a bet that required him putting his face that close to their parts.
His boots offered a ton of lag with each step. Obviously, they’d gained weight since he put them on. The armored toes kicked up puffs of dust. The land he traversed was beyond dry. The moisture sucked from it had left it cracked and desiccated. The bright sun also made it impossible to see, despite the goggles on his face. At least there were no indications of a storm. They could rise suddenly on the Wasteland plains and proved to be deadly to those with flesh.
He sweated inside his patched leather duster but didn’t dare remove it. Taking it off meant carrying it. Given he could barely remain upright, he doubted his ability to do that. He kept putting one foot in front of the other, hoping to see something, anything, that would provide shelter and a few hours rest. Water would be nice, too. His flask had run dry.
A really bad thing to happen in the Wasteland. But he’d probably not die of thirst. Night was falling, and he was outside alone in it. No shelter. No partner. If something caught his scent, it would get ugly.
He kept walking, his pace steady and brisk, hoping to see something in the distance. The horizon remained empty. Shadows stretched across the land. Once darkness fell it would be hours of avoiding the denizens of the night. Smart Wastelanders, living ones he should add, knew to hide.
Hide where?
He broke into a jog and wondered if he should try another angle. Turning around showed him nothing. Not a single slight hump in sight.
The sun dipped below the horizon, taking all hope with it.
A roaring started in the distance, a sound to send a chill down the spine. He turned to look behind him and realized the plains at his back were already too gloomy to make out. Did the predators of the night already race to find him? With daylight gone and starlight so dim, would he even see them coming?
As if to taunt him, the tiny breeze that had finally arrived to cool his feverish skin turned brisk and hard. It whipped him, and his coat rippled, the crisp noise announcing his location.
He pushed it back and put his hand on the hilt of his gun. Fully loaded at least. How many would come after him?
Would he have the courage to keep one bullet for himself, or would he die fighting? He still remembered that wild look in his mother’s eyes as she held the gun in a shaking hand and said, “We have to keep two bullets. Just in case.”
That was more than two decades ago now. Only when he was much older did he understand what she meant. How much she loved him.
He had no one to use a bullet on him. He looked down at his hand holding the weapon. He could end it now. Before the pain. Because he had no doubt dying by being torn apart would be horribly agonizing.
But killing himself before even trying? He had to fight. Had to at least see if there was a chance he could prevail.
The first furry body came flying from the gloom, teeth snapping. A fucking tigber. Striped and massive, they liked to eat meat. Any kind of meat. Liked it so much there usually weren’t even any bones left behind.
He fired in its face. The only way to truly stop a tigber. Hit them in a limb and they’d get twice as pissed.
Another flew at him from his left, and he took a step forward and pivoted. Aimed. Killed it and whirled. His next shot went slightly awry, and the beast slammed into him, tearing at his arm.
Titan couldn’t help but bellow, especially since it was his gun hand. His other already had a knife, and he plunged it into the gut of the beast, spilling its innards in a hot rush before shoving the body from him, hands sinking into the fur. If he lived, he should take the fur with him. If he scored enough, it would make an epic blanket.
But first he had to live.
He sprang to his feet in time to meet the next rush. He dodged and then swung around, plunging the knife into the beast. The blade wedged between muscle and bone and refused to budge. The tigber roared and thrashed. He fought to keep his grip. “Fuck me!”
He was forced to release the knife. He dove for the ground,