Page 9 of Beast in the Badlands
RENN
I hate being carted around like some insolent child. Each bump and dip sends jolts of pain through my legs, the agony clawing at my focus. I grit my teeth against the searing discomfort, willing myself to remain stoic. Uselessness gnaws at me—an itch I can’t scratch.
But I don’t regret putting that damn harness on and going after her. If I hadn’t been there, that pathetic human male might’ve gotten away with something unspeakable.
I swallow hard, rage boiling just beneath the surface. I push it down; it doesn’t help to dwell on what could have happened. I need a distraction.
“Emry,” I say, forcing my voice steady despite the fatigue weighing me down, “what brought you here? To this hellhole?”
She glances sideways, her brow furrowing as she keeps her eyes trained on the rocky path ahead.
“Just a medic trying to help.” Her tone is clipped, but it’s not enough to deter me.
I lean forward, ignoring the twinge in my legs as I push against the seat. “A medic? You don’t seem like the type to be left behind.”
Her jaw tightens. “Well, looks can be deceiving.”
“Try again,” I press, unwilling to let this go. The curiosity festers; it demands satisfaction. I've never wanted to know any being inside and out the way I crave it now.
The silence stretches out between us like a taut wire until she finally exhales sharply. “Vestra is… well, I stayed behind after everyone else evacuated.” Her voice wavers slightly, revealing a crack in her armor.
“Why?”
“Because… my brother was one of the last casualties.” The words spill out before she can reel them back in. “I couldn’t leave the ghosts.”
Ghosts hang heavy in the air between us now—a weight I didn’t expect to feel from someone who looked so fiercely independent just moments ago. A part of me aches for her loss; another part remains guarded—pained memories swirl in my mind like dark shadows that refuse to settle.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter instinctively, but it sounds hollow even to me.
Emry shrugs as if brushing off my sympathy like dust from her shoulder. “You don’t need to be.”
“You say that,” I reply evenly, “but those ghosts haunt you.”
She stays silent for a moment longer than necessary before responding, her voice softening just a touch. “Everyone else ran when things got bad after the Coalition left... But not me.”
Her determination stings; it ignites something within me—admiration mixed with annoyance at how easily she brushes aside her suffering.
“And now you’re stuck here alone?”
“I’m not alone,” she snaps back defensively but falters when she catches herself slipping into vulnerability.
“No?” I challenge, raising an eyebrow at her as we continue our slow trudge back toward the outpost.
Her gaze drifts forward again—lost somewhere beyond our surroundings—and suddenly it feels too personal for me to pry further.
The night sky darkens around us as dusk begins to settle over the barren landscape; shades of violet and orange flicker across a fading horizon—a stark contrast to our grim reality.
The tension hangs thick in the air; unspoken truths hover between us like an unsheathed blade.
“You should’ve left when you had the chance,” I say finally, voice low but firm—more accusation than concern.
“I couldn’t,” she fires back immediately, resolve shining through pain. “Not after losing him. There are still people fighting. They need me.”
The bite in her tone gives way for an unsettling understanding—something raw and real beneath layers of bravado and hardship we both carry within us.
The cart rattles to a stop outside the crumbling med outpost, and Emry strides around the front, moving with purpose. She grabs a few salvaged pieces, determination etched into her features.
I shift my weight, trying to stand but my legs scream in protest. Gritting my teeth, I force myself up, swaying slightly as I lean against the cart for support. I can’t just sit here while she does all the work. I drag myself inside, breath heavy, muscles quaking with effort.
“Stay put!” Emry snaps as I stumble through the doorway. Her eyes narrow like a hawk zeroing in on its prey. “You’re going to ruin everything I’ve done.”
I scowl at her reprimand but it’s hard to muster any real defiance. “I can help?—”
“By being useless?” She cuts me off, hands on her hips as she surveys the mess of supplies stacked haphazardly around the room. “Just sit down. Let me handle this.”
She pushes me back toward an old chair that creaks under my weight and goes for another crate outside without waiting for my response.
As she comes back in, her brow furrows in concentration. “And I need to check those wounds.”
“I can manage,” I mutter, but it comes out more like a plea than a command.
“No,” she insists, not looking back at me as she pulls a med kit from one of the crates and returns to my side.
“The last time I was this weak,” I say slowly, relishing the memory that feeds into my anger, “I killed five men just to pretend I wasn’t.”
Her gaze meets mine—no flinch, no hesitation. Just that fierce light in her eyes. “You don’t need to prove anything to me.”
For a moment, the air shifts around us like a charged current; it pulls at something deep inside me—a yearning that threatens to surface. My hand hovers near hers but drops away before making contact.
She gets to work with practiced ease; each motion precise as she cleans the wounds on my legs and wraps them tightly.
Night falls quickly outside, darkness wrapping around us like a shroud as we finish unloading the last of the supplies together in silence.
Later, we sit across from each other at an old table littered with ration packs and scraps from our scavenging run. The quiet stretches long between us—the kind of silence thick enough to suffocate or ignite.
A low hum lingers in the space between us—a magnetic pull that makes every heartbeat feel louder than before—but neither of us moves beyond our separate worlds for now.