Scott Harrison & The Trials of Mictlán

Gunshots cracked across the Texas plain, slashing the heavy afternoon air. Winscott 'Scott' Harrison froze-rod trembling, creek water threading down the line like sweat. He was fourteen, lean as a reed, creek mist splayed across a sunburned nose, hair the color of amber wheat pressed to his skull by sweat. His jeans clung to thighs that ached from yesterday's chores, and his boots were caked in mud and dust.

He dropped the rod without thinking. The creek's surface, once rippling with minnows, stilled as if it too had heard the shot-then another echoed, closer. Scott risked a glance upstream: the water ran shallow and muddy, the banks brittle with heat. He pressed a hand against his racing heart, tasting cedar on the wind. It was wood smoke, not campfire warmth but something harsher. He'd only smelled it once before-when the old barn burned last spring.

He bolted for the rise, legs burning with every step. The grasses clawed at his jeans; each breath felt branded into his chest. Above him, the sky hung low and white, like the world was waiting for an answer.

When he crested the hill, an ancient elm stood abandoned at the edge of their property. Its bark was black with age and memory. Scott's rod clattered forgotten in the grass. He swallowed tight, dread flooding him: something precious was gone, and no creek, no fish, no summer swim could bring it back.

Harrison Ranch was on fire.

The house was burning-not old-wood blaze, not accident-but deliberate. Flames licked up the walls with greedy precision, the kind that didn't wait for lightning or luck. The shutters hung twisted, peeled back like they'd tried to run. The front door stood open, swinging wide on its hinges as if caught in a breathless decision.

And in the driveway, just past the buckled earth, it waited.

A limousine.

Pitch black.

Unmoving.

Wrong.

It didn't belong here-not on red Texas soil, not beneath a scorched sky. Its polished surface didn't reflect the fire- it devoured it.

Three figures flanked its doors. Suits so dark they blurred into the smoke. Too large for any man Scott had met on the ranch. One rested a hand the size of a branding pan on the hood, fingers curling against chrome. Another leaned against the trunk, smiling through a mouth half-filled with gold.

And then she stepped out.

Tall, poised, unearthly-her white hair tumbled over shadow-black silk, catching the blaze like frost in flame. Her white hair poured over her shoulders like moonlight on marble, catching sparks without ever burning. She moved like someone who had already seen the ending. Eyes sharp as slate. Skin untouched by the heat that blistered paint and split shingles. When she pulled back a lace veil, the wind dared to stir. She wasn't fragile. She was reverent-dangerous beauty you whispered about in myths, not met in daylight.

Not beautiful. Not awful. Just... final.

Hidden behind the elm, Scott stared. And watched his world burn.

He dropped from the ridge into tall grass, each step a hush against the blaze-lit horizon. Sweat slicked his back as he circled toward the barn.

Behind splintered boards, he pressed himself flat. Through a gap, he saw the limo's trunk pop open. Three men pried at a cedar box. Metal glinted-a curved silver half-bracelet once part of his mother's locket, now half snapped onto the stranger's wrist like a broken shackle.

This wasn't fear he was now feeling. It was resolved. He would reclaim that piece, find his family, and stop them.

He edged around the barn corner, grass whispering underfoot. Enough-any second they'd finish. He slipped behind a rusted trough and braced his palm against its cold rim.

Two hulks guarded the trunk. One, scarred from temple to jaw, strained at his suit, veins coiling like ropes. The other, goateed and barreled-chested, grinned through a missing tooth.

"Piece still won't fit," the scarred man grunted.

"Boss ain't patient," the goateed one snapped.

From the limo's yawning door, she appeared again-white hair rippling, calm cutting through their growls.

"Find it," she said, voice cool as steel. "Bring the other half."

Scott's gut clenched. He didn't know what they were looking for, only that it was missing.

He ducked back, breath caught, mind racing. Warn them-now.

