Adanna of the Wasteland Part 3
Days turned into a blur. Adanna trudged onwards, guided by the tattered map fragment and a relentless determination honed in the crucible of the wasteland. The landscape was a cruel canvas of scorched earth, skeletal trees, and the ever-present red sky. Hunger gnawed at her belly, a constant companion to the throbbing in her injured ankle. Yet, something had shifted within her. The desperation remained, but tempered with a new wariness, instincts sharpened by close encounters with danger. She moved with the hunted alertness of the wasteland creatures themselves.
One scorching afternoon, movement in the shimmering heat caught her eye. Not scavengers, not the mutated beasts she'd learned to evade. This was different. Lowering herself behind the bleached carcass of an ancient vehicle, she squinted against the glare. Footprints. Bare human feet imprinted in the crimson dust. And remarkably fresh. Hope, that dangerous, double-edged blade, sliced through the exhaustion. She wasn't alone. But who? Another survivor? A group offering sanctuary? Or a new breed of predator that wore the guise of humanity? Adanna weighed her options. Retreat wasn't one of them.
Following the tracks was a gamble, but her life was a constant roll of the dice. Crouching low, she began to follow. Adanna followed the footprints, her senses on high alert. They were clearly made by a single person, moving at a quick pace – a hurried escape, not a leisurely walk. The size suggested a woman, or perhaps a young man. Whoever it was, they shared Adanna's desperate drive. Then, she stumbled. Not from exhaustion this time, but because something lay half-buried in the dust. It glinted in the unforgiving sunlight. She crouched down, brushing away the red grit, and her heart sank.
Read Adanna of the Wasteland Part 1
A necklace. A simple cord strung with brightly colored beads, the kind children used to barter in the hidden markets of Chronal Rift. It was clearly a cherished object, yet it had been dropped. Or torn off. She pictured frantic hands fumbling, a child crying out in fear. Had there been a struggle? Was its owner captured, or worse? The tracks continued, now overlapping with smaller, scuffling footprints. Her instincts screamed danger.
Yet, the map throbbed in her satchel, a constant nagging reminder. If this person was headed in the same general direction… was it worth the risk to offer help, to seek strength in numbers? The old Adanna, the one hardened by the streets, would have retreated, choosing self-preservation above all. But the woman who had crawled from a burning tunnel, who clung to a tattered map fragment, wasn't the same woman anymore. She took a deep breath, steeling herself. She followed the tracks, her pace quickening from caution to a grim resolve.
The tracks led her away from the ruined highway, twisting through a maze of cracked boulders. The landscape grew eerily silent, the only sound a relentless wind whistling through the gaps between the stones. It felt like stepping into the belly of a waiting beast. She rounded a sharp bend and froze. Up ahead, the footprints vanished. In their place lay a crumpled form, unmoving in the dust. Her heart pounded in her chest. Had she arrived too late? Had the unknown evil ahead claimed yet another victim?
Caution warring with desperation, she approached slowly. As she drew closer, she saw movement - not a predator, but a hand, twitching faintly. It was a woman, young, with skin as dark as midnight and hair tangled with dried blood. Alive, barely. The woman moaned, her eyes fluttering open. They were wide with fear, reflecting the same relentless sky that had become their shared ceiling. Adanna knelt beside her, the map forgotten. The woman's lips moved soundlessly.
"Run..." she whispered, her voice as brittle as a dead leaf.
"They're coming..."
Then, a flash of movement from the rocks above. Men. Not scavengers, though their clothes were ragged and their eyes wild. But the gleam of the makeshift blades in their hands told Adanna all she needed to know.
"Who?"
Adanna hissed, urgency battling with rising dread.
The woman coughed, blood staining her lips.
"...Riders..." she rasped, then her hand fell limp.
The Riders – whispered tales of a ruthless gang who had carved a bloody path across the wasteland. Their cruelty was legend, their brutality surpassing even that of the mutated creatures. She was trapped. To stay was to likely die beside the injured woman. To flee was to abandon someone…someone who might know more, who might be the key to the survival they both desperately craved.
Watch out for more stories.
