The tree creaked softly as the first light pushed through the thin branches. Cold air clung to the ground. A faint breeze stirred the dry grass below, carrying the night’s leftover chill.

  Ember woke with a heavy head. The ache started in her neck and ran all the way down her spine. Her legs felt stiff; her backside was numb from hours of hanging in the harness.

  The Wasteland greeted her with silence, broken only by the distant buzz of insects.

  She exhaled through her teeth and began the slow climb down. Every joint protested. Her hands shook a little when her boots finally touched the dirt.

  She uncapped her bottle, drank a few careful swallows, then splashed the rest across her face. The shock of cold water hit her hard, and she sucked in a quick breath. Can’t be slow. Can’t drift off out here.

  She rolled her shoulders, stretched her arms, bent low to loosen the tight muscles in her legs. A few twists, a few deep breaths. The stiffness eased, but not completely.

  The air warmed by a degree. Light slid across the broken stones of the path she had come from.

  Ember adjusted her pack, checked the hatchet at her hip, the knife in its sheath and the second blade behind her belt. Her muscles were loose now, awake.

  She took a few steps, then stopped and looked back at the house. The broken doorway. The quiet windows. Nothing moved.

  Carlos on the floor above. Rattie in the trap below. One tried to own me. The other tried to trick me.

  Both gone. I am still here.

  The wind carried the dry smell of dust between the trees.

  Ember turned away and started toward home.

  ***

  Ember moved steadily through the Wasteland, keeping her eyes on the horizon. The dry grass rustled softly with the wind. A few broken branches snapped under her boots, the usual sounds of a place she knew too well.

  She scanned the terrain—rocks, shadows, twisted trees—nothing out of the ordinary.

  A low, rattling growl echoed through the underbrush. Ember paused. She held her breath, heart suddenly pounding against her ribs. Her hand tightened on the hatchet. The sound was animal, not Z-type, but too close for comfort. She took one slow step back, trying to pinpoint the source, listening for movement.

  Then the bush violently shook, and it lunged.

  A dog, wild and snarling, shot out from behind a cluster of trees. Its teeth gleamed in the sunlight, and its eyes burned with hunger.

  Ember barely had a moment to react. She sidestepped, raising the hatchet, ready to strike.

  The dog crouched low, growling, eyes fixed on her. It moved forward slowly, teeth bared, muscles coiled. Ember’s lips curled into a crooked grin.

  “You want to dance?” she whispered, voice low but sharp. “Let’s dance. But this is my stage. My rules.”

  Another rustle from the trees.

  A second dog appeared, stepping out from the same cluster. It growled, low and threatening, approaching from the side. Ember’s eyes flicked between them, calculating, every muscle ready.

  She murmured under her breath, “I can handle this.”

  Her left hand went to the knife at her belt. “See? I can do it.”

  The dogs moved forward, side by side. Bloodshot eyes, saliva dripping from their jaws. Ember’s grip on the hatchet tightened.

  She lunged ahead, swinging the hatchet in a wide arc. The dogs jerked back, startled, but didn’t retreat.

  “Want some more?!” she shouted, raising the hatchet, ready to strike again.

  The first dog started to circle her, keeping low, eyes never leaving her. The second growled and feinted attacks, snapping close but holding its distance.

  Ember swung at the air, driving them back, but her stomach twisted. She realized she couldn’t fend off a strike from both sides.

  The second dog was moving behind her now. Her heart jumped. The angle. The trap. If it hit, she was done.

  Something had to be done.

  Right now.

  Immediately.

  Otherwise, this would be her last dance.

  Dance. The idea struck her like lightning.

  She darted quick glances at both predators. First, she needed to deal with the smarter one. Which one?

  Of course—the one circling behind, trying to strike from the rear.

  Ember shifted the hatchet into her left hand, grabbed the knife with her right, and lunged at the dog standing in front.

  It flinched slightly, but didn’t back off, growling sharply.

  Using the recoil, Ember swung back and threw the knife at the dog sneaking up from behind.

  It yelped, stumbled sideways, the blade sinking between its ribs to the hilt. The dog leapt once and collapsed with a long, mournful howl.

  Ember spun to face the other.

  “See? Want some?” she hissed.

  The dog lunged forward.

  She swung the hatchet.

  It rolled across the ground, its shoulder bloodied.

  “Want more?!” she snapped.

  The dog whimpered and limped into the bushes.

  Ember straightened, flicked the blood off the hatchet in one sharp motion, and let out a quiet laugh.

