OLIVER
White.
The desert screamed white. The vast barren waste, so plain, so banal, that it could be any desert in any part of the world, spread as far as could be seen in all directions, trailing off to the distant mountains.
On the edge of the desert’s habitable zone, there rested a chapel overlooking a collection of buildings. To the east, deeper into the dunes and grains, stood the shambles of the rest of the town that had appeared overnight and faded over the decades. The desert had almost finished swallowing it and was slowly approaching the chapel.
Tallest of the buildings, its bell tower penetrated the sky. The once white paint had been faded by wind and sand over the decades, and it could not be established where this house of God ended and the devouring sand began.
Through the desert, a figure approached. A tangle of rags bleached by the sun, wind, and sand covered the figure. It blended into the desert, only distinguishable by movement. It trudged through the dunes, climbing one side, only to tumble down the next.
Parts of a sermon could just be heard over the moan of the wind. Words of forgiveness, salvation, and Jesus drifted out and faded into oblivion.
The figure placed a wrapped hand on the door and leaned to open it. The wind and sand rushed in and danced along the rows. Grains scratched against the ancient wooden pews. The few parishioners turned to see who had entered. The figure paused and surveyed the room, its features hidden in the shadows of its rags.
The minister paused. A chill he had not felt since his youth crawled down his spine, and he could almost hear distant voices.
He was a tall, athletic man in his early thirties with a face framed by closely-trimmed, dark brown hair, the tips just starting to curl, and a short-cropped beard. His eyes were a blue so deep that from a distance folks would say they were the color of onyx.
He wore a black duster with a white shoulder yoke embroidered with a golden cross on his left breast and an outline of a golden dove on his right.
His hands slid down, pushing the duster back.
“Welcome, friend,” his soft, friendly, and distinctly American voice crooned. “All are welcome in this house of God.”
The figure went rigid at the words. It paused for another moment, seeming lost or confused.
“Have you come seeking shelter from the desert?” questioned the minister. “Please, sit, rest. We will have food and drink, enough for all, after the service.” He stepped around the pulpit and motioned welcomingly to the pews.
The figure began to lumber down the center of the aisle.
“God... sss... house...” The sound was like a lizard learning to speak the human tongue.
The few and scattered parishioners covered their ears. The piercing of the voice was unbearable. The sound raked and tore at their ears.
“God... isss...” The figure’s rags burst off his form, and it charged the pulpit screaming, “dead!”
The minister flung aside his coat to draw a pair of revolvers. They screamed to life, and two shots cried out as one. The figure dropped to the floor, a hole in its head and a hole in its chest. The parishioners panicked and rushed out the open doors.
The minister kept both guns zeroed on the figure as he slowly approached. No blood, no pus, nothing, exited the wounds. It was humanoid, two arms, two legs, a head, and the usual stuff. The bullets had torn the rags exposing the skin beneath. Its skin was like jerky: dry and stretched.
“It’s a ghoul,” offered a female voice from one of the rows hidden in shadow. “A lesser demon, only able to possess a corpse.”
A woman slowly rose out of the darkness with her arms raised over her head. She wore a desert robe drawn back to reveal her auburn hair and aquiline features.
“My name is Melissa.” She kept her hands raised as she walked closer. “And you, you are Oliver Donnelley, apprentice of Gerin.”
The moment Melissa spoke the name “Gerin,” Oliver swung one revolver and pointed it at her.
“Yes, I am; my name is posted on the sign outside,” said Oliver. “Who are you, was this ‘ghoul’ here for you, and how do you know about Gerin?”
“This ghoul is a servant of a greater demon,” answered Melissa. “I know much about demons, and even some about you. Gerin was your mentor, your adoptive father, and your trainer. The weapons you wield were once Gerin’s. Most importantly, he was a Paladin, as are you.”