Eastern Ruins
Copyright© 2026 by Sandra Alek
Chapter 3
Ember stepped into the workshop, boots echoing on the concrete floor.
Josh looked up from the bench and froze. His eyes slid over her chest, slow and greedy.
Ember noticed immediately. Her loose shirt had fallen open while she rushed in, and he was staring.
Perfect, she thought. Better than yelling.
She straightened, letting the shirt hang just so, and moved closer.
“Josh,” she said softly, teasing, “I need a real suppressor. Not scrap. A proper one.”
He swallowed, a flush creeping up his neck.
“A suppressor? Ember ... that’s expensive.”
She stepped around the bench, close but not threatening. Her fingers brushed lightly against his wrist.
“You can help me,” she murmured. “I know you can.”
He tried to pull back. Hands twitching, face red.
“I ... I don’t know—”
Ember tilted her head, locking eyes with him. Her voice dropped, soft and coaxing.
“You’ll make it work. I can feel it.”
He swallowed again, sweating. Fingers shaking. She smiled faintly, pressing a little closer over the edge of the bench.
“Come on, Josh,” she whispered. “It’ll be easy. You know it will.”
Josh tried to lean back, but she subtly blocked him with her stance.
Her foot rested lightly on the chair’s footrest, skirt brushing higher.
He gasped. Mouth half-open, eyes wide.
Ember leaned a fraction closer, voice low and intimate, whispering:
“Josh ... suppressor.”
He nodded, breath uneven.
“Price...” he murmured.
She pressed closer still, putting an ear near his, and whispered firmly:
“Just this beautiful knife ... and have it ready by tomorrow.”
Josh’s shoulders slumped.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Factory suppressor. Price ... knife. Tomorrow.”
Ember straightened, sliding the knife onto the bench and placing her pistol beside it. She smoothed her skirt, buttoned her shirt, and blew a quick, teasing kiss over her shoulder.
“Good boy,” she whispered. “My clever little treasure.”
She turned and walked out, leaving Josh slumped in the chair, stunned, sweaty, utterly defeated. Ember’s chest heaved slightly — a spark of triumph in her eyes. She had won exactly what she wanted, with patience, wit, and control.
The saloon buzzed with music and voices. Ember finished her last spin on stage, breath steady, skin glowing from the dance. The crowd cheered, but she barely heard it. Her mind was already on the next step.
She slipped off the stage, pulled on her loose red shirt, and crossed the room toward a corner table. Muddy Joe sat there with his wife, Sara — sharp eyes, strong jaw, always watching.
Ember dropped into the empty chair and placed her pistol on the table, turning it so the new suppressor caught the lantern light.
“I got it,” she said proudly. “Real thing. Factory-made.”
Joe stared at it, then shook his head slowly.
“Ember ... don’t start. You don’t need this. Not that kind of life.”
She leaned forward.
“I’m not backing down. I’m ready. Let me join your crew.”
Joe opened his mouth again, but Sara cut in before he could speak.
“Ready?” Sara snorted. “For what? To shake your hips at zombies?”
She looked Ember up and down, unimpressed.
“Bring back something real. Go to the east ruins and get a police badge. Then we’ll talk.”
Joe shook his head hard.
“Sara, stop. That’s too dangerous. No one goes there alone.”
Sara didn’t look away from Ember.
“If she wants to play scavenger, let her prove she can do more than twirl for tips. Otherwise she has no business near our team.”
Joe turned to Ember again, almost pleading.
“You don’t need this. Listen to me.”
Ember’s jaw tightened. The challenge lit something inside her — the same fire she felt in the wasteland.
“I’ll do it,” she said quietly.
“I’ll bring back the badge. I’ll prove it.”
Joe closed his eyes, defeated.
Sara leaned back in her chair with a thin smile.
Ember picked up her pistol, stood, and walked away — heart steady, purpose sharp.
This wasn’t about joining a team anymore.
It was about proving she could stand on her own feet — anywhere.
Early morning, Ember slung her pack over her shoulder. Inside: a flask of water, some dried meat, and the copy of the map Zed had copied from the Sheriff. Her knife, hatchet, and pistol with suppressor hung at her belt, easy to reach.
A thrill ran through her chest, a light lift in her spirits. Finally, the road was hers. She tugged her bandana into place, rolled up her sleeves, and adjusted the pack straps. Everything felt secure. Ready.
The path stretched through dry grass and scattered trees. Ember kept one hand lightly on the map in her pocket, only occasionally glancing at it to make sure she stayed on track. Creek Town — now the East Ruins — was territory she had never seen, yet she knew the way in theory. Two days there, one or two in the ruins, two days back. Simple: go, find, return.
Her boots crunched softly on the dry earth. She noted landmarks as she went — a fallen fence, a large rock, the fork in the path — more for reassurance than navigation. Off to the side, a thin stream glittered faintly in the morning sun, marked on the map. Water would be needed before the day ended.
The air smelled of dust and old growth. Every rustle in the grass, every snap of a twig made her pause. Move carefully. Watch for movement. Trust instincts. Zed’s lessons ran through her mind.
A crow took off overhead, scattering the quiet. Ember’s hand hovered near her knife, then rested on the pistol. Zombies, predators, maybe bandits ... Anything could happen.
She tightened the pack straps, gripped the hatchet at her belt, and stepped forward. The road curved ahead, trees thinning in places, giving glimpses of distant hills. Alone, but alert. Every step tested her senses, patience, and planning.
Mid-morning, Ember paused to check the map. The path ahead looked clear, but something felt off. A sudden rustle in the dry grass made her hand go to the hatchet at her belt. Her pistol hung close, ready, but she kept fingers off the trigger — ammo was limited, and every shot had to count.
Fresh footprints pressed into the dirt — too large for an animal, too deliberate for the wind. She froze, listening. Somewhere nearby, a low, wet groan cut through the silence.
Heart thudding, she adjusted her stance, hatchet raised, eyes scanning the brush.
Evening was settling when Ember reached the small stream marked on the map. The water glittered in the dying light.
Two coyotes crouched at the edge, drinking. Their yellow eyes flicked toward her, low growls rolling from their throats, but they didn’t move. Ember froze for a heartbeat, then slowly shifted a few steps to the side, keeping hatchet in hand.
The coyotes growled again, warning, but returned to the water. Ember crouched, scooped water into her flask, and filled her pack. When she straightened, the animals had finished drinking. They let out a final low growl and melted back into the shadows.
She exhaled, pulse still racing, then slung her pack tighter and scanned the area. The road back to the path was clear. Night was coming, and she needed a safe place to rest.
A tree with thick branches caught her eye a little off the trail. She approached, eyes alert, and began climbing, securing herself above the ground. From this vantage, she could see the surrounding grass and brush, ready for whatever the wasteland might throw at her next.
As she settled, exhaustion met exhilaration. Today had tested her, and she had survived. Ember allowed herself a quiet smile. Tomorrow, the ruins awaited.
Morning came cold and gray. Ember stretched, wincing as sore muscles in her back, legs, and rear reminded her of the night spent perched in the tree. Her arms ached, her shoulders protested, but she pushed herself upright, slung her pack over her shoulder, and adjusted the belt with her pistol, knife, and hatchet.
The road ahead looked narrower now, shadows longer between the trees. Every step demanded attention: loose rocks, hidden roots, rustling brush. Danger seemed closer, sharper. Her senses were taut, scanning for movement, listening for anything out of place.
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