Scott's boots thudded into the scorched corral, the fenceposts warped with heat and age. His sister Bea stood astride Silver's broad back-her favorite paint mare-hands white-knuckled on the reins, eyes wide as saucers. Dad knelt beside her in the dirt, guiding her weight. The hill they rode near block the smell and sight of impending doom.

"Heel down, Bea," Xander Harrison called, voice steady over the crackle of burning timber. "Look straight ahead. Silver knows this lane-let her lead."

Bea swallowed hard and straightened in the saddle. The mare shifted restlessly, nostrils flaring at the taste of smoke. Scott gathered strength and sprinted to his family's side, heart hammering. He hadn't wanted to leave them alone, even for that one minute by the hillside creek they rode near.

Dad rose and brushed soot from his rolled-up shirt sleeve. He offered Scott a nod that was more question than greeting. Scott shook his head-he'd seen the limousine, black as a starless night, cutting through the gravel drive. He'd seen the scarred men dragging lumber into the trunk. Dad didn't know any of the horrors he witnessed until now as Scott haphazardly through strained breath.

He moved beside his father, bracing his hands on Silver's flank. The mare whickered softly, pressing into his palm. Her smooth hide was warm, sweat-slicked from the afternoon sun. Scott drew a breath of cedar and sweat, trying to steady the wild pulse in his veins. Around them, the prairie lay empty of birdsong. Even the cattle, a dozen head clustered beyond the barn, raised their heads in silent watch.

Dad's gaze swept the horizon once, then back to Bea. He touched her boot with his calloused finger. "Get ready to ride, alright?"

Bea nodded, jaw set with the same stubborn courage he saw every time she beat him at a game and smirked like it was war. He remembered the first time she'd mounted Silver-she'd trembled so much the saddle horn clicked beneath her grip. But she'd stayed up. She was stubborn that way. "Alright," she echoed, voice tight.

"Let's move," Dad said. He saddled Scott first then swung up behind in one fluid motion, landing with a ground-shaking stomp that made Silver start. The mare bolted forward, hooves thudding on the hardpan. Scott turned to cast a worried glance at the burning house. Flames curled skyward in hungry tongues, turning white columns into burning roses of ash.

He swallowed a lump of dread. Every instinct screamed to run back for his mother's locket-the silver half-bracelet he'd seen the brutes take. Its value was worthless besides the small amount of silver it carried, but he'd rather lose his arm than that piece of her memory. But what use was a memory if the forge it came from was gone?

As they cleared the corral gate, Silver surged downhill, splinters flying as the rail shattered like dry bone behind her. Dad guided Bea and the mare onto the familiar trail through the cedar brake-cool shade compared to the scorching plains-while Scott held close at their flank. The cannon-shot echo of the house collapse cracked behind him. He flinched, breath catching.

"Scott," Dad barked. "Stay with her."

Scott nodded as his dad jumped to another steer nearby, though half his mind drifted back to the embers. He reached for Bea's stirrup, steadying her as she urged Silver onward. Branches overhead snapped like whips as the mare threaded the narrow path. Scott's fingers brushed the silver amulet woven in a leather loop attached tightly to his wrist.

Sunlight flickered through the canopy, painting patterns on their bent backs. The horses' flanks heaved beneath them; each gallop brought the distant gunshots closer, sharper. Scott risked a glance over his shoulder: the black limo had crested the rise, its dark windows reflecting the slaughter of cedar and ash. Two figures stood at its door, silently watching them flee.

His throat tightened.

They burst from the brake into the open canyon, dust roiling behind them like a wounded beast. Silver's hooves struck stone; the horses of Harrison Ranch stampeded around them, low bells and rattles echoing in panic. Dad reined both horses tight, eyes blazing. He whirled to face the canyon mouth.

Scott slammed Silver to a stop beside his father. "We can't just leave-"

"Keep your sister safe," Xander growled. "Go!"

