Music thumped through the saloon, rattling glasses on the shelves. Ember danced, completely naked except for the wide belt around her waist. Her red hair flashed in the lamplight as she moved, every step controlled, every turn precise.

  She leaped, flipping backward through the air. The knife left her hand, spinning once, twice—then she caught it midair and drove it sharply into the wooden floor with a powerful throw. It stayed there, blade buried deep, a perfect mark of her skill.

  “Yeah! That’s it!” a man shouted from the back.

  “Woo! Amazing!” a woman cheered near the bar.

  The crowd erupted, clapping and shouting, a wave of sound rolling over the stage. Ember’s heart raced, adrenaline flooding through her. Every muscle sang, every nerve alive. She felt the power, the rhythm, the thrill of her own skill. The dance pulsed through her like fire.

  She flowed into a series of twists, flips, and spins, each landing light and exact. Another voice called out, “Go, girl!” Male and female cheers merged into a roaring tide. Ember laughed softly, spinning and leaping, savoring every second. The knife in the floor, the beat under her feet, the shouts around her—it all fed the rush.

  She felt their eyes on her, following each move. The crowd’s awe, their excitement—it added fuel to her performance. She controlled the energy, bending it, directing it with every step, every turn. The applause, the shouts, the gasps—they were hers to command.

  For a moment, she paused mid-step, letting the exhilaration fill her. Her chest rose and fell, her veins tingling with energy. She smiled, feeling the joy, the mastery, and the pure pleasure of performing—not just the dance itself, but the way she stirred the crowd, the power she wielded over their attention. Blowing kisses into the crowd, dipping into a graceful bow, she let herself drink in the applause.

  Her fingers swept over the stage as she gathered her clothing, movements smooth and deliberate. The audience roared once more, a final wave of cheers and whistles. Ember’s smile widened. Adrenaline still surged through her, every sense alive, every movement a celebration of skill, freedom, and control.

  Finally, she stepped off the stage, still trembling with excitement. The performance was over, but the rush, the thrill, the joy of dancing—and the exhilaration of holding the crowd in her hands—lingered in every fiber of her body.

  Ember pulled on her clothes, fingers moving fast, still warm from the stage lights. She took the tin from the floor and shook it once. Seven tokens clinked inside. Not bad, but not enough for a comfortable week.

  ***

  The saloon buzzed behind her. She made her way to the bar, slid a token across the counter, and took a glass of watered-down whiskey. The taste was weak, but it burned just enough to steady her breath.

  She let her eyes sweep across the room—drunks, traders, tired guards, faces lost in dim lantern light.

  Then she spotted Molly, the town’s tailor, sitting alone at a corner table, hands wrapped around an empty cup.

  Ember walked over and pulled out a chair.

  Molly blinked, surprised, then smiled.

  “That was… wow,” Molly said. “You were incredible up there.”

  Ember let out a short breath, still catching herself after the dance.

  “Thanks.”

  Molly leaned in a little.

  “I mean it. I’d die of embarrassment doing what you do. How do you even go on that stage without shaking?”

  Ember raised her brows.

  “Why would I be embarrassed? Do I have something wrong with me?”

  Molly’s eyes widened.

  “No! Gods, no. You look perfect.”

  She waved her hands, flustered.

  “I just mean… I couldn’t do it. All those eyes on me? No chance.”

  Ember shrugged, stretching her back a little, muscles still tense from the routine.

  “First time’s scary,” she said. “After that, it’s just movement. Music. A bit of excitement. Feels good, actually.”

  The noise of the room rose and fell around them—laughter from a card table, boots crossing the floor, glass hitting the counter.

  Ember felt the familiar post-show emptiness creep in, the quiet that always came after the exhilaration.

  “People need something to look at,” she said. “There’s not much fun left out here. Not much of anything.”

  Molly nodded, her face turning thoughtful.

  “Yeah. It’s rough lately.”

  Ember tapped her fingers on the table. She hesitated before speaking.

  “You know… when I started here, I barely took off anything. Just the jacket. And I made enough to get by.”

  Her voice dropped.

  “Now I go all the way, and I’m barely keeping my head above water.”

  Molly gave her a long, sympathetic look.

  “Maybe you should try something else,” she said quietly. “A different kind of job.”

  Ember let out a soft laugh.

  “Like what? Stitching dresses? I’d ruin every one of them.”

  Molly shook her head.

  “No, not that. I meant… something bigger.”

  She bit her lip, as if choosing her words.

  “The rescue team’s still out. They haven’t found anything. Not even a boot… from Crooked Tom.”

