In the year 2110, Earth was a graveyard. The oceans boiled, the skies blackened with ash, and the last scraps of farmland turned to dust. The powerful had drained the world dry, and when there was nothing left to take, they fled.

Their salvation was a ship called The Kings — a floating palace built for politicians, generals, and tycoons. With fanfare and fire, it launched into the black, leaving billions to starve.

But hubris has a way of catching up with men who think themselves gods. Not even reaching orbit, The Kings lit up the night like a false dawn. Its engines exploded, tearing through steel and fire, raining wreckage across the wastes. Those aboard, who had thought themselves untouchable, died screaming in silence. The mighty were gone, their palace a broken scar across the land.

The crash reshaped the world. Whole regions burned beneath the falling debris. Cities crumbled, forests were swallowed by flame, and seas boiled where fragments of the ship plunged into the water. Tens of millions were erased in an instant. When the dust settled, only a few tens of thousands remained in scattered corners of the earth. The land that survived was a cruel parody of the old world — cracked soil, twisted steel, and skies that never cleared.

One of those places was what had once been a remote stretch of the United States. Somehow, the region endured. The air was breathable, the heat not unbearable, the winters survivable. In time, the last remnants of humanity clawed together small towns and villages, fragile sparks in the long night.

It was here that Rex West was born.

He was the firstborn son of the West family, and for a brief moment, there was happiness. His parents laughed, sang, and tried to raise him in a world that no longer deserved joy. But when he was just three years old, bandits came. They tore his parents from him and left nothing but grief in their place. Rex survived only because of his grandfather, Ozzy.

Ozzy was a hard man, but not cruel. He carried the weight of the old world in his bones. He had seen rivers flow, had walked through fields of grass, had breathed air that didn’t taste of dust. He spoke of it sometimes, in hushed tones, painting pictures Rex could barely imagine. To Rex, they were like fairy tales — too bright, too impossible to be real.

Ozzy taught him everything he knew. How to track a trail through shifting sands. How to listen for danger in the silence. How to aim a rifle steady, or gut a deer clean. Under his guidance, Rex grew sharp-eyed and strong, his hands steady and his instincts quick. By the time he was fifteen, he was taller than most grown men in Red Rock and tougher than all but a few.

Red Rock was a small place — a cluster of weathered shacks, wagons, and scrap-metal roofs clinging to life in the canyon’s shadow. A hundred people at most. Everyone knew everyone. Rex grew up among them, working the hunts, hauling supplies, sharing fires at night. He knew the children, too — even the quiet ones. Colt was one of those.

Colt lived with his uncle near the east gate, a lean boy with pale eyes and restless hands. He wasn’t a fighter like Rex. More often, he was found working the stables, tending to the few horses Red Rock had left. He spoke little, kept to himself, but Rex knew him enough to nod when they crossed paths. That was the way of small towns. Nobody was a stranger, not really.

That morning, Rex had ridden out alone into the canyons. Sometimes the weight of Red Rock pressed too heavily on him — the same faces, the same routines, the same reminders of what had been lost. Out there, among the rocks and silence, he could breathe. The air was dry, the wind sharp, but it was quiet. And quiet was a rare gift.

He didn’t stay long. A few hours, maybe. Just enough to clear his head.

When he returned, silence was all that remained.

The town was smoke and ruin. Shacks were blackened skeletons, wagons splintered, the air thick with the stench of blood. The streets where he’d played as a child were littered with bodies. Friends. Neighbors. Faces he had known his whole life.

Rex staggered through the wreckage, his chest tight. His voice broke as he called out: “Grandad? Grandad!”

No answer came.

He searched desperately, stumbling past charred beams and collapsed roofs, past people he’d grown up alongside. The silence was unbearable, punctuated only by the crackle of flames. His hands shook, his heart hammering in his chest.

Then, movement. From the corner of his eye, a wooden crate rattled near the edge of the square.

Rex whipped his revolver up, finger on the trigger, breath caught in his throat.

What crawled out wasn’t a bandit.

It was a boy about his age, dusty, pale, and wide-eyed.

“Don’t shoot!” the boy cried, hands raised. “It’s me — Colt!”

