Lions in the Wasteland

The Man, the Myth, the Legend, the Wanderer.

I am the dust.

Inhale.

I am the wind.

Exhale.

I am rain.

Inhale.

I am everything.

Exhale.

I am nothing.

Inhale.

I am the Reaper.

Exhale.

Squeeze, recoil, pink mist.

Cycle bolt, Inhale.

Find center mass, Exhale.

Squeeze, recoil, pink mist.

————

Muffled echoes faintly rolled across the barren landscape. 7.62mm rounds turning souls to dust and chest cavities to mince meat from 600 meters.

The the small family that were bond and blindfolded prisoners of the former slavers, turned sacks of meat that lay in the dust around them, were desperately trying to undo their secure bindings; in a frantic attempt to escape whatever fate had befallen their captors.

Their struggles, accompanied by occasional whispered curses, were in vain— as their bonds held firm in the slowly fading light.

After what seemed like an eternity of struggling, without success, the man froze as he felt a pair of eyes upon his back; a bead of sweat tracing down his spine as he desperately thought about what to do next. He finally found his voice as he heard the crunch of large boots come closer; "Please don't kill us!!" he yelped, turning towards the approaching footfalls while attempting to shield his wife and daughters from the unknown entity. "I will do anything you want! I will be your slave if you want, Just please don't hurt my family!" As the words tumbled from his mouth his eyes threatened to spill over with tears of desperation. He took a deep breath and began to plead again as the ominous footsteps only grew closer without a response.

"Please I'll—" his plead was abruptly cut off by a massive gloved hand that engulfed the lower half of his face, covering his mouth. A gravely but kind voice spoke; "Quiet, you don't have to worry, I am here to free you and your family." In that moment it was like a boulder was lifted off of his shoulders, relief filled his chest and made him smile involuntarily under the gloved hand pressed against his face. The hand, smelling faintly of dirt and gun powder, was removed and before he could say anything he felt a tug on his restraints as they were cut from his hands. The blood flow finally returning to his hands as he massaged them slightly felt amazing. He felt the hilt of a large knife press into his palm followed by the gravelly voice with a command. "Take off your blindfold and release your family's bindings." the voice stated.

Without waiting for a response the apparently friendly, and still unknown, man moved towards where the bodies of the slavers were; most likely to loot what useful.

The former captive removed his blindfold and began to remove the bindings from his wife and two daughters. After a few mins of holding each other and quick tearful kisses with his wife, he helped them to their feet and turned and began to walk towards where the figure of their savior was silhouetted against the setting sun.

As the man stood from the body of the slaver, apparently not having found anything useful, and turned toward his approach— the former captive could help but stop dead in his tracks. His eyes grew wide and almost accidentally dropping the knife; standing before him— silhouetted against the setting sun— the largest man he had ever seen. He stood easily a foot above the former prisoner who, before had considered himself relatively tall. He was not only tall but well muscled with broad set shoulders clad in a gray clothes that seemed almost tailor-made with a short cape like fabric—hanging from his shoulders, going down just past his mid-chest embroidered along the edge with a black thread which formed into one kind of shape that the former captive couldn't make out. The rest of his large figure was covered with flat black combat armor and holsters and sheathes with different sized knives and pistols adorning them. The most intimidating feature was the fact that a low profile hood was pulled over the man's head— hiding any feature of the man's face in shadow.