I'm dragged into the passenger seat. The engine roars to life, the whole vehicle shaking. The momentum slams me back into the seat.
No seatbelts. Nothing to hold onto but rusted metal.
We lurch forward, tearing through the ruins at breakneck speed. The other scavengers cling to the sides, white-knuckled and terrified. The riders follow on their giant birds, hooves pounding the sand.
I'm shaking. Fear and excitement war in my chest.
Old man, are you seeing this? I just made it out of the camp!
Then I see them. People ahead. Wanderers moving through the desert.
"Careful!" I shout. "There are people there!"
Slyfox grins.
He accelerates.
The vehicle slams into the first wanderer. The blade on the bumper tears through his chest. Blood sprays across the windshield, hot and red, splattering my face.
"Bahahahahaha!"
Slyfox laughs like a madman. He turns on the windshield wiper, sweeping away chunks of flesh. Then he swerves, crushing another body under the wheels.
I feel the bones break. Hear them crack and splinter.
He chases down a third. Runs him over. The man's scream cuts off abruptly.
The riders chase the survivors, cutting them down like animals. One hooks a wanderer through the jaw, dragging him behind his mount. The body leaves a smear of blood across the sand.
My whole body turns to ice. I can't stop shaking.
"W-why... why are you doing this?!"
Scavengers kill when they're starving. When there's no other choice. But these men have food. They're doing this for fun.
"Hah! None of your fucking business." Slyfox spits. "And you don't know shit. These are roamers! Killing them is doing a service to the Shatterlands."
I don't understand.
"Roamers are mutants. They drink contaminated water, eat mutated food. Slowly, they lose their minds. They become savage. Cruel. They leave the camps and wander the desert, preying on anyone they find. Enough roamers gather together, they become sweepers. And sweepers kill everything."
He looks at me, cigar smoke curling around his face.
"So yeah, kid. I'm doing the world a favor."
-----
We arrive at the excavator base. It's massive. An inverted pyramid buried in the sand, ancient and alien. Something from before. From the First World.
A truck is parked in its shadow. Five wheels, ugly as sin, but functional. Strong.
Slyfox jumps out. "Mad Dog, hurry up and come say hello to the fresh meat!"
The man who steps forward is a nightmare.
He's huge. Nearly two meters tall, bald, covered in scars. One scar looks like someone split his head in half and stitched it back together with wire.
Mad Dog.
He looks at us like we're already dead.
"Choose for yourselves!" He yanks open the truck, revealing a pile of weapons. Spears, machetes, hammers, axes. Crude. Brutal. Perfect for the Shatterlands.
"Pick a weapon that suits your hand. Whether or not you'll be able to survive will be up to them." Slyfox grins. "Let them enjoy a last supper. They probably aren't gonna have another chance like this again!"
Last supper.
The other scavengers freeze, terror in their eyes.
But I move forward. I can't use a machete or an axe. I'm not strong enough.
I choose a shortsword. Less than three feet long. Light. Sharp.
The metal is cold in my hands.
But it feels good. Right.
No matter what happens, I'll accept it. Even if my chances are slim, I'll fight. I'll survive.
I refuse to be a lowly scavenger for the rest of my life.
I won't die alone and forgotten like the old man.
I grip the sword tighter.
Tomorrow, I'll face the sweepers.
Tomorrow, I'll either die or earn my freedom.
And I know which one I'm choosing.