“Give me clear skies and desert winds any day.” He said it to no soul in particular, more to himself. With one last defiant look into the fierce wind Joel flipped up the hood of his parka and kept walking. As he walked the high mountain pass he patted the handles of his twin six shooters buried deep beneath the heavy coat, through thick mittens.

The pack stopped, and everyone crouched. Joel did so without really thinking, just going along, as he always did. Whispers ran up and down the twelve man posse. Everyone had their own theory.

The Gerain girls got carted off last night, screaming all the way, echoing through the otherwise peaceful valley. Some blamed raiders from the next town over. Yeti got blamed, as it always did. Joel knew this was silly. Yetis don’t cart off anything; they just eat it. This could only be one thing: ogre.

The group shuffled back to a start, and Joel went back to patting his guns. He laughed that men had wasted so much time with swords. Metal is metal. Dead is dead.