Scott shot a look at Bea-her face pale but determined-and then nudged Silver forward. The mare charged through the dust cloud, the herd surging around them in a chaotic river of hide and hoof. Gunshots cracked again, closer now, and Scott felt each report resonate in his chest like a hammer blow.

They skidded through the final arch of rock and into the deeper canyon, walls rising on either side like guard towers. The air turned colder, the sun a distant promise. Behind them, the smoke plume crowned the plain. Scott glanced back one last time and saw her standing on the ridge-the woman with white hair, her silhouette framed by flame. In her hand, the missing half-bracelet gleamed silver against her dark sleeve.

Scott's tongue went dry. He shook his head, blinked, and focused on the trail ahead. Ahead lay shadows and dust, uncertainty and fear-but also the only thing worth chasing.

He glanced at Bea. She met his eyes and gave a small, fierce nod.

They rode on.

They tore across the pasture-Scott clinging to Bea, Silver weaving between startled cattle. The limo skidded through the corral gate; two brutes chased on foot, boots pounding bone-dry earth, while the third scrambled to restart the engine.

Ahead, Xander pointed toward broken rails. Silver leapt, splinters spraying beneath them. Triumph roared in Xander's chest.

But the woman and the savages were not deterred. She stepped from the limo as it halted at the fence-white hair fanning around her like a halo of frost. She lifted one long arm.

Mist coiled at her fingertips-not rising, but falling, like a shadow deciding to crawl instead of drift

Scott's heart thundered. Bea trembled. Wind whipped sparks from Silver's hooves.

The mist didn't rise like fog. It sank from the air-thick as dust, sharp as grit beneath your skin. It crawled over the creekbank in silent waves, pressing against their ankles. Scott gagged. Bea buried her face in his back.

Xander planted his boot in this horse and reached for Scott. "Ride!"

The woman tilted her head and began to murmur an eerie whisper.

Mist began to stir around her feet.

"Go!" he urged.

Silver bolted. The men yelled and charged the fence. The limousine roared behind them. A plume of dust filled the air.

"Into the valley!" Xander shouted.

They hurtled downhill, hooves kicking stone and dust. The canyon's walls closed in, sun-baked and jagged.

Behind them, the mist grew-a black tide snaking between rock, curling around hoof-struck dust. The three brutes flanked as the mist surrounded them. Silver stumbled as the darkness pressed in.

At the apex of the valley where the mist now engulfed, the woman appeared, framed by sunlight and shadow. She watched them stop and huddle together with a cold detachment. Mist pooled at her feet.

Above the chaos, she waited-arms folded, still as bone. At her command, the men hesitated.

"Return what you stole," she said. No plea. An order.

Xander held his children tighter, then met her gaze. "We have nothing here," he snarled. "Just the clothes on our back and the livestock."

Xander reined his horse hard. "There's nothing you'll find," he called up. Dust choked his voice. "No gold or money, nothing of real value-just a father's fierce love."

She stared at him-unblinking. A single puff of dust rose from her toe. Then she spoke, voice low as a tomb.

"You speak of love...yet you hold what was meant for me."

Her gaze flicked to Scott's wrist-where the bracelet peeked from beneath the shadow of a cloud. She hesitated, just an instant-a flinch in steel.

Then the mist lunged.

It moved not like wind, but intent-clawing at their boots, snaking around their reins, tugging at their breath. Scott reached for Xander-but found only empty air. Bea screamed.

The scar-faced brute lunged. Xander pivoted, fists raised. Scott dropped low, kicking the second man's knee. The brute howled. With a roar, Xander's punch sent the scar-faced attacker crashing into the creek with a shattering splash.

The third brute seized Scott's ankle from the bank, yanking him into sticky mud. He thrashed, choking on churned earth.

The last thing Scott saw as he broke free from his grip was her face framed in light and shadow, cold as marble... yet in her eyes, the faintest tremor.

Then the canyon closed in-light fractured, mist filled his lungs, and everything was pulled inward.

In his last moment of clarity, the sound of crashing water engulfed the young boy's ears.