Page 14 of Beast in the Badlands

EMRY

I kneel over Fry, my fingers digging into his mainframe, feeling the wires that buzz and spark beneath my touch.

He’s taken a beating lately, and I can’t let him down.

Not when I rely on him to keep me company during the long nights, to help me scavenge, and to distract me from the creeping dread of this war-ravaged hell.

I recall the night Renn broke him—how startled I was when I jolted awake to see him smashing Fry against the wall, metal crunching under his force.

My heart raced, a wild drum in my chest as fear turned into rage.

I'd never meant to fall asleep; I should have been alert, vigilant against whatever threat lurked outside those cracked walls.

But here? In this med zone? The chaos becomes white noise after a while, lulling me into brief moments of respite.

At least Renn was too wounded to stand after the crash. He couldn't hurt me then.

Shaking that thought away, I focus on Fry's circuitry. A soft beep finally breaks through the silence as his systems whir back to life.

“Fry?”

He beeps again—a low sound that settles in my chest like reassurance.

“Good boy.” I adjust a few connections and tighten screws with steady hands. His flight abilities still need work, but his mainframe is intact. That's what matters.

Before I can breathe easy, chaos erupts outside the tent—a commotion followed by urgent voices carrying through the air like smoke signals. I straighten up just in time for someone to burst through the flaps of the med tent.

A young woman stumbles in, blood soaking her clothes like dark paint across canvas. She gasps for breath, eyes wide with panic as she collapses at my feet.

“Help! Please!” Her voice cracks like dry earth beneathfoot.

My heart drops as I spot her wounds—deep lacerations etched across her arms and shoulders—blood spills from her mouth like a horror show painting splashed across an easel.

“What happened?” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

“North sector,” she wheezes, shaking her head as if denying reality will somehow change it. “It fell… no survivors…”

The words hang heavy in the air around us—a death knell echoing through what little remains of hope in this godforsaken place.

I push Fry aside and rush to her side, adrenaline sparking to life within me.

There’s no time for hesitation now; only action remains as my hands reach for supplies—bandages and sealants—but doubt lingers at the edges of my mind: how many more will come through that door? How many more will we lose?

I pull the young woman onto a cot, her body sagging like a rag doll as I set her down.

Blood seeps through my fingers as I press against her wounds, but the flow won’t stop.

Panic rises in my throat like bile. She’s not much younger than me, probably the same age I was when I lost my brother—too damn young to be facing this kind of end.

“Stay with me,” I whisper, squeezing her hand. Her eyes flutter, and she nods weakly, a faint spark of fight still lingering in those glassy depths. But with every pulse, warmth leaves her body, pooling beneath the cot in crimson stains that spread like dark blossoms.

I work frantically, tearing bandages from their sterile wrappers and applying them over gaping wounds, but there’s too much blood—too much to manage. My heart sinks as I watch her breathing slow and uneven, each gasp a struggle against gravity.

“Please…” she croaks, voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m here.” My own voice shakes as I try to keep it steady. “You’re safe.”

But safety is a lie in this place.

With each passing second, despair claws at my insides. I know what’s coming; I’ve seen it too many times before. The slow surrender of life snatched away by senseless violence and broken promises.

I can’t watch another one die.

“Kira!” I call out hoarsely. “Get over here!”

My hands tremble as Kira rushes in, eyes wide with urgency. She drops beside me without hesitation and assesses the scene—my frantic movements, the girl’s fading breaths.

“Take over,” I murmur, lowering my voice so only she can hear. “There’s nothing we can do for her.”

Kira glances between us—between me and the girl—and understanding dawns on her face. She nods slowly and takes my place at the cot's edge.

I push myself away from the scene before it pulls me under completely. The air outside hits me like ice water; cold and sharp enough to make me gasp.

I stumble into the darkness beyond the tent, feet carrying me away from all that blood and despair until my legs give out beneath me. I collapse onto the ground, drawing shaky breaths into my lungs while silent tears streak down my cheeks.

Another life lost—a haunting reminder that we are all just ghosts here, clinging to shadows of what once was.

It’s not fair. How can I keep doing this?

Every day, day after day, it’s the same twisted routine: patching up the broken, watching life slip away like sand through my fingers.

I feel the weight of it pressing down on me, an unbearable heaviness that sinks into my bones.

We’re losing—losing hope, losing lives, losing everything we fought for.

I think of Renn. Not because he’s a solution; hell, he might just complicate things more.

But because he sees me. Even when I’m falling apart, when despair clings to my skin like grime and exhaustion clouds my vision, he watches me with those sharp eyes—an assessment that makes me feel seen in a way no one else has for a long time.

I touch my thigh, where my hidden weapon usually sits—a cold reminder of the survivalist I once had to be. I remember his face that first day, the way his smirk danced across his lips like a flickering flame when I drew it on him. Like I amused him with my bravado.

I smile at the memory before catching myself. What am I smiling for? The world is crumbling around us, and here I am, getting lost in a fleeting moment instead of focusing on what matters.

Taking a deep breath, I return inside the tent, the familiar chaos pulling at me like an anchor in stormy waters. Kira kneels beside the cot now occupied by another patient—an old man with burns lacing his arms like cruel tattoos from whatever fire had consumed him.

“Emry,” she calls without looking up, voice strained but steady.

I step closer and help her with supplies, though my mind drifts back to Renn—the shadows cast by his presence in this battered place. Even unconscious, he felt larger than life; his energy was fierce and undeniable.

“What’s next?” Kira asks as she tapes down gauze over the old man's wounds.

“More triage,” I reply automatically, though part of me aches to escape this place again—to step outside where the sun lingers weakly behind gray clouds.

The familiar rush of despair creeps back in as patients trickle through—more stories laden with sorrow filling every corner of our fragile sanctuary. Each one feels like another thread unraveling from an already frayed tapestry.

But I push through. Even if I'm not whole anymore, even if every part of me feels shattered under pressure—Renn reminds me that there’s strength left to find. If only I can keep moving forward amidst this endless cycle of pain and loss.