  Her veins thrummed with heat, her ears rang, chest heaving with the scent of victory.

  I did it again.

  She laughed as she pulled the knife free from the dead dog, unable to stop herself.

  ***

  The Wasteland lay quiet behind her, the rustle of grass and the occasional birdcall the only sounds. Ember’s boots crunched over the dry earth, hatchet at her hip, knives secure at her belt. Her muscles still buzzed from the fight.

  She glanced back once, toward the trees where the dogs had attacked. Nothing moved. Just empty shadows.

  The path to the settlement stretched ahead, sun low in the sky. Familiar landmarks—broken fence posts, the twisted trunk of an old oak, a pile of rubble—passed under her watchful eyes. Nothing could surprise her now, she thought.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Her breathing slowed as she approached the outskirts. Smoke rose in the distance. The settlement’s walls came into view, gates patched from scavenged wood and metal. A few figures moved within.

  Ember felt the tension in her shoulders ease. She had survived. Again. She had fought. She had won.

  ***

  Ember stepped into Zed’s shelter. The familiar smell of dust and gun oil hit her.

  Zed looked up and gave a small nod.

  “Well? How’d the trip go?” he asked.

  Ember set her pack down and began talking as she pulled her weapons out. She laid Carlos’s Smith & Wesson on the table first, then Retty’s combat knife beside it.

  Zed froze, eyes widening.

  “You… actually finished them?” he asked, disbelief in his voice.

  Ember shrugged.

  “They came at me first.”

  Zed let out a low whistle.

  “Remind me never to cross you,” he said, half-grinning.

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Better focus on the loot.”

  Zed leaned over the table, picking up the pistol and turning it in his hands.

  “Not bad at all,” he said, impressed. “This Smith & Wesson… clean, reliable. Whoever owned it took care of it.”

  He picked up the knife next.

  “And this—Retty’s? Sharp. Solid balance. You did well.”

  Zed set the pistol down carefully, still looking impressed.

  “You’re keeping this one. Don’t leave it behind. It’ll come in handy at the Fort.”

  He glanced at the knife.

  “Trade this for food. Why carry two blades? One is enough.”

  Ember nodded, accepting the advice.

  “Alright,” she said. “Food it is.”

  Zed leaned back, a faint smile on his face.

  “Good work today. You handled yourself well.”

  Ember hesitated a moment, then asked,

  “So… what about scouts? Think I could join them? I need to train up before I head out to the Fort, and I’ve proven I can get through it.”

  Zed shook his head firmly.

  “No. Scouts walk alone. No one to teach you, no one to save you if something goes wrong. They go far. Too far. That’s not training—it’s a gamble.”

  She frowned.

  “But I handled myself today.”

  Zed leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

  “You survived one bad day. Good. Really good. But scouts aren’t the place to learn. If you want to train, go with the scavengers. They move in teams, cover each other, and bring back real finds. Safer, and you’ll actually learn something.”

  He added quietly,

  “Stalkers? They’re on the Sheriff’s payroll. Steady pay, but leash work. Risky. Harder than you think.”

  Ember exhaled slowly, letting his words sink in. Practical, grounded. She nodded.

  “Alright. Scavengers then.”

  Zed gave a single approving nod.

  “That’s the smart choice.”

  ***

  Ember woke late. Her body felt heavy, every muscle dull from yesterday’s fight. She pushed herself up, dressed, and shouldered her small pack. Time to wash. Time to scrub the dirt off.

  She walked through the settlement toward the public bathhouse. Warm steam drifted from the doorway, carrying the smell of soap and heated water.

  The owner, a wide-shouldered woman with gray streaks in her hair, smiled at her.

  “Want to wash together? Cheaper that way.”

  Ember shook her head.

  “I prefer men.”

  The woman raised a brow. “Then why’d you come alone?”

  Ember sighed. “I just want a bath. That’s all.”

  The owner chuckled and handed her a tag for the laundry. Ember stripped down, tossed her dirty clothes in the basket, and stepped into the warm water. For a while she just stood there, letting the heat soak in, letting the dust and fear wash away.

  When she finished, her clothes were still being washed. The owner handed her a loose red blouse and a short skirt.

  “No underwear, girl. You’ll have to wait,” she said, amused.

  Ember slipped into the spare clothes anyway. The blouse hung free against her skin; the skirt brushed her thighs with every step. The pack felt heavier on her back, full of the clean set she’d soon change into.

