Page 2 of Beast in the Badlands
EMRY
T he soldier howls as I push the needle through his skin, threading it with the half-melted dermal sealer.
“Grow up,” I snap, focusing on the wound. His leg’s a mess—shrapnel deep in the muscle, torn flesh glistening under the flickering overhead lights. The old facility groans around us, its cracked ceilings looming like dark clouds ready to drop.
I shoot a glance at Fry, my drone assistant, hovering near a pile of rusted medical equipment. “Prep antibiotics!”
It beeps an error, the display flashing “Insufficient Resources.” Great. Just what I need—another reminder of how we’re running on fumes.
“Figure it out!” I grit my teeth and keep stitching, ignoring the way he winces with every pull of the thread. The walls close in around us, sagging rebar threatening to collapse at any moment. This isn’t a hospital; it’s a tomb dressed up in faded coalition colors.
“Why’d you even come here?” he gasps between breaths, sweat pouring down his face.
I keep my eyes on the work. “Because someone has to,” I mutter. It’s not like anyone else will step up when it counts.
The soldier's screams cut through me like knives as I tighten the last stitch. He’ll live—but barely. I apply pressure to slow the bleeding and turn my back to him for just a second, scanning the room for supplies.
Old bandages litter the floor like discarded memories from better days. The faint scent of antiseptic hangs in the air but does little to mask the decay surrounding us. Factions circle outside like vultures waiting for scraps, each one eyeing our dwindling resources with hunger.
I kick a crate that’s been shoved into a corner; it rattles ominously but holds nothing of value—just broken glass and shattered hopes.
“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath.
“Are we safe?” The soldier's voice shakes as he shifts on the table, trying to catch my eye. His gaze flickers toward the entrance where shadows loom.
I shoot him a hard look as I clean my tools, already tired of his whimpering. “As safe as you can be here.” My words hang heavy in the stale air—this isn’t just about him anymore.
He swallows hard but doesn’t argue again. A siren blares somewhere outside, distant but echoing through these crumbling walls like an omen.
Fry buzzes nervously near my shoulder, its little arms flailing in confusion over malfunctioning circuits while other drones would’ve easily managed this task by now.
“Stop being useless and find me something,” I bark at Fry, who tilts slightly and emits another error beep that sends frustration surging through me.
Just then, an explosion rocks the ground beneath us—a tremor that rattles everything in this makeshift med-lab. Dust falls from above; shards of plaster rain down like confetti celebrating chaos.
“Stay put!” I yell at my patient before darting toward a narrow window—the only view into this hellscape outside.
Soot-stained skies churn with smoke as figures scramble among debris littered across what used to be civilian homes. They’re fighting again; scavengers clashing over precious resources—food or weapons or whatever they can lay their hands on.
I close my eyes for just a second and breathe deeply through clenched teeth—reminding myself why I'm here amidst this mess: people still need help despite everything breaking apart around us.
“You okay?” The soldier asks again; his voice barely more than a whisper now.
I pivot back toward him and shake off dread creeping into my thoughts—the panic rising in waves all too familiar in these last remnants of civilization gone wrong.
“Just peachy,” I say dryly as I check his bandage one last time before securing everything away with swift movements that scream urgency instead of carelessness.
More blasts erupt outside; each explosion reverberates through cracked walls that feel less stable with every passing second while fear gnaws at me deeper than hunger ever could.
The world keeps falling apart while I hold together whatever fragile life remains inside these walls—a burden that sits heavier on me than any amount of shattered metal or fading hope could convey.
I step outside, the stale air of the med-lab giving way to the cold bite of the wind. Gray clouds hang heavy above, an endless sea of despair stretching to the horizon. I lean against the crumbling wall, letting my eyes wander over the desolation that surrounds our camp.
Three months since I heard from the Coalition forces. Three months since hope flickered out like a dying star. My fingers drum on my thigh, each beat echoing my frustration.
A sudden, insistent buzz jolts me from the tangled web of my thoughts, drawing my attention away from the oppressive weight of despair that blankets our camp.
One of my makeshift drones zips past me in a flurry of motion, its tiny, somewhat clunky frame darting around unpredictably as it flashes a frantic red light.
I squint against the dull, dim light filtering through the thick clouds overhead and follow its erratic flight as it circles above, a tiny sentinel in a sky fraught with turmoil.
“What’s got you buzzing like a hornet?” I mutter to myself, a hint of irritation lacing my voice as I turn my gaze upward, straining to discern what has captured its attention.
Then, my breath catches in my throat. I spot it—a dark, ominous shape breaking through the heavy blanket of clouds, spinning wildly as it descends.
A ship—sleek and black, cutting through the air like a predator—plummeting toward us in a chaotic dance of smoke and fire, trailing a plume of destruction behind it.
I take a step back, my heart racing as I instinctively calculate its trajectory, my mind racing through the implications of this unexpected arrival.
Panic grips me tighter as my breath quickens, the realization hitting me like a punch to the gut: it’s going down just beyond the canyon's edge, a mere few miles from our camp, a location that has already seen too much violence and chaos.
“Great,” I hiss under my breath, anxiety spiking under my skin. “Another merc faction looking to stake their claim.”
My mind flashes to the last time we had unwelcome visitors, and the memories are like shards of glass—sharp and painful. I can already feel the familiar tension tightening in my chest, the instinctual urge to prepare for whatever storm is about to descend upon us.
But deep down, something else stirs—curiosity mixed with necessity. If they crash hard enough, there could be salvage worth digging through; maybe weapons or supplies we desperately need.
The ship spins faster, leaving a trail of smoke that streaks across the gray sky like an omen before it disappears behind jagged rock formations. The crash is imminent—a black arc erupting in flames as it collides with earth.