Into The Unknown

Chapter 2

Ask almost anyone in the wasteland and they'd tell you hunting was the worst part of surviving out here, but Amari had never been bothered by it. It would only be a mild exaggeration to say she loved it. The thrill of cornering a wild animal, both the animal and herself fighting for their right to survive. As a child she lived every second sheltered from danger, at the beck and call of her parents.

This newfound freedom was exhilarating.

Amari hauled a large wooden cart, overflowing with the supplies she'd scavenged that day; torn rags, bones, twigs, dinner, and tech she couldn't put a name to. Weary, and longing for water, she stopped pulling the cart and took a swig from her small rusty canteen. The water was a murky brown swill of salty water and dust. Any sane person would refuse to drink liquid grime, but in the desperation of wasteland travel, sacrifices had to be made. She fitted the canteen to the back of the cart, and looked to the scorching desert sun.

"Almost home," she murmured weakly through the dirty rags that muffled her breathing and forged her way on through the wasteland.

She approached a small town and cautiously pushed inside, hoping to find it abandoned. There was a disconcerting silence over the town. In Amari's experience, it was only truly silent before the roughest of storms. The figure of a woman slipped out from between the shadows, Amari's only warning before a flash of the sky passed her eyes. Thin long fingers pressed themselves into Amari's neck as she was forced to the ground. The stranger tightened her grip, stopping any air from getting to Amari's lungs. As she choked, the woman's long face became lighter in the sunlight, revealing thick scars along her hollow cheeks.

"Stay down. Your hard-earned supplies are ours now," the haughty woman whispered, her expression contorting into a nasty smile as she pressed harder on Amari's neck.

Perhaps a couple years ago, Amari would've been frozen in fear, but her time in the wasteland had left Amari numb to this level of pain and intimidation. She sized up the woman with a chilly glance, taking note of a small cut on the woman's left arm which hadn't been properly treated. Tensing her hand, she tore her fingers directly into the cut, reopening the wound, and gorged out a large chunk of the woman's arm as a tidal wave of red blood came pouring down, dripping onto Amari's unperturbed face. The woman screamed like a demon crying out from hell, pulling back in shock and terror. Amari had forced an opening.

Before the wind itself could catch its breath, Amari was back on her feet. The woman let out a few pained grunts as she attempted to suppress the wound on her arm. Holding the injury with her right arm left her face unguarded as Amari's heel collided with her jawbone. The woman's spine met the earth with a thick crunch, leaving her sprawled painfully across the ground. With a menacing air Amari drew the sharp pocket blade from her jacket, brandishing it as a weapon. The woman made a desperate attempt to tackle Amari, but was met only with a sharp penetration in her left side. Amari elbowed the woman in the back of the head, forcing her to the floor once more. Before the woman could even beg for mercy, Amari slashed her neck open, the pulsating gash killing her in a matter of seconds.

The woman's eyes grew dim, her defeated corpse lying still on the road, the only sign of movement being the trickle of blood that once flowed through her veins. Amari's expression showed no hint of emotion. No pain. No sorrow. She stared at the body much as one would stare at a hunted animal. She won. That was her only thought.

A howl erupted from the shadows behind her, Amari twisted in response, but was too slow. The fist of a burly man collided with her torso, forcing her back a few meters, the knife disconnecting from her hand and digging into the dirt. Amari cursed her foolishness. Wolves always hunt in packs.

Amari scanned her surroundings, but she'd lost track of her knife in the collision. Her heart nearly stopped as she heard a familiar metallic click from the man's hand. The cocking of a gun, pointed directly at her head.