The low rumble of engines echoed across the endless desert, cutting through the howling winds that carried the sting of sand and dust. Three old-fashioned military vehicles trudged through the wasteland, their tires fighting against the loose sand. Every so often, a gust of wind would batter against the windshield of the lead vehicle, leaving it coated in fine particles.
Inside the lead vehicle, a rugged man, his face weathered by years of harsh environments, swore under his breath as the sandstorm obscured his view. His knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel, his dark green military uniform bearing the marks of a long and grueling mission.
"Chester," the woman seated beside him called out, her voice steady but laced with weariness.
Chester barely spared her a glance, his sharp brown eyes fixed on the shifting horizon. "I'm driving, Clara," he muttered. "Unless you want all three of us buried under a dune, I suggest you let me focus."
Clara, a striking woman with dark brown hair streaked with golden highlights, sighed heavily. Her uniform, though similar in design to Chester's, bore a deep crimson hue, marking her rank and role as distinct. She leaned back in her seat, running a hand through her hair to shake loose the grains of sand that had managed to seep inside.
"We've been out here for hours," she said, her tone sharp. "Twelve hours, to be exact. Supplies are running low, and we're nearly out of ammunition after those damn creatures earlier."
Chester grunted in agreement, though his eyes never left the road ahead. "You're not wrong," he admitted. "But we're Walkstiers, Clara. This is our job. Secure outposts, find habitable zones, recover artifacts… ensure humanity has a fighting chance out here."
Clara gave him a tired side glance, the corners of her mouth twitching in irritation. "And yet, here we are, stuck in the middle of a sandstorm with barely enough water to last the day. Tell me, Chester, do you really think there's anything worth finding out here?"
His frown deepened, but he didn't respond immediately. The silence between them stretched on, broken only by the relentless howl of the wind. Finally, Chester sighed. "I don't know, Clara," he admitted. "But if we don't try, what's the alternative? Abandon our duties? Leave our families and friends to fend for themselves?"
Clara remained silent, her lips pressed into a thin line. After a moment, she nodded reluctantly. "You're right. I just… I just hate how pointless it all feels sometimes."
Before Chester could respond, a sudden impact rocked the vehicle, sending it veering sharply to the side.
"Hold on!" Chester shouted, gripping the wheel tightly as the vehicle swerved and skidded across the sand. Clara grabbed onto the dashboard, her heart racing as the vehicle tipped precariously.
"What the hell was that?!" she yelled over the chaos.
"I don't know!" Chester barked back, his voice strained as he fought to regain control. But it was no use. The vehicle rolled, tumbling across the dunes before coming to a jarring stop.
Clara groaned, pushing against the crumpled door to free herself from the wreckage. She managed to climb out, shielding her face from the storm as she scanned the area.
But before she could get a good look, Chester yanked her back inside.
"Stay down!" he hissed.
"What—" Clara began, but her words were cut off as something whistled through the air, slamming into the sand mere feet from where she had been standing. The impact sent a spray of sand in every direction.
Her eyes widened in shock. "What was that?!"
Chester clicked his tongue, already moving through the damaged vehicle to retrieve their gear. "Grab whatever you can that still works," he ordered. "We're being tailed."
Clara didn't need to be told twice. She scrambled through the wreckage, pulling out two heavy rifles, their metallic surfaces scratched but functional. She tossed one to Chester before loading a clip into the other.
"How is it even possible for the radar to miss something like this?" she demanded, frustration evident in her voice.
"Maybe they've figured out how to hide their energy signatures," Chester suggested grimly, though the uncertainty in his tone made it clear he wasn't entirely convinced.
Clara grit her teeth. "Great. As if they weren't bad enough already."
Chester moved to one of the broken windows, using the rifle's scope to scan the horizon. It didn't take long for his breath to hitch as he spotted five grotesque figures emerging from the storm.
Their forms were a mockery of humanity—bent and twisted with mismatched limbs that seemed more bone than flesh. Their skin was a sickly greenish-gray, covered in patches of rot and tattered rags that barely clung to their grotesque frames. Their faces were the stuff of nightmares, with hollow, glowing eyes and mouths that stretched unnaturally wide, revealing rows of jagged teeth. Each of them carried crude, makeshift weapons—rusted swords, jagged spears, and spiked clubs stained with dried blood.
"Damn… Scourge Stalkers," Chester muttered, his grip tightening on the rifle.
Clara groaned in frustration. "Of course, it's them. Could this day get any worse?"
The Scourge Stalkers were notorious scavengers, known for their cunning and pack tactics. They had an uncanny ability to lure prey into false security, isolating them before striking with brutal efficiency.
Chester weighed his options, knowing full well how dire their situation was. Running was pointless; the Stalkers were far too fast. Fighting would only delay the inevitable. And even if the other vehicles had escaped, there was no guarantee they'd make it back in time with reinforcements.
Just as he was about to curse their rotten luck, a flash of movement caught his eye.
One of the Stalkers' heads suddenly flew into the air, severed cleanly from its grotesque body.
"What the—" Chester's words died in his throat as another head went flying, then another.
Clara noticed his stunned expression. "What is it?" she asked in a hushed tone.
Chester's eyes remained locked on the scene unfolding before him. "The Stalkers… they're all dead."
Through the haze of the sandstorm, a lone figure emerged, standing amidst the carnage. The faint outline of a tattered cloak billowed in the wind, the golden glow of runes faintly visible against the dark fabric. In the figure's hand was the severed head of one of the Stalkers.
Chester and Clara stared in stunned silence as the figure stepped closer, the storm obscuring their features but not the unmistakable aura of power that surrounded them.