  Ember stilled. Everyone knew Tom. Loud voice, crooked smile, more guts than sense.

  “He’s really gone?”

  Molly’s voice lowered even more.

  “Looks that way. And the settlement needs stalkers. Badly.”

  Ember felt the idea settle in her chest like a weight — heavy, but not unpleasant. A path. A possibility.

  “Zed will have thoughts about that,” she said.

  Molly’s smile returned, faint but warm.

  “Talk to him. You’d be good at it. Better than you think.”

  Ember looked at the lantern lights flickering across the saloon walls.

  The idea tugged at her—dangerous, wild, but real.

  “Maybe,” she said.

  “Maybe I will.”

  ***

  Ember squeezed Molly’s shoulder in thanks and rose from the table.

  The saloon noise wrapped around her again—laughter, boots scraping, someone shouting for another round. She threaded her way through the crowd, stepped outside, and let the cold evening air hit her skin. It felt good. Quiet.

  The path to Zed’s place cut between two ruined shacks, then dipped toward a line of old cargo containers the settlement used as housing. Lanterns flickered along the dirt, their glow thin and shaky in the wind.

  Ember reached the familiar red container and knocked on the metal door.

  A moment later it slid open.

  Zed stood there, sleeves rolled up, hands smudged with grease, a half-finished rifle on the table behind him.

  He gave her a small grin.

  “Hey. Show go well?”

  Ember stepped inside and closed the door against the chill.

  “Yeah. Molly and I talked after.”

  He raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. He wiped his hands on a rag and leaned back against the table, waiting.

  Ember drew a slow breath.

  “She said I should think about different work. Something steadier.”

  Zed gave a quiet snort.

  “Tailoring’s not your style.”

  “Not that,” Ember said. “She mentioned Crooked Tom. The rescue team hasn’t found anything. They think he’s gone.”

  Zed’s face hardened, just a little.

  He nodded once.

  “Yeah. I heard.”

  Ember met his eyes.

  “There’s a vacancy. A stalker spot. She thinks I should try for it.”

  ***

  Zed didn’t react right away. His jaw tightened, but his voice stayed calm.

  “You don’t need to rush into that,” he said. “First caravan that comes through, you’ll ride with it to the Fort. Fresh start, safer place.”

  Ember shook her head.

  “Caravans haven’t shown up for weeks. Could be months.”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  She rubbed her hands together, restless.

  “I still have to eat. And… I feel it pulling me. Out there. Past the gate.”

  Zed narrowed his eyes slightly.

  “Pulling you?”

  Ember nodded, feeling almost embarrassed but pushing through.

  “When I’m outside the walls… it’s like being on stage. Blood gets hot. Nerves sharp. Everything feels real.”

  Zed let out a slow breath, a half-smile touching his mouth.

  “Then the Wastes caught your soul.”

  He walked to a metal crate near his workbench and tapped the lid.

  “If you’re that eager to test yourself, start simple.”

  He looked at her.

  “Go pick up Carlos’s pistol. You can trade it for good rations. Enough to last a while.”

  Ember straightened, then nodded.

  “All right. I’ll do it.”

  Zed tapped the table once. “Good. No point leaving a gun out there. The path’s familiar. You know the dangers.”

  “I’ve been there already,” Ember said. “Zombies, wild dogs, bandits… nothing new. I can handle it.”

  “That’s the problem,” he said, tapping the table again. “You think you can handle it. Spend ten rounds before you go. And buy yourself a hatchet. Something stronger than a knife. And remember, one zombie — you fight it. More than one — you run. Don’t overestimate yourself. Overconfidence is a fast way to the grave.”

  She nodded. It made sense.

  Zed unrolled the map across the table, fingers tracing the route to Fort. Each ruined house, dry wash, collapsed overpass, every turn. “Since you’re here, let’s go over it again. The road’s long. Dangerous in a real way. Better memorize it.”

  Ember leaned over the map, following his finger with her eyes.

  They went over the route step by step, Ember memorizing landmarks, turns, and crossings. By the time the map was rolled back up, she felt ready.

  “I’ll get the hatchet,” she said, gathering her bag. “And some supplies for the road.”

  Zed nodded. “Do it right. Don’t rush.”

  ***

  Two days later, early in the morning, she set out on her journey, fully prepared, carrying her supplies, her new hatchet, and a growing certainty that she could handle whatever came next.

  Ember stepped over a broken plank, boots crunching on dry earth. Her fingers curled tightly around the hatchet handle.

