Eastern Ruins
Copyright© 2026 by Sandra Alek
Chapter 1
Music thumped through the saloon, rattling glasses on the shelves. Ember danced, completely naked except for the wide belt around her waist. Her red hair flashed in the lamplight as she moved, every step controlled, every turn precise.
She leaped, flipping backward through the air. The knife left her hand, spinning once, twice—then she caught it midair and drove it sharply into the wooden floor with a powerful throw. It stayed there, blade buried deep, a perfect mark of her skill.
“Yeah! That’s it!” a man shouted from the back.
“Woo! Amazing!” a woman cheered near the bar.
The crowd erupted, clapping and shouting, a wave of sound rolling over the stage. Ember’s heart raced, adrenaline flooding through her. Every muscle sang, every nerve alive. She felt the power, the rhythm, the thrill of her own skill. The dance pulsed through her like fire.
She flowed into a series of twists, flips, and spins, each landing light and exact. Another voice called out, “Go, girl!” Male and female cheers merged into a roaring tide. Ember laughed softly, spinning and leaping, savoring every second. The knife in the floor, the beat under her feet, the shouts around her—it all fed the rush.
She felt their eyes on her, following each move. The crowd’s awe, their excitement—it added fuel to her performance. She controlled the energy, bending it, directing it with every step, every turn. The applause, the shouts, the gasps—they were hers to command.
For a moment, she paused mid-step, letting the exhilaration fill her. Her chest rose and fell, her veins tingling with energy. She smiled, feeling the joy, the mastery, and the pure pleasure of performing—not just the dance itself, but the way she stirred the crowd, the power she wielded over their attention. Blowing kisses into the crowd, dipping into a graceful bow, she let herself drink in the applause.
Her fingers swept over the stage as she gathered her clothing, movements smooth and deliberate. The audience roared once more, a final wave of cheers and whistles. Ember’s smile widened. Adrenaline still surged through her, every sense alive, every movement a celebration of skill, freedom, and control.
Finally, she stepped off the stage, still trembling with excitement. The performance was over, but the rush, the thrill, the joy of dancing—and the exhilaration of holding the crowd in her hands—lingered in every fiber of her body.
Ember pulled on her clothes, fingers moving fast, still warm from the stage lights. She took the tin from the floor and shook it once. Seven tokens clinked inside. Not bad, but not enough for a comfortable week.
The saloon buzzed behind her. She made her way to the bar, slid a token across the counter, and took a glass of watered-down whiskey. The taste was weak, but it burned just enough to steady her breath.
She let her eyes sweep across the room—drunks, traders, tired guards, faces lost in dim lantern light.
Then she spotted Molly, the town’s tailor, sitting alone at a corner table, hands wrapped around an empty cup.
Ember walked over and pulled out a chair.
Molly blinked, surprised, then smiled.
“That was ... wow,” Molly said. “You were incredible up there.”
Ember let out a short breath, still catching herself after the dance.
“Thanks.”
Molly leaned in a little.
“I mean it. I’d die of embarrassment doing what you do. How do you even go on that stage without shaking?”
Ember raised her brows.
“Why would I be embarrassed? Do I have something wrong with me?”
Molly’s eyes widened.
“No! Gods, no. You look perfect.”
She waved her hands, flustered.
“I just mean ... I couldn’t do it. All those eyes on me? No chance.”
Ember shrugged, stretching her back a little, muscles still tense from the routine.
“First time’s scary,” she said. “After that, it’s just movement. Music. A bit of excitement. Feels good, actually.”
The noise of the room rose and fell around them—laughter from a card table, boots crossing the floor, glass hitting the counter.
Ember felt the familiar post-show emptiness creep in, the quiet that always came after the exhilaration.
“People need something to look at,” she said. “There’s not much fun left out here. Not much of anything.”
Molly nodded, her face turning thoughtful.
“Yeah. It’s rough lately.”
Ember tapped her fingers on the table. She hesitated before speaking.
“You know ... when I started here, I barely took off anything. Just the jacket. And I made enough to get by.”
Her voice dropped.
“Now I go all the way, and I’m barely keeping my head above water.”
Molly gave her a long, sympathetic look.
“Maybe you should try something else,” she said quietly. “A different kind of job.”
Ember let out a soft laugh.
“Like what? Stitching dresses? I’d ruin every one of them.”
Molly shook her head.
“No, not that. I meant ... something bigger.”
She bit her lip, as if choosing her words.
“The rescue team’s still out. They haven’t found anything. Not even a boot ... from Crooked Tom.”
Ember stilled. Everyone knew Tom. Loud voice, crooked smile, more guts than sense.
“He’s really gone?”
Molly’s voice lowered even more.
“Looks that way. And the settlement needs stalkers. Badly.”
Ember felt the idea settle in her chest like a weight — heavy, but not unpleasant. A path. A possibility.
“Zed will have thoughts about that,” she said.
Molly’s smile returned, faint but warm.
“Talk to him. You’d be good at it. Better than you think.”
Ember looked at the lantern lights flickering across the saloon walls.
The idea tugged at her—dangerous, wild, but real.
“Maybe,” she said.
“Maybe I will.”
Ember squeezed Molly’s shoulder in thanks and rose from the table.
The saloon noise wrapped around her again—laughter, boots scraping, someone shouting for another round. She threaded her way through the crowd, stepped outside, and let the cold evening air hit her skin. It felt good. Quiet.
The path to Zed’s place cut between two ruined shacks, then dipped toward a line of old cargo containers the settlement used as housing. Lanterns flickered along the dirt, their glow thin and shaky in the wind.
Ember reached the familiar red container and knocked on the metal door.
A moment later it slid open.
Zed stood there, sleeves rolled up, hands smudged with grease, a half-finished rifle on the table behind him.
He gave her a small grin.
“Hey. Show go well?”
Ember stepped inside and closed the door against the chill.
“Yeah. Molly and I talked after.”
He raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. He wiped his hands on a rag and leaned back against the table, waiting.
Ember drew a slow breath.
“She said I should think about different work. Something steadier.”
Zed gave a quiet snort.
“Tailoring’s not your style.”
“Not that,” Ember said. “She mentioned Crooked Tom. The rescue team hasn’t found anything. They think he’s gone.”
Zed’s face hardened, just a little.
He nodded once.
“Yeah. I heard.”
Ember met his eyes.
“There’s a vacancy. A stalker spot. She thinks I should try for it.”
Zed didn’t react right away. His jaw tightened, but his voice stayed calm.
“You don’t need to rush into that,” he said. “First caravan that comes through, you’ll ride with it to the Fort. Fresh start, safer place.”
Ember shook her head.
“Caravans haven’t shown up for weeks. Could be months.”
She rubbed her hands together, restless.
“I still have to eat. And ... I feel it pulling me. Out there. Past the gate.”
Zed narrowed his eyes slightly.
“Pulling you?”
Ember nodded, feeling almost embarrassed but pushing through.
“When I’m outside the walls ... it’s like being on stage. Blood gets hot. Nerves sharp. Everything feels real.”
Zed let out a slow breath, a half-smile touching his mouth.
“Then the Wastes caught your soul.”
He walked to a metal crate near his workbench and tapped the lid.
“If you’re that eager to test yourself, start simple.”
He looked at her.
“Go pick up Carlos’s pistol. You can trade it for good rations. Enough to last a while.”
Ember straightened, then nodded.
“All right. I’ll do it.”
Zed tapped the table once. “Good. No point leaving a gun out there. The path’s familiar. You know the dangers.”
“I’ve been there already,” Ember said. “Zombies, wild dogs, bandits ... nothing new. I can handle it.”
“That’s the problem,” he said, tapping the table again. “You think you can handle it. Spend ten rounds before you go. And buy yourself a hatchet. Something stronger than a knife. And remember, one zombie — you fight it. More than one — you run. Don’t overestimate yourself. Overconfidence is a fast way to the grave.”
She nodded. It made sense.
Zed unrolled the map across the table, fingers tracing the route to Fort. Each ruined house, dry wash, collapsed overpass, every turn. “Since you’re here, let’s go over it again. The road’s long. Dangerous in a real way. Better memorize it.”
Ember leaned over the map, following his finger with her eyes.
They went over the route step by step, Ember memorizing landmarks, turns, and crossings. By the time the map was rolled back up, she felt ready.
“I’ll get the hatchet,” she said, gathering her bag. “And some supplies for the road.”
Zed nodded. “Do it right. Don’t rush.”
Two days later, early in the morning, she set out on her journey, fully prepared, carrying her supplies, her new hatchet, and a growing certainty that she could handle whatever came next.
Ember stepped over a broken plank, boots crunching on dry earth. Her fingers curled tightly around the hatchet handle.