  She headed toward the store, the road dusty under her bare legs. Time to buy food. Time to get ready.

  ***

  Ember reached the store and spotted Muddy Joe leaning against the wall. Dust covered his sleeves, and his eyes tracked the street like he was sizing up everything that moved. Leader of the scavenger team. Hard to impress.

  She walked straight toward him.

  “Hi, Joe. I want to join your team.”

  He didn’t even blink.

  “Hi, Em. And no.”

  “That’s all?” she asked.

  “That’s all.” His gaze slid over her — the loose red blouse, the short skirt, bare legs. “You’re a dancer. Stick to that. Let the men deal with the serious work.”

  Heat sparked in her chest.

  “I headed out into the Wasteland,” she said. “Alone. I fought zombies. I got through it.”

  Joe snorted.

  “One trip doesn’t make you a scavenger.”

  “I can keep up,” Ember insisted. “I’m strong. I don’t break easy.”

  “Still no.”

  “Zed trained me.” She lifted her chin. “He taught me how to handle myself.”

  That made Joe pause a little, then he shrugged.

  “Good. But training doesn’t change what you need out there.”

  “Like what?”

  He snapped his fingers.

  “Power and silence. You don’t have either. We need someone who can take down a target without waking the whole damn block. You’ve got guts, girl — I’ll give you that — but guts don’t keep you alive.”

  Ember clenched her jaw. He wasn’t wrong, and she hated it.

  “Fine,” she said quietly. “I’ll work it out. I’ll get what I need.”

  Joe pushed off the wall and stepped past her.

  “When you do,” he said, “then we’ll talk.”

  He went inside the store, leaving her on the dusty step, breath tight with anger, pride, and that stubborn fire that never let her hang on to doubt for long.

  ***

  Ember crossed the yard toward Josh’s workshop. The air smelled of oil and hot metal; tools clattered somewhere inside. Josh looked up from a pile of springs and gears, wiping his hands on a rag.

  “Well, look at you,” he said, eyes running over her figure a little too slow. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need something powerful and quiet,” Ember said. “For the Wasteland.”

  Josh raised a brow.

  “Quiet? Depends. What’ve you got to trade?”

  Ember set her pack on the bench and pulled out the pistol, the knife, and the hatchet.

  “This.”

  Josh’s eyes widened — and not just at the weapons. He leaned in, gaze drifting from the gear to her bare legs, then back again.

  “Smith & Wesson… nice. Knife’s good too. And the hatchet.”

  He tapped the table thoughtfully, then grinned.

  “I can trade you all three for one thing. A proper crossbow. Strong pull, clean shot, almost no sound. Good for someone who doesn’t want to wake the whole town.”

  Ember stared at the weapons, then at the crossbow hanging on the wall. Her stomach tightened.

  “All three? That’s everything I’ve got.”

  Josh shrugged, still watching her the same hungry way.

  “Deals are deals. You want silent power — that’s the price.”

  Ember put her stuff back, then slung the pack over her shoulder.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Don’t take too long,” Josh called after her. “Good offers don’t wait.”

  She didn’t answer. She stepped out into the sun, heartbeat tight, mind already turning to one person who’d give her a straight answer.

  She needed to talk to Zed.

  ***

  Ember found Zed behind his shack, checking a broken rifle.

  She told him everything in one breath — the offer, the crossbow, the look in Josh’s eyes.

  Zed snorted.

  “That bastard tried to trick you. A pistol costs more than any crossbow he’s got. And a pistol with a suppressor?” He shook his head. “That’s gold.”

  Ember folded her arms. “I knew something was off, but I couldn’t figure it out. He talked fast, tried to push me into that trade.”

  “He does that,” Zed said. “But Josh isn’t stupid. He probably has a suppressor lying around. He didn’t mention it because he wanted to take your gun cheap.”

  Ember’s jaw clenched. “He won’t get away with it.”

  Zed opened a small ammo box, pushed it toward her.

  “Here. Subsonic rounds. Twenty-three left. Use them with a suppressor, and your pistol will be quiet.”

  She stared at the box, then at him. “Thank you. I’ll pay you back.”

  “Forget it. Just don’t let Josh scam you again.”

  Ember closed the box, slung her pack over her shoulder.

  “I’ll sort this out,” she said. “He tried to mess with me. Now he’ll pay for it.”

  Zed raised an eyebrow. “Don’t shoot him.”

  “I won’t,” Ember said, already turning away. “But I’m getting that suppressor.”

  And she headed toward the workshop, fast and angry.