DISCLAIMER: While this story is based off of quite a tangential character, the main idea of and the basis for this fanfic rests with its owners (and may I say I'm very glad they came up with it!)

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It had been a dark night- not only had the stars and moon been snuffed out by clouds, but if one stood still enough, and felt, and listened, they would discover the darkness was tangible, audible. It was thick, heavy, full of the air and the Earth... an old darkness, one that had stood upon the Earth for centuries. It had a scent. It had a sense. It had a power. It smelled of spice and wind and coal, had the sense of shadows, the power of a god.

Somewhere in the darkness, Lucius Stangler was running.

He wasn't quite sure why he was running, but men in Stangler's situation hardly stopped to consider the cause of their actions. People who'd seen what he'd seen rarely stayed in one place for long.

He'd just seen five hundred men die in the short time span of ten seconds. Perhaps less.

All of them. Dead. There was no way they could have survived.

He'd had his doubts at first, of course. After it had happened, after the flames of their torches were snuffed out and the screams had ceased, he'd rushed to the pile of rubble and rocks, calling out names, waiting for an answer.

he'd called, shouting the names of the miners he'd known best, Willy? Jim?

Can anybody hear me?!

He'd reached out to touch the outpouring of rocks, but as soon as his fingertips brushed it he shrank back; a few stray pebbles clicked down to the soil in reaction to his touch. There was something odd and foreboding about the now closed-off tunnel of the mine, not simply the possibility that death might have occurred under it, but the REALITY of death. Death HAD come to pass under those rocks, there was no doubt about it. And Stangler had no knowledge of how it was, only that it was. And that was enough for him.

he'd suddenly whispered to himself. The miners had been looking for Henry Scudder, tracking him down, ready to hang him for the murder of Carlton Butridge. And Stangler had no way of knowing whether Scudder was among the dead, but... whether he was or he wasn't, somehow or another, this was all his fault.

he shouted this time, so loud that it echoed in the empty valley that was Babylon, Texas.

That's when he'd seen it. A leap of motion out of the corner of his eye.

And he ran.

Not away from the motion, but toward it, in pursuit of it. And even when he had run for some time and discovered he really was chasing nothing at all, he found himself to still be running, through the darkness, out of town, towards the hills.

At last he reached the hill, the outskirts of town, and began climbing, his feet pounding hard in the dust. But as he ascended he felt himself growing suddenly weary, as if someone were laying a heavy load onto his shoulders. He took this to be nothing more than a weariness caused by his own running.

And so he reached the top of the hill, though with each step his body became harder to lift; his knees felt more like buckling.

Lucius collapsed finally over the top of the hill, rolling about a third of the way down and finally laying still, his face to the sky. He tried to breathe but something stopped him. He tried to stand, but could not. And he saw hands, ghostly, disembodied hands, reaching down out of nowhere to grab him.

And he awoke in the bar.

He was sitting on a stool, his head cradled in folded arms. Light streamed in through the windows.

It was morning, and the bar was exactly as it had been left the previous night.

Men had been there of course- miners, preparing for their assault on Scudder, drinking, working up a storm. Stangler had found it all very interesting, but hadn't wanted to get too involved. He had only gone to watch the outcome, see what happened. After all, a man had been murdered.

That being said, there were bottles and glasses everywhere, some emptied and lying askew on the floor. The chairs were in disarray and fresh stains of liquor marked the wooden tables.

In front of Stangler, on the bar, lay his hat. To his left stood a half-empty bottle.

Lucius squinted at the bottle suspiciously. He didn't feel like he'd been drinking last night, at least not to the point where he'd acquire a hangover. Besides, he didn't have one.

Still, what a strange dream. And why couldn't he remember what had happened to the miners?

He sighed, almost impatiently, sitting up and putting on his hat. He looked around. Things were quiet. Very quiet. By the time the sun was this bright, sounds of metal upon rock should have been emitting from the mines. But there was nothing.

Lucius felt the flicker of a quiet fear. He drummed his fingers on the bartop.

He went outside.

No one was around. The streets were empty and the wind howled through, and still the mines lay silent.

Not a soul to be seen.

Stangler squinted again, in confusion and in defiance of the wind. And, fearing suddenly that part of what he did remember might not be a dream at all, he headed for the mines.

The sight that met him there, in the harsh light of day, was almost too much to take. He didn't call out this time, he only sank to his knees, feeling suddenly sick. There was no blood, no sign of a corpse, but the death was still there, still sickeningly real. What if the rest of the dream was real, too?

Stangler didn't want to run. Didn't want to try to leave again.

But what choice did he have?

This time he took things with him in preparation for his journey; he knew the roads outside of Babylon were long and empty. He packed an amount of supplies small enough for him to carry, and set off, this time in a different direction.

And this time when he woke up, it was darker. The sun wavered on the edge of the horizon. It had happened again.

This time he remembered distinctly, it was no dream. He had grown tired as the road wore on, more tired than he should have gotten after such a short sojourn. And eventually he had collapsed, and though he did not see the hands this time he had sensed them reaching out for him. Then everything had gone dark and he had awakened again, in the bar, his head folded in his arms.

Was he going crazy?

Lucius put a hand to his forehead, his shoulders suddenly beginning to quiver with sobs. Every man in town dead, and him starting to go out of his mind... Or maybe they were still alive. Maybe it was only another illusion...

He needed consolation. Comfort. Something. Reaching to his left, he took up the half-full bottle of whisky and drank deep.

After a few healthy swigs he seemed to realize this was not the solution. His hazy eyes traveled around the room.

Setting the bottle down, he stood up off the stool and began to tidy up the bar.

And as he did so, the sun began to set.