sending a dull thud through her skull. They rolled over each other, two bodies tangled in a knot of hate, until they hit the sandy bottom.

Silence rushed back in.

Calla lay on her back, staring up at the moon. Her mouth tasted like copper. Her left arm was numb, and her ribs felt like they were being squeezed by a vice. A few feet away, Darius was slumped against a cluster of sagebrush. His expensive linen shirt was torn and stained with dirt and dark patches of blood. His glasses were gone.

He tried to sit up, but his arms gave out. He slumped back, coughing. The sound was wet and weak.

"My... my camera," Darius wheezed. He looked around with unfocused eyes, reaching out into the empty air. "The footage. It’s still up there."

Calla rolled onto her side, her fingers digging into the sand. She looked at him—really looked at him. He didn't look like a kingmaker. He didn't look like an investigative genius. He just looked like a middle-aged man who was bleeding in a ditch.

She looked down at her own hands. They were covered in grit and blood. She wasn't a myth. She wasn't a hunter. She was just a woman who was hurting, miles from anywhere, with a man who would never understand the silence she was looking for.

"It's over, Darius," she croaked.

He didn't even hear her. He just kept clawing at the sand, looking for a story that wasn't there anymore.