Page 4 of Beast in the Badlands
EMRY
I stand over the unconscious alien, my heart racing as I take in the sight before me.
His skin, a stormy canvas of gray and black patterns, ripples with an unsettling beauty.
Jagged bony protrusions jut from his shoulders, casting eerie shadows across the ground.
Long strands of dark hair cling to his face, framing those striking red eyes that lie shut, concealing whatever tempest rages behind them.
Blood pools beneath him, glistening in the dying light—thick and dark like spilled ink on parchment.
Reaper. Definitely a Reaper. I’ve heard about them, absorbed the horror stories that paint them as monsters—the marauding pirates of space who’ve traded their former glory for brutality. But looking at him now… I don’t see rage or hatred in his features. Just pain.
I scan the horizon for any signs of trouble.
The endless expanse stretches out before me—abandoned ruins dotting the landscape like forgotten memories.
Dust swirls in lazy spirals, but there’s no one else here.
No scavengers circling like vultures, no mercs ready to stake their claim on this fallen beast.
I look back down at him, heart pounding against my ribs as uncertainty floods my mind. I should kill him before he wakes up and does it to me first. That’s what I should do; it’s survival instinct 101.
But as I kneel beside him, anger simmers just below the surface—anger at myself for hesitating, anger at this creature who elicits sympathy instead of fear.
“Get it together,” I snap, forcing myself to breathe through the tension that coils around my chest like a vice.
His chest rises and falls unevenly with each labored breath; he looks vulnerable—a stark contrast to everything I've heard about his kind. The sharp lines of his face soften slightly as he shifts ever so slightly, exposing more of that strange beauty beneath the rugged exterior.
“Damn it,” I hiss through clenched teeth, frustration boiling over. Why can’t I just finish this? Why do I feel compelled to help?
My hands tremble as they hover above him; the conflict inside me rages louder than any battle cry I've ever heard. All logic screams for action—this is a Reaper! Yet here I am, paralyzed by something unexpected—a flicker of empathy amidst a battlefield littered with mistrust and pain.
What is wrong with me?
I catch myself grabbing the dead wires scattered around the wreckage, my fingers fumbling as I tie him up. My instincts scream at me, but before I can fully grasp what I’m doing, I’ve secured his arms and legs.
“What the hell am I thinking?” I ask myself in disbelief. “He’s going to eat my face. He’s twice my weight.”
The sled sits nearby, half-buried in debris. With a grunt, I drag him onto it, wincing at the sound of metal scraping against stone. Each inch feels like a monumental effort; sweat trickles down my back as I pull him across the crater.
“This is stupid,” I huff, dragging with all my might. “Just leave him here. He’ll wake up and?—”
I cut myself off with a growl, focusing on the task at hand instead of letting doubt creep in. The ash-draped woods loom ahead, gnarled trees twisting like skeletal hands against the sky.
“Keep moving,” I tell myself, panting now as his weight drags me down. “You’re not going to let him die here.”
Every few feet, I glance over my shoulder as if expecting an ambush—his awakening should terrify me. But each time I look back, he lies still, battered and broken. It tugs at something inside me—an unexplainable need to help this creature that shouldn’t even exist.
“C’mon, Emry,” I push through gritted teeth, pulling harder as roots snag at my boots. “Just a little farther.”
When we finally reach the old abandoned med outpost nestled in the foothills, relief floods through me. The place has been forgotten for years—just like most of this war-ravaged planet.
Inside, dust coats everything like a shroud—a ghost of what once was a refuge for the wounded and lost.
I haul him into the only functioning room left—a stark white table sits in stark contrast to the decay surrounding it. Carefully, I slide him off the sled and onto the table; he flops against it with an unsettling thud.
“Okay,” I breathe heavily as reality sinks in again. “Let’s see what kind of mess you are.”
I start working on stabilizing his bleeding wounds, feeling a rush of adrenaline drown out any remaining fear. The shrapnel embedded in his legs demands attention first; there’s no hesitation now—just focus.
As I wrap bandages around his thighs tight enough to stem the flow of blood but gentle enough not to cause more pain, I can’t help but steal glances at his face—the sharp angles soften in sleep or unconsciousness; there’s something almost delicate about him.
“What have you done to deserve this?” I murmur aloud as if he can hear me.
A part of me wonders if I've gone insane for caring about a Reaper while another part clings tightly to this irrational sense of duty—the remnants of who I was before all this chaos unfolded.
I set a solar lantern on the table beside him; its warm glow fights against encroaching shadows and casts flickering patterns on his face.
“Guess it’s just you and me now,” I whisper into that silence filled with uncertainty and tension.
My eyes stay locked on his chest as it rises and falls unevenly—a rhythm both fragile and fierce under these dire circumstances.
“I don’t even know your name,” I admit softly while settling into a nearby chair, weary from exhaustion yet unwilling to leave him alone.
Minutes stretch into hours as twilight descends outside—the weight of decisions hangs heavy on my shoulders while anticipation builds in my chest like an unsteady tide.
As darkness envelops us both, I'm left watching over this unexpected stranger—my thoughts swirling around what comes next amidst an uneasy truce between survival and compassion lurking within these broken walls.