Dust to Dust

The air in Gila Hollow smelled of dry rot and sagebrush. Calla hauled the plastic red jerrycan from the trunk of her sedan. Her side burned where the knife had grazed her, a hot wire of pain that kept her sharp. She didn't look at Darius yet. He was slumped against the porch of the old saloon, clutching his broken camera like a dead child.

The pre-dawn light was a bruise-colored smear on the horizon. Calla unscrewed the cap. The sharp, chemical bite of gasoline cut through the desert air.

"What are you doing?" Darius’s voice was thin. The smooth, resonant tone he used for his millions of listeners had cracked. "Calla, think about the record. This is history. People need to see how it ends."

Calla didn't answer. She tilted the can. The liquid chugged out, dark and heavy, soaking into the dry wood of the saloon steps. She moved with a slow, rhythmic grace, walking a circle around the car that had been her only home for months. The gasoline splashed against the tires and pooled in the dust.

"You're destroying the truth," Darius said. He tried to stand, but his knees buckled. He crawled a few inches closer, his eyes frantic. "You're the Highway Huntress. You can't just... stop. The story needs a finale. If you burn this, there's nothing left of you."

Calla stopped. She looked down at him, her face a mask of cold stillness. "That's the point, Darius."

"But the world loves you!" He reached out, his hand trembling. "They want the vigilante. They want the myth. I made you a god on those airwaves."

"You made a monster for profit," Calla said. Her voice was low, a quiet vibration that seemed to carry further than his shouts. "You didn't want justice. You wanted a season finale."

She walked toward the saloon door, pouring a steady stream of fuel across the threshold. The interior was a tomb of splintered tables and ancient dust. It would go up like a matchbox.

"Wait," Darius croaked. He scrambled toward his bag, fumbling for a backup memory card. "Just one shot. One photo of you in the flames. We can tell them you died a hero. We can make it legendary."

Calla watched him. He wasn't even looking at her anymore; he was looking at the charred remains of his career. She felt a strange, hollow pity for him. He was just another man trying to own her, trying to wrap her life in a narrative that served his needs.

"Jesse used words to keep me small," Calla said, her voice catching just slightly. "You used words to make me big. Neither of you ever looked at me."

She emptied the last of the can onto the driver’s seat of her car. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a silver lighter. It felt heavy in her hand.

"Calla, don't!" Darius screamed. He lunged for her, his fingers catching the hem of her jacket.

She stepped back, easy as a shadow. She struck the wheel. A small, orange flame danced in the wind.

"The Huntress dies tonight," Calla said.

She flicked the lighter into the car.

The gasoline caught with a soft *whoosh* that quickly grew into a roar. The interior of the sedan turned into a sun. Heat blasted outward, stinging Calla’s cheeks and making the air shimmer. She didn't wait. She turned and tossed a second lit match onto the saloon porch.

The old wood screamed. The fire climbed the walls in seconds, hungry and bright. The orange light turned the ghost town into a theater of gold and ash.

"My gear!" Darius wailed. He backed away from the heat, shielding his face. "The footage! It’s all in there!"

"Let it go," Calla said. She stood between the burning car and the burning building, a silhouette against the inferno.

The heat was beautiful. It felt like it was scrubbing the skin off her bones, washing away the smell of copper and the memory of the men she had left in the dirt. The cameras, the hard drives, the blood-stained floorboards—the fire took it all. It didn't care about the myth. It only cared about the fuel.

Darius fell back into the sand, weeping as the roof of the saloon groaned and collapsed. A fountain of sparks shot into the black sky. The "Highway Huntress" was being reduced to carbon and smoke.

Calla looked at him one last time. He was a small, broken man in a wide, indifferent desert. He had no story left to tell.

She turned her back on the fire. She didn't run. she simply walked. She moved toward the dark silhouette of the hills, away from the road, away from the legend. Behind her, the town of Gila Hollow burned white-hot, erasing her footprints before the sun could even rise to see them.

The silence of the desert swallowed the roar of the flames, and for the first time in years, Calla Voss was no one at all.