Hell's Heroes

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“I miss Cal,” Dervish says. “We fought a lot when we were young, like all brothers, but we were always there for one another.”

We’re lying in the mouth of a cave, admiring the desolate desert view, sheltered from the fierce afternoon sun.

“It’s funny,” Dervish chuckles. “I thought I’d be the first to go. The life I chose, the risks I took… I was sure I’d die young and nastily. I pictured Cal living to be eighty or ninety. Strange how things work out, isn’t it?”

I stare at the hole in the left side of Dervish’s chest. Blood is seeping from it and I can see bone inside. “Yeah,” I grunt. “Hilarious.”

Dervish shifts and grimaces. He’s in a lot of pain, but he won’t have to suffer much longer. My uncle was in bad shape before we took on an army of demons. Now, having come through hell, he doesn’t have a prayer. He’s finished. We both know it. That’s why we came up here from the underground cave, so he could die in the open, breathing fresh air.

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