Rex froze, recognition flooding him. Colt. The quiet one from the stables. He lowered the revolver slowly, his throat tight.

“You’re alive…” Rex muttered.

Colt stumbled forward, shaking. “I—I was hidin’. Under the crates. They didn’t find me.”

“Who?” Rex asked, though the answer was already carved into his heart.

Colt swallowed, his gaze flicking to the ruins. “Bandits. A whole damn army of ’em. They rolled through here like a storm. Took what they wanted… killed everyone else.” His voice cracked. “My uncle’s gone. They’re all gone.”

Rex’s hand trembled on the grip of his revolver. He wanted to deny it, wanted to believe there was still hope. But the evidence was all around them. His grandad. His friends. Red Rock itself. Gone.

Colt’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I heard them talking. This wasn’t just a raid. They’re gathering. Building something bigger.”

For a long moment, the two boys stood in the ashes of their world, surrounded by smoke and silence. Rex’s chest rose and fell, his grief sharpening into something harder.

“If what you say is true,” he said, voice low and cold, “this ain’t just about Red Rock. They’ll do it again. And again.”

He looked at Colt, really looked at him — not just the quiet boy from the stables, but the only other survivor of their home. His grip tightened on the revolver, not in fear, but in resolve.

“Someone’s gotta stop ’em.”

The words hung in the smoky air like a vow.

The ruins of Red Rock smoldered under a sky the color of iron. Smoke rose in thin, bitter streams, curling into the dry wind that carried the stink of blood and ash. Rex moved slowly through what had once been his home, boots crunching on charred wood and broken glass. His revolver hung heavy in his hand, though there was no one left to shoot.

Beside him, Colt trailed silently, eyes darting to every sound — the creak of a collapsing shack, the snap of fire eating through beams. They said nothing for a long time. What words could there be, when the town they’d grown up in — the only place either of them had ever known — was nothing but bones?

Rex crouched near a body, his breath catching. It was Mrs. Harlow, who used to sneak him sweet cakes when his grandad wasn’t looking. Her face was pale, her eyes glassy, her apron dark with blood. For a moment, his chest tightened until it hurt. Then he forced himself to stand.

“We can’t stay,” Rex said, voice low and steady, though every part of him screamed inside.

Colt nodded quickly, too quickly. “I know. They’ll come back. Bandits don’t just hit once and leave.”

Rex looked around. The buildings were gutted, their roofs gone, their walls blackened. Even if the bandits didn’t return, there was nothing left to live on. No food, no water, no safety. Just ashes.

Colt swallowed, his voice breaking the silence. “There’s… a place. I heard about it when I was on the road, before I came here. Northwest, past the canyon. They call it Havenrest. Supposedly it’s safe. Real walls, farmland, people who look out for each other.”

Rex turned sharply, eyes narrowing. “Safe? Nothing’s safe out here.”

“I know,” Colt said quickly. “But it’s something. And if there’s even a chance it’s real…” He hesitated, then added, “It’s far, Rex. I heard it’s at least two hundred and sixty kilometers. Maybe more. On foot.”

The words hit Rex like a hammer. Two hundred and sixty kilometers of scorched earth, empty desert, and hungry raiders. His gut clenched at the thought.

Still, he thought of his grandad, of Red Rock, of every friend lying cold in the dirt. If there was even one place in the world where people still lived without fear, where boys like him didn’t have to grow up with a gun in their hands — then maybe it was worth chasing.

Rex looked at Colt, his jaw set. “Then that’s where we’re heading.”

---

Before they could leave, there was one thing Rex refused to do: abandon the dead.

Together, the boys dug shallow graves at the edge of town, their hands blistered from the work. The ground was dry and stubborn, but they pressed on, sweating under the harsh sun. They couldn’t bury everyone — there were too many — but they laid to rest the ones they could carry, the ones who hadn’t been burned beyond recognition.

They buried Mrs. Harlow. Old Man Griggs. Two children Rex had played marbles with. Neighbors, friends, gone to dust. Each mound of earth was marked with stones, small and humble.

When it came time for the last grave, Rex placed a weathered pocketknife on top. It had belonged to his grandad. He didn’t have a body to bury, but the knife would serve as a marker. His throat tightened, but no tears came