Eastern Ruins
Copyright© 2026 by Sandra Alek
Chapter 2
The tree creaked softly as the first light pushed through the thin branches. Cold air clung to the ground. A faint breeze stirred the dry grass below, carrying the night’s leftover chill.
Ember woke with a heavy head. The ache started in her neck and ran all the way down her spine. Her legs felt stiff; her backside was numb from hours of hanging in the harness.
The Wasteland greeted her with silence, broken only by the distant buzz of insects.
She exhaled through her teeth and began the slow climb down. Every joint protested. Her hands shook a little when her boots finally touched the dirt.
She uncapped her bottle, drank a few careful swallows, then splashed the rest across her face. The shock of cold water hit her hard, and she sucked in a quick breath. Can’t be slow. Can’t drift off out here.
She rolled her shoulders, stretched her arms, bent low to loosen the tight muscles in her legs. A few twists, a few deep breaths. The stiffness eased, but not completely.
The air warmed by a degree. Light slid across the broken stones of the path she had come from.
Ember adjusted her pack, checked the hatchet at her hip, the knife in its sheath and the second blade behind her belt. Her muscles were loose now, awake.
She took a few steps, then stopped and looked back at the house. The broken doorway. The quiet windows. Nothing moved.
Carlos on the floor above. Rattie in the trap below. One tried to own me. The other tried to trick me.
Both gone. I am still here.
The wind carried the dry smell of dust between the trees.
Ember turned away and started toward home.
Ember moved steadily through the Wasteland, keeping her eyes on the horizon. The dry grass rustled softly with the wind. A few broken branches snapped under her boots, the usual sounds of a place she knew too well.
She scanned the terrain—rocks, shadows, twisted trees—nothing out of the ordinary.
A low, rattling growl echoed through the underbrush. Ember paused. She held her breath, heart suddenly pounding against her ribs. Her hand tightened on the hatchet. The sound was animal, not Z-type, but too close for comfort. She took one slow step back, trying to pinpoint the source, listening for movement.
Then the bush violently shook, and it lunged.
A dog, wild and snarling, shot out from behind a cluster of trees. Its teeth gleamed in the sunlight, and its eyes burned with hunger.
Ember barely had a moment to react. She sidestepped, raising the hatchet, ready to strike.
The dog crouched low, growling, eyes fixed on her. It moved forward slowly, teeth bared, muscles coiled. Ember’s lips curled into a crooked grin.
“You want to dance?” she whispered, voice low but sharp. “Let’s dance. But this is my stage. My rules.”
Another rustle from the trees.
A second dog appeared, stepping out from the same cluster. It growled, low and threatening, approaching from the side. Ember’s eyes flicked between them, calculating, every muscle ready.
She murmured under her breath, “I can handle this.”
Her left hand went to the knife at her belt. “See? I can do it.”
The dogs moved forward, side by side. Bloodshot eyes, saliva dripping from their jaws. Ember’s grip on the hatchet tightened.
She lunged ahead, swinging the hatchet in a wide arc. The dogs jerked back, startled, but didn’t retreat.
“Want some more?!” she shouted, raising the hatchet, ready to strike again.
The first dog started to circle her, keeping low, eyes never leaving her. The second growled and feinted attacks, snapping close but holding its distance.
Ember swung at the air, driving them back, but her stomach twisted. She realized she couldn’t fend off a strike from both sides.
The second dog was moving behind her now. Her heart jumped. The angle. The trap. If it hit, she was done.
Something had to be done.
Right now.
Immediately.
Otherwise, this would be her last dance.
Dance. The idea struck her like lightning.
She darted quick glances at both predators. First, she needed to deal with the smarter one. Which one?
Of course—the one circling behind, trying to strike from the rear.
Ember shifted the hatchet into her left hand, grabbed the knife with her right, and lunged at the dog standing in front.
It flinched slightly, but didn’t back off, growling sharply.
Using the recoil, Ember swung back and threw the knife at the dog sneaking up from behind.
It yelped, stumbled sideways, the blade sinking between its ribs to the hilt. The dog leapt once and collapsed with a long, mournful howl.
Ember spun to face the other.
“See? Want some?” she hissed.
The dog lunged forward.
She swung the hatchet.
It rolled across the ground, its shoulder bloodied.
“Want more?!” she snapped.
The dog whimpered and limped into the bushes.
Ember straightened, flicked the blood off the hatchet in one sharp motion, and let out a quiet laugh.
Her veins thrummed with heat, her ears rang, chest heaving with the scent of victory.
I did it again.
She laughed as she pulled the knife free from the dead dog, unable to stop herself.
The Wasteland lay quiet behind her, the rustle of grass and the occasional birdcall the only sounds. Ember’s boots crunched over the dry earth, hatchet at her hip, knives secure at her belt. Her muscles still buzzed from the fight.
She glanced back once, toward the trees where the dogs had attacked. Nothing moved. Just empty shadows.
The path to the settlement stretched ahead, sun low in the sky. Familiar landmarks—broken fence posts, the twisted trunk of an old oak, a pile of rubble—passed under her watchful eyes. Nothing could surprise her now, she thought.
Her breathing slowed as she approached the outskirts. Smoke rose in the distance. The settlement’s walls came into view, gates patched from scavenged wood and metal. A few figures moved within.
Ember felt the tension in her shoulders ease. She had survived. Again. She had fought. She had won.
Ember stepped into Zed’s shelter. The familiar smell of dust and gun oil hit her.
Zed looked up and gave a small nod.
“Well? How’d the trip go?” he asked.
Ember set her pack down and began talking as she pulled her weapons out. She laid Carlos’s Smith & Wesson on the table first, then Retty’s combat knife beside it.
Zed froze, eyes widening.
“You ... actually finished them?” he asked, disbelief in his voice.
Ember shrugged.
“They came at me first.”
Zed let out a low whistle.
“Remind me never to cross you,” he said, half-grinning.
She rolled her eyes.
“Better focus on the loot.”
Zed leaned over the table, picking up the pistol and turning it in his hands.
“Not bad at all,” he said, impressed. “This Smith & Wesson ... clean, reliable. Whoever owned it took care of it.”
He picked up the knife next.
“And this—Retty’s? Sharp. Solid balance. You did well.”
Zed set the pistol down carefully, still looking impressed.
“You’re keeping this one. Don’t leave it behind. It’ll come in handy at the Fort.”
He glanced at the knife.
“Trade this for food. Why carry two blades? One is enough.”
Ember nodded, accepting the advice.
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