The sun was still blazing down on the New Mexico highway. Bob gripped the steering wheel firmly with both hands, chatting occasionally with his wife in the passenger seat.
Summer, summer, quietly passed by,
leaving behind a little secret,
buried deep in my heart—
buried deep in my heart.
I can't tell you…
The evening breeze warms my heart…
Damian sat at the dining table in the RV, humming an off-key tune while flipping through a notebook filled with strange symbols.
Brenda and Bobby sat across from him, watching curiously as Damian grinned foolishly to himself.
"Kids, we'll be there in twenty minutes—"
Bang!
Before Bob could finish speaking, two deafening explosions ripped through the highway.
Sizzle… sizzle…
The SUV suddenly lurched to the left, and the steering wheel wrenched violently in Bob's hands.
Damn it!
He slammed on the brakes, but the vehicle was already out of control.
Boom!
The SUV veered off the road like a wild horse and slammed into the mountainside. The ear-splitting shriek of twisting metal echoed across the desert.
Bang!
The RV, following close behind, rear-ended the SUV. Damian was thrown forward by the impact, his laptop flying from his hands.
Brenda screamed and shielded Bobby, while Lynn cracked her head against a cabinet—blood immediately seeped from her forehead.
"Is everyone alright?"
Damian was the first to recover. He helped Bobby and Brenda to their feet—Brenda had been pinned beneath him during the crash.
Bob kicked open the mangled car door and staggered out.
By now, the front of the SUV was a twisted wreck, thick smoke billowing from under the hood.
He inspected the damage, wondering if he could patch it up with the tools he had.
"Damn it! Both front tires blew out! Must be the heat…"
After his inspection, Bob couldn't help but complain.
Hearing this, Damian walked over to the SUV, squatted down, and examined the shredded tires closely.
Both front tires had nearly identical punctures—each struck dead center in the tread by a sharp object. The wounds were too clean, too regular, to have been caused by heat alone.
He narrowed his eyes and scanned the road behind them.
Not far back, he spotted a distinct horizontal drag mark between the tire tracks. The surrounding gravel had been deliberately smoothed over, as if someone had tried to hide it.
Damian returned to the group, glanced at Bob and Bukowski, then lowered his voice.
"This wasn't an accident. There's a fresh drag mark on the road where we passed. Someone planted spike strips ahead of us and pulled them out after we hit."
Bob's face went pale. Without a word, he herded his wife and kids back into the RV and grabbed his hunting rifle.
Doug nervously pushed up his glasses, swallowed hard, and asked in a trembling voice, "Are you sure? Could it… could it be desert snake trails?"
Damian shook his head and pointed to the marks he'd found.
"The drag lines are too straight and too fresh. There are small mounds of displaced earth around them, partially covered with loose soil. This wasn't made by animals—or nature."
Bob scanned his surroundings warily, the muzzle of his gun sweeping the horizon. With a hint of suspicion in his voice, he asked:
"So what should we do now? Staying where we are might be dangerous, but trekking through the desert with women and children isn't a good idea either."
Damian quickly scanned the surrounding terrain, then pointed toward the foot of the distant mountain.
"There's an abandoned mine over there—less than 500 meters from the road. It's safer than staying out in the open."
At this, Doug exclaimed in surprise:
"Are you crazy? What if there are wild animals or—"
"That's still better than sitting here like a target," Damian interrupted. "If the others really have malicious intent, a thin sheet of iron won't stop anything."
Damian picked up his backpack, rummaged through the trunk of the SUV, and pulled out a machete. Turning to the two men, he said firmly:
"Mr. Bob, you and Mr. Doug stay behind to protect the others. I'll go explore the mine first. If I'm not back within half an hour, take your families and run as far away as possible."
As he said Doug's name, Damian paused slightly—almost as if the name itself felt like a curse.
Bob grabbed his shoulder, eyes wide. "No! I don't agree! This isn't a movie shoot! You're going alone—"
Damian pulled free, took a powerful flashlight from his pack, and replied calmly:
"Don't worry. I know what I'm doing."
"Wait a minute—"
Ignoring Bob's protests, Damian strode alone toward the mine. The hot desert wind whipped sand into his face, and with every step, his boots sank into the soft dunes.
As he drew closer, the dark entrance of the mine loomed like a gaping maw, ready to devour anyone who dared approach.
At the threshold, Damian stopped, picked up a stone from the ground, and tossed it inside.
…Thump!
He counted silently in his head. The echo lasted about six seconds—this mine was deeper than he'd imagined.
The beam of his flashlight pierced the darkness, revealing dusty tracks and rusted mine carts.
The moment he stepped inside, the temperature plummeted. A putrid stench clung to him like invisible tentacles, forcing him to cover his mouth and nose.
Under the light, he spotted brown markings and numbers scrawled on the cave wall—some so dark they looked like dried blood.
After moving about fifty meters deeper, the stench became nearly suffocating.
Damian squinted, took a few cautious steps back, and—fighting down a wave of nausea—shone the flashlight toward the source of the worst odor.
The beam landed on a sight that froze his blood.
In one corner of the mine lay a heap of human skeletons. Some were fully bleached bones; others still clung to rotting flesh. The corpses on top were disturbingly fresh—maggots writhed in their empty eye sockets.
His flashlight trembled slightly. In its light, scattered clothing came into view: a cowboy hat, a plaid shirt, a dress, even a U.S. military uniform bearing the patch of the 41st Infantry Regiment.
"Damn it… What horror movie is this?!" he muttered, instinctively backing away.
Just then, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
Whoosh—
A sudden gale roared through the tunnel. Relying on years of honed reflexes, Damian ducked just in time.
Clang—!!!
A rusty, massive axe grazed his hair and slammed into the rock face, sending sparks flying.
In that flash of light, Damian caught a glimpse of his attacker.
It was a colossal creature—nearly three meters tall—its grotesquely deformed body barely contained by a tattered black suit. Its head was smooth and hairless, covered in strange, bulbous tumors that obscured any recognizable facial features. Only its mouth stood out: crooked teeth jutted from swollen lips, and thick, yellowish saliva dripped steadily onto its chest.
"Hehehe…"
The monster let out a hoarse, guttural laugh and effortlessly yanked the axe from the stone.
Damian retreated quickly, pressing his back against the tunnel wall.
The flashlight beam hit the creature's face—revealing yellow, pupil-less eyes. Undisturbed by the glare, it swung the axe again.
Clang!
Damian barely raised his machete in time to block the blow, but the force numbed his arms.
"Giggle…"
The monster chuckled, clearly toying with its prey.
Without warning, it lashed out with a massive foot and kicked Damian in the abdomen, sending him flying five or six meters.
Bang!
He crashed hard beside the bone pile, his flashlight rolling away—its beam now fixed on the advancing monster, which moved slowly, savoring his terror.
A
s the creature loomed closer, Damian suddenly grinned.
"You know the Pacific Ocean?" he said through gritted teeth. "That's the water I've got saved up for you!"
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