  A gust of wind rattled a loose signpost. She froze, ears straining. The breeze shifted debris across the path, throwing shadows across the ground.

  She inhaled slowly. Nothing. Just the wind. Yet her pulse ticked faster.

  A twig snapped behind a low bush. Ember spun, tightening her grip on the hatchet. A small fox darted out, startled, and vanished into the underbrush. She exhaled, laughing quietly. False alarm.

  The road curved around a collapsed fence. She stepped warily over fallen beams, scanning the edges for movement. Dust swirled in the sunlight.

  A crow cawed from a dead tree. Ember paused, head tilting, listening to the empty silence that followed. Her heart rate settled, but her senses stayed sharp.

  A patch of fog drifted across the road, curling over rocks and posts. Ember slowed her pace, eyes narrowing, watching every shadow shift.

  Something moved in the grass to her left. She tensed, stepping back, ready to strike. A tumbleweed rolled by. Relief washed over her. Still nothing. Keep going.

  A dry branch scraped against another, snapping. She jerked, tightening her grip on the hatchet. Stay alert. Every sound, every whisper of the Wasteland tested her nerves.

  Her boots crunched over gravel, balancing across a narrow path where the earth had eroded. The stench of decay drifted from a distant brush pile. She sniffed, controlled her breath, and moved on.

  Shadows stretched longer as the sun dipped lower. Ember’s muscles coiled with anticipation. She felt alive, senses sharp, every nerve tuned. The Wasteland was watching, waiting for a mistake.

  ***

  Ember spotted a lone zombie ahead, half-hidden in the tall grass. Bypassing it meant wading through the brush—snakes, traps, who knew what. She decided the risk of a messy improvisation was worse than a clean, swift number.

  “Go-go, Em!” she whispered under her breath and gripped the hatchet tightly. First move.

  The blade slammed into the zombie’s head, but it jammed with a sickening crunch. The handle caught, wrenching free from her hands.

  “Crap!” she muttered, adrenaline spiking. The weapon was gone.

  A rustle from the grass. Two more rose on either side, just a few feet away.

  Her heart skipped a beat; her legs felt suddenly weak. No time for the collapse. She didn't try to retrieve the hatchet. Instead, she executed a rapid turn and retreat, a desperate run to gain a few feet of distance.

  She risked a glance back. One was close; the second lagged behind. This is my chance. My solo.

  She pulled her combat knife, stopping abruptly.

  The first zombie lunged.

  Ember moved with the precision of long-rehearsed muscle memory—a swift pirouette into the attack, driving the knife into the temple.

  The knife bit into the skull and stuck.

  “Seriously?!” Ember cursed under her breath.

  Another zombie had closed the distance, shuffling with sudden speed.

  She swung a foot, kicking it back. The creature stumbled… but the motion threw her off balance. She pitched forward, hitting the ground hard. Pain shot up her arm, but she rolled and scrambled to her feet, swearing under her breath.

  Her eyes locked on the first zombie—the one with the hatchet embedded in its skull. She sprinted toward it, fists tight, adrenaline pounding. She grabbed the haft and yanked. The hatchet didn’t budge.

  A low groan sounded behind her. The third zombie was nearly on her. Its clawed fingers stretched, curling, almost brushing her shoulder.

  Ember dug in with every ounce of strength. The hatchet shifted a millimeter, then another. With a final, gritted-teeth pull, it popped free.

  She swung. The blade slammed into the zombie’s head. Skull cracked with a sickening crunch. The hatchet lodged again, sticky, but the monster slumped, finally still.

  Breathing hard, Ember straightened and looked at the last corpse.

  Her hatchet was still buried deep in its skull, sunk at an ugly angle.

  “Great,” she muttered.

  She planted a boot on the dead zombie’s shoulder and pulled.

  Nothing.

  She shifted her grip, jaw tightening, and yanked again.

  Another pull—harder this time—and the hatchet tore free with a wet crack.

  A sharp breath escaped her, not from fear anymore, but from something hotter, brighter. The panic that had squeezed her chest moments ago was gone. In its place came a rising swell—light, electric, heady.

  Victory.

  She moved to the second corpse. Her knife jutted from its temple like an improvised handle. Ember grabbed the hilt and pulled. The blade slid free with little resistance.

  A laugh—a high, shaky sound—escaped her lips. Her hands trembled violently, but her mind was crystal clear, every sound and smell magnified. She felt alive, exhilarated, exactly like the moment she finished her dance.

  “That’s a cut!” she shouted, feeling the adrenaline vibrate through her veins.

  Energy thrummed through her, warm and sharp. Every sense felt open, expanded—the rustle of grass, the distant wind, her own heartbeat pounding like music.

  Euphoria washed through her, wild and intoxicating.

  She had faced three of them.

  Alone.

  And she’d won.

  Ember stood tall, blood-slick knife in one hand, hatchet in the other, the fading fear turning into a fierce, triumphant grin.

  ***

  Ember walked toward the ruined house as the sun dipped lower, throwing long orange lines across the clearing. There was still enough daylight, but shadows stretched in every broken corner of the two-story shell. Part of the roof held. Part of the second floor too. The rest had collapsed years ago.

  She slowed down near the outer wall, moving past chunks of concrete and old beams. The doorway was gone. The inside lay open like a cracked rib cage.

  Her stomach tightened.

  Carlos fell right there. One hit with the heavy pack. He dropped face-first into the fire.

  The memory flashed hard and sharp.

  He didn’t move after that. God… I killed him.

  Her throat closed for a second.

  She forced herself to breathe and scanned the rubble again. No fresh prints. Only old tracks from that night — boots, light steps, the dragging marks of too many zombies.

  She stepped closer to the wall and crouched near the entrance, listening. Nothing but the distant rasp of wind through the broken boards.

  He was a bastard, she reminded herself.

  He deserved it. He wanted you dead.

  But the words didn’t ease the knot in her gut.

  She moved carefully around the fallen beam, eyes adjusting to the dimmer light. The air grew thicker the farther she went inside — damp, sour, carrying the heavy stench of rot.

  Then she saw Rattie’s skeleton.

  It lay under the broken section of wall that served as a climb-up point to the second floor. Her leg was still caught in the rusty bear trap, bone clamped tight in iron teeth. Most of the flesh was long gone.

  Ember froze. Her chest tightened again.

  Rattie’s scream slammed back into her mind — raw, desperate, endless.

  She ordered Carlos to shoot me. Smiled while she said it.

  But getting eaten alive… Jesus.

  The thought hit her hard, leaving a cold shiver along her spine.

  We worked together for years. And I never saw what she really was.

  She swallowed, trying to steady herself, but her hands still shook.

  A combat knife lay beside the scattered bones, half-buried in dirt.

  Ember forced herself to step closer.

  Ember crouched beside Rattie’s bones and reached for the combat knife. The grip was still solid, the blade only a little stained. She turned it in her hand, weighing it - good balance, sharp edge, better than the one she carried. A crooked smile tugged at her mouth.

  “You wanted to rob me and kill me,” she murmured toward the gnawed bones. “And now I’m the one taking your blade.”

  She slid the new knife behind her belt, securing it at her hip. Rattie hadn’t beaten her. Not even close. Ember was still alive. Still dancing.

  She took a slow breath, and looked up at the broken wall. The climb wasn’t far, and the footholds were familiar

  The stink hit her halfway up.

  A thick, sour wave of decay rolled over her, forcing a gag up her throat. Ember squeezed her eyes shut, found the next hold, and pulled herself higher.

  The moment her head reached floor level, something gray and fast launched at her face.

  A rat.

  She jerked back instinctively, swatting it away with her forearm. Her boot slipped. The ground dropped beneath her for a heartbeat.

  “Damn it!” She caught the edge with both hands and heaved herself up in a single, desperate motion.

  She rolled onto the second floor, breathing hard.

  Three rats scattered at once—two over the broken planks, one still clinging to the corpse. Ember lunged forward, kicking one aside and swinging her hatchet at another. Bone and fur burst apart. The last squealed and vanished into a crack.

  Chest heaving, she stared at Carlos’s body.

  He lay where he had fallen—half-burned, half-rotten, clothes fused to his skin. His right hand still clutched the pistol, fingers curled tight around the grip.

  Her stomach twisted.

  You wanted me dead.

  You made me strip. You aimed the gun at me.

  She forced the guilt down, swallowing it like poison.

  “Who survived, Carlos?” she whispered. “Told you I’d dance at your funeral.”

  Holding her breath, Ember pried the pistol from his stiff hand. The smell was unbearable, burning her throat and eyes.

  She backed away fast and dropped down through the opening, landing hard on the dirt.

  Air—cleaner, colder—hit her lungs.

  “No way I’m spending the night in there,” she rasped. The thought of trying made her stomach clench.

  She slipped the pistol into her waistband, tightened her grip on the hatchet, and stepped back toward the open clearing.

  She’d find a tree and tie herself in. Zed had taught her that trick—sleep above the ground if there isn’t anything better.

  The night would be long.