text: The sun hangs low in the sky, then disappears underneath the overlooking hills of green, now becoming black once again. After helping yourself to the bottle of whiskey from the kitchen, you took shelter at the base of a tree, its roots politely staying underground and giving you level ground to sit. A stray cat, although likely not exactly stray in the traditional sense of the word, took a place next to you, softly sleeping to your left, its fur showing golden spots within a chocolate coat. Like the bottle, it gives you space, not so much as a cry for food or prod to be pet. It's simply content to sit in the shade, like you have for the previous hours.
  
  Layne exits the ranch house and strides in your direction. It's time.
  
  "Nice out here, isn't it?" Layne comments as he draws near.
  
  You murmur your agreement and follow the gunslinger. He takes you to the other side of the house, where the red barn sits a looming shadow in the dusk. You notice a pair of cellar doors. One is pulled open, a staircase descending into pure darkness. Your destination. Unlike your friendly exchange earlier, Layne motions for you to enter first. Not by gunpoint, but you imagine your refusal would result in it being drawn. There's no sense in being difficult now. If there were such a time, it would be with the man in black the previous night.
  
  You descend into darkness.
  
  Light appears at the bottom, the red-orange glow of flame. As you near the final step, torchlight greets you, more welcoming than the others. There are almost twenty of them now, double in number from when you were a part of the family. Your presence draws all of their attention, twenty pairs of eyes turning in your direction at the same time, gunslingers wearing iron on their hip, wide-brimmed hats pulled low.
  
  Some wear crossing bandoliers at their chest, repeaters at their shoulders. At long last you've returned, the prodigal son who left the family many years ago. There is no feast in celebration, no Father overjoyed at your return. Simply, contempt and judgment, a family built from rivals despite the teachings of Father.
  
  In the center of it all stands Father, Marsten, the man in black, at his side. Smoke hangs heavy in the air, the result of a gunslinger's affinity towards frontier tobacco. You light up, and add to the gathering cloud, waiting for the meeting to begin. You don't have to wait long.
  
  "It warms the heart to have the family together," Father starts. He's dressed in fine black slacks and shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tucked in at the waist. His top hat, black as the void, rests casually on his head. You know the man to be well past the typical mid-point of a man's life, yet his complexion is youthful, absent of wrinkles that should accompany one of his years. "A reunion such as this hasn't been called in... oh how many years would you say, Marsten?"
  
  The man in black, without hesitation, answers, "Four years, Father. Almost five."
  
  Father smiles. To most it would appear friendly, the way a man would smile at a child who asks for permission for another helping at supper. You see beyond that, however, seeing something sinister at the edges, the way a native grins at cutting back the scalp of a civilized man. "Almost five years," he says. "Much too long. You're probably wondering why I have brought you all here." You see a few gunslingers nod their heads. "There is a dark power brewing in the west, a separation of the veil between this world and the abyss. Demons, my dear family."
  
  "There are systems in place for such an event," one of the family members speaks. You can't tell which exactly. "Priests, witch hunters, Goldwater Knights, they keep watch for such things."
  
  Father does not appear surprised by the line of questioning. "They all have failed. It falls on us to protect humanity from the creatures of hell."
  
  "They have broken through, then," another says.
  
  "They have," Father answers. "I have received word from the witch hunters guild. They headed their own investigation."
  
  "So let the witch hunters take care of it. That's what they are for, are they not?"
  
  "They cannot stand against an entire legion."
  
  Murmuring ensues among the family. An entire legion. No, it cannot be. There are reports of the occasional demon escaping from the bowels; usually there's a foolish sorcerer involved, tricked, blinded by the allure of power. Such denizens wreak havoc for a while before the guild puts them down, holy men, witch hunters with divine power who smite them back to the pits of hell, Goldwater knights lending their aid in the case of truly powerful beings. An entire legion. Unheard of, a threat against humanity itself, not simply the settlers of the frontier.
  
  "We deal in lead," another gunslinger drawls. "Better suited to put down men than creatures of hell."
  
  "Ahh," Father exclaims, another question leading him to the next point. Everything for Father is orchestrated. He stands above the stage of life, pulling strings as he wishes. "I've uncovered an answer for that... an answer that some of you won't agree with. Marsten, will you do the honors?"
  
  The man in black nods and steps forward. Through the dancing torchlight, his skin appears with the same unmarked complexion of Father, and suddenly you feel something horribly wrong is about to occur. The man in black stands in the center of a crowd of gunslingers, the family. His eyes scan the crowd, finding what he's looking for. At first you think it's you, but it's actually the man next to you.
  
  "Layne, step forward please."
  
  If the man holds a shred of the feeling you do, he doesn't show it. Layne meets the man in black, surrounded by members of the family. All watch without speaking, like you, feeling something wrong, but not willing to voice it. There is a certain respect that must be shown in the presence of a Father. Father knows best, after all.
  
  Layne stands at perfect attention in front of Marsten, the black of his shirt appearing pale in comparison.
  
  "Remove your gunbelt, please."
  
  Unquestioning, loyal, Layne undoes the clasp at his belt buckle and allows the entire thing to fall to the ground. The impact of his holstered gun hitting the floor is a solid thud, the silence that follows is as the final nail hammered into a coffin.
  
  "I am unhindered, brother," Layne speaks, the deed done.
  
  The man in black stands in front of Layne, neither moving or speaking. Then, in a blur of movement, almost quicker than your eye can track, he lunges forward. The sight that flashes next is burned in your mind, and will be for the remainder of your days, however long that ends up being. In the current moment, it feels as if minutes, hours even. Four sharp canines, unnaturally long, flash in the torchlight, pure white dagger-like fangs ready to devour. They find a home at the base of Layne's exposed neck, like the way you rested comfortably against the tree hours before.
  
  Vampirism.
  
  Layne instinctively tries to resist, his arm reaching out to pull Marsten's teeth away from his skin, but something stops him mid-way. The struggle that's displayed on his face disappears, replaced with signs of ecstasy, a pleasure as unnatural as the teeth tasting his blood. His arm falls limp, soon followed by his entire body. Marsten carefully lays the man down on the floor, like tucking a sleeping child into bed. Then he looks to Father, his deed done.
  
  "Not to worry, not to worry," Father calms the family down, some of which who have hands on their iron. "Brother Layne will rise again, like Marsten before him, like I have done before him. I would not have harm befall our family. Rather, I am ensuring our survival—along with humanity's. The legion must be defeated. Our gift along with our iron seals the deal, in which we fulfill in lead."
  
  The others look unsure how to react. Vampirism, a consciousness extended far beyond mortal means, verging on immortality. The payment, one's life in the traditional sense. That's why you didn't come across the others earlier. Sunlight. You scan the gathered family a little closer now, searching for complexions unfitting of their owners. The knowledge you hold on the subject is limited, not knowing much beyond what's common, some of which is likely born from rumor and story.
  
  "Come now, who's next?" Father asks. He holds up two hands, their palms facing upward, emphasizing that he means no harm. Father strides forward with his next words, the room silent but for his boots and voice. All seems to hold still. Father knows best. "You, Johnny? Eliza?" Neither of them outright refuses the man, yet you and all the gunslingers, notice that it's not quite a yes either. Should Layne rise from the dead, then you imagine their decision will change. Finally, Father's eyes land on you.
  
  You remember them to be a cold gray, intelligent and wise. What's in front of you now is different. Red rings line the pupils, the eyes of a hunter. And in that moment one of the rumors of vampirism is verified. The torches, which send shadows dancing on the walls, are for your benefit, not Father's. If they were to be extinguished, he could see just as well...if not better.
  
  "Once upon a time you would have jumped at the opportunity, would you not? It would be you at my side, the both of you."
  
  Behind Father, a sliver of white appears at the base of Marsten's mouth, a cruel crescent-shaped grin thinking that Father just listed him equal with a gunslinger of legend. You know that is not the case, for there is only one other that would stand your equal, a triumvirate of gunslingers who carry iron on their hip. You manage to utter three words. Nothing else fills your mind, the same ritual that occurs before you close your eyes and try to force sleep each night.
  
  "Where is she?"
  
  It's spoken in a raspy voice, each smoke and drink consumed in her absence seeming to make their presence known in three simple words. That's all it takes for her to pour through your mind, sweeping into every thought, word, and image. In the time it takes for you to utter three little words, you're overwhelmed with a sea of memories, some but mere fragments. The way she lay underneath the pine tree. Her ability to match you drink for drink. Pulling the smoke from your mouth without asking to take a drag. Her laugh, childlike and full of wonder. Too good for this broken world; too good for you. She is her Father's daughter. You chose her. She chose the iron on her hip.
  
  The others watch for Father's response. Before he can answer you, Layne's body suddenly sits up. His torso rises completely up like a man waking up in the morning, although not completely the same. His body is stiff, like a board of wood were strapped to his back giving perfect posture. Layne's neck cranes in your direction, a slow, methodical turn. His face now bears the timeless, near flawless complexion, but the eyes: they're dilated and voidlike, a deep red ring along the edges. Whatever humanity Layne possessed is gone, replaced with the undead hunter that sits before you, cold and lifeless.
  
  "See?" Father says smiling. "The gift is mastery over life. They will not know our sacrifice. They will turn on us later down the road—that much I have seen. But we can preserve them, protect them against the creatures of hell that seek to cripple and devour their body and soul. It's our duty as gunslingers."
  
  With Layne's rising, no one else dares anything but outright acceptance. You notice that Marsten's hand, while not gripping his pistol, never strays far from his hip. Father may be presenting it as an option, but you find it very unlikely that there's an actual choice in the matter. You're either leaving here with teeth sunk into your neck or by pulling iron. That's the real choice in the matter.
  
  > take the gift
  Deep down you know there's only one way to make it out alive—or at least un-dead. You may deal in lead, but rumors are it takes a different type of slug to put down a vampire. You neither possess silver or a blessed wooden stake, and your own faith, if you could call it that, is not nearly strong enough to stand on its own.
  
  And with the realization of the futility, you're fine with the outcome. What purpose has your life served over the previous few years? Your path leaves a trail of bodies, death and destruction in your wake. Except for the bard and Father's daughter, had there truly been anyone that was grateful for your presence? If there are, they never voiced it, never acted differently because of it. No friends among the living, the same can be said for lovers. The decision makes perfect sense.
  
  If somewhere were to bear the burden, let it be you. You, who are used to the fearful shunning of man. You, who has nothing left to lose. After you drive the demons back to hell, they will forget. In time, stories of your heroics and sacrifice will be forgotten. All they will see is a predator in the night, an abomination preying on human blood. Their blood only flows because of you; a small taste should be of little consequence.
  
  You can see the future, the same as Father. The very witch hunters that warned you of the demons' presence will train hunters to track you down. Their hatred of you will be the uniting factor that brings them together, burning your bodies alive, driving wooden crosses through your undead hearts. Yet you willingly take the offer. If someone were to bear the burden, let it be you.
  
  You find yourself nodding. "It must be done."
  
  Father smiles, revealing unnaturally sharp canines. "I will pass it on to you myself. For old time's sake. At one time, we were to be joined by bloodline. Now, our bond runs much deeper."
  
  The other around you watch silently, the rumor about you and Father's daughter confirmed. Through the corner of your eye, you can see slight jealousy on their faces. Like Layne warned you of before, there's a ladder of sorts. Your arrival, history with the family, and personal attention from Father is more than enough to put a target on your back, only something that the most reckless of gunslingers would fire at. The man in black comes to mind.
  
  "You never answered my question about her," you flatly state. Before you're thrust into the realm of undeath, you have to know. There's a chance that it doesn't take. That you don't wake up like Layne. The only fate that frightens you worse than the one you currently live is not knowing and taking the unknown to the grave.
  
  "You know her better than I," Father utters, his voice dropping in volume and taking on the severity of a parent speaking of the unwise decisions of youth.
  
  Know. Not knew. She lives.
  
  "Did you really think she would agree to a life of undeath?"
  
  With that, Father buries his teeth into your neck. Pain fires through your body in the sharp sting of a burning knife. But also, there's something else. A certain kind of pleasure that can only be felt through pain and tragedy, the kind that not many experience in their lifetime. Your hands naturally react, at first rising up to push the man from your neck, but they stop halfway and fall limp to your sides. Strength leaves your body at the same moment, and you know that you couldn't draw iron even if you wanted to.
  
  Faintly, you sense that Father lays you down. Your mind seems to float away from your body, no longer contained in the prison of flesh. Unable to move, your body spasms for a brief moment, the side of your boot kicking up dust in the action. You die in the arms of Father, overwhelmed with both the mixture of pain and pleasure, inconsequential to the words that run through your mind repeating over and over and over and over and...
  
  Did you really think she would agree to a life of undeath?
  
  Like a cruel mistress, fate has turned its back on you again. So close, yet so far. Years ago, you left and she stayed with the family. Now you return to the family to find her having left it. Such is the way of reality, the misalignment of two timelines in the grand scheme of things. You wonder about small decisions that ultimately led to this.
  
  Whatever the case, let it be you rather than her. At least there's some good in that, your soul traded for hers, humanity saved in the process. There are denizens of hell to slay. If you rise from the dead, you'll send them back to the underworld. If there is any meaning to be had in life, perhaps you'll find it in the sacrifice of one's soul. For he who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.
  
  > Ending: A Soul in Trade of Another
  The streets of Westhaven are littered with bodies of the dead. Fire surrounds you. Flame pours through open windows and doorways on both sides of the street. Your heightened senses savor the aroma. Blood is in the air. You'll partake after they are dealt with. The demons tore through the city's defenses like a great wave crashing on the shore, resistance stretching the very meaning of the word. Goldwater Knights and their armor were crushed in the very fashion that their gold-plated breastplates were formed, hammered, beaten by the onslaught of hell. Flames rise on either side of you; the body count increases with each pull of your trigger.
  
  Forming an uneasy alliance with the witch hunters, you fight together against the legion, although not side-by-side. Their holy water is as destructive to you as the demons, their blessed crucifixes draining of your power. Westhaven was split into two sides, each knowing the fight would continue long after the demons were dealt with. However, it's best to deal with one enemy at a time. Waging war on two fronts is a sure way to find one's self overextended.
  
  Demons charge towards you, their leathery wings sending streams of black smoke twisting in the air. Rough fur lines their bodies, hatred and torment in their eyes. The fear of death absent, you put each one down that approaches. In the campaign alone, they've dropped you six times, tearing limb from body, impaling you with claw and talon. Each time you rose, reloading, putting more down. Only divine power will keep you down for good, and their power is anything but.
  
  Layne stands next to you, the least of gunslingers possessing more than enough ability to drop the creatures. And you, perhaps the greatest of them all, do what you're born, trained, and died to do. You deal in lead, the iron at your hip quickly becoming the bane of demons, far more feared than the cross.
  
  No longer do you have dreams of redemption, the happily ever after. It's the false belief of man, that all things will work out in their favor. Whatever a man experiences, lives through, he will die all the same. You've lived, you've died, and the burden of man does not apply. You are a hunter in the night, a drunkard of gore. Your path is of the dead, and more are continually added with each step.
  
  A goat horn rings through the streets of Westhaven, a hair-raising tone that would paralyze the common man. But you recognize the sound and allow the notes to resound ecstasy throughout your body. It can mean only one thing: the legion's retreat. You whisper the words of power, similar ones to those uttered in Redshire months before. The mustang does not appear, galloping through Westhaven with bridled grace. It fell long ago, and now another takes its place.
  
  The black stallion appears, trampling through bodies of the fallen rather than leaping over. Its mane is dark as a nightmare, eyes bearing the same crimson ring as yours. Perhaps you'll name this one, the curse of undeath shared between the both of you. That's for another time, however. There are demons to slay. You leap atop the stallion's back mid-gallop, your revolver in the palm of your hand. In life, in death, you are a gunslinger. You light up a smoke, place it in the corner of your mouth, and do as your born to do, as you're trained to do, as you died to do. You deal in lead.
  
  The End