Wolf of the Wasteland

The End of the Golden Age left the world bitter, and broken. 

Humanity was worse off. The surviving men were scared, and desperate and starving.

Hunger drove the survivors into madness, and soon food became worth more than a life.

Water became worth more than a dozen of lives.

Ammunition became even more sought after than it ever was. It was a staple among Wastelanders. It was the one true currency. Everyone traded ammunition, either by bartering and negotiation or by firing it into someone that wouldn't do a fair trade.

The Wasteland had few laws and fewer law-abiders.

But some good men still remained...

A raven flew circling over head. A young wayfarer looked up at the magnificent bird, as she panted from exhaustion.

"Simon. Can we stop? Just for the night... We're thirsty and tired," panted the youngest of the children, Adaline, who pointed at the factory, "I've got enough sticks to start a fire."

A company of three young children, two girls and boy, followed their guide to a dilapidated old factory surrounded by fields of endless sand dunes and rusted metal. 

"I promised your father that I would get you to Silver Hills. We've got a ways to go," insisted Simon, an old wasteland wayfarer.

"Simon. Why does your leg rattle when you walk?" chimed in the curious young boy.

"Prosthetic, my son."

"Prosthetic?" questioned the young boy.

"It's a fake. A replacement. Lost my real one to the Flesh-eaters. I believe they call themselves the Red of Mirra now,"

"Gross," interrupted Charlie, the eldest of the children, "Did they eat your leg?"

"Indeed they did. Right in front of my younger self," laughed the old man.

Simon looked at the raven as it flew over them. He paused for a moment and looked at his young company. They were covered in dirt and filth and exhausted.

"Fine. You've out voted me. We'll set up shop outside of this old place. Charlie and Ada, you girls will be in charge of getting the fire going. Farron and I will scout the factory for wares, and if we're lucky maybe some food."

"Hopefully canned peaches!" Charlie piped up, "I'm starving for anything that isn't wasteland meat. Anything else really would be amazing."

Farron peered through his old detached rifle scope at the distance hills of desert sand.

"Simon... I see lights. I think they're coming this way," he panicked.

Simon froze in shock staring off into the incoming lights.

"What do we do? Simon?" Farron shouted.

Farron tried to shake Simon but it was no use.

"Girls, get in the factory!" commanded the young boy.

Simon fell to his knees and placed his hands on his head.

"It's over," he muttered, "They've found us."

"Who has found us?" questioned the young boy.

"The Red of Mirra."

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A vehicle pulled up to the factory in front of the group. The vehicle was a shuttle, a makeshift contraption that looked like a speed boat on tank treads.

Five armed men exited their vehicle and approached the young party.

The raven cawed loudly, flying above the men in dark red cloak.

"They've got girls!" shouted one of the vile men.

"We're here for the meat," commanded the largest of the men, "We've got enough mouths to feed."

The Flesh-eaters dressed in red cloaks and leather outfits, with pale skin, sharpened yellow teeth, and red skulls painted on their faces. These men were hunters of human meat sent by Bloody Mirra, heir of the Covenant of Blood; the Red of Mirra.

"Let's skin this one alive," ordered the starving bandit as he approached the young boy, impatient to wait another minute.

The five hungry men surrounded their prey.

"No, we'll take 'em back. She likes it better when it's fresh," demanded the largest of the five men.

"We're hungry now! Let's tie the little one up and flay him now! We didn't hunt for three moons not to eat!" shouted a defiant Flesh-eater, who approached the young boy grabbing him by the tattered brown scarf he wore around his sun-burnt face and neck.

The youngest traveler, Adaline, tried to pull the young boy free from the grasp of the cannibal.

"No! Simon, help him!" she screamed.

Simon stared at the group of men, petrified in fear.

The largest Flesh-eater, a towering man of muscle, approached the old wayfarer, and with a stern push to his shoulders he sent him to the floor. He grabbed a hold of the man's prosthetic leg firmly and jolted it back and forth.

"Here. You can eat this now. It's already loose," pointed the towering Flesh-eater to his hungry subordinate.

"Alright, yeah. Give it here!" He agreed, wiping his watering mouth, and dropping hold of the young boy. "You don't mind, do yea' Simon?"

The Flesh-Eaters began tugging on the old man's disjointed leg, trying to pull it free.

"Why won't it come free? Is it bolted on or something?" One of the Flesh-eaters questioned.

The brawny Flesh-eater held Simon down with one hand as he tore off Simon's prosthetic leg with his other hand.

The thunderous crack of a whip hitting the air could be heard in the distance, followed by the whistle of a travelling bullet.

The large, brawny Flesh-eater gargled as blood spewed from a gushing hole through his thick neck.

The towering bandit fell to his knees, and rested on Simon, who appeared to be badly injured.

The blood sprayed the group of travelers and the closest Flesh-eater, who didn't seem to mind.

Choking, the brawny bandit collapsed to the floor, drowning from the large hole through his throat.

The young boy raised up an old revolver, trembling with fear.

"Simon, Adaline, get behind me," he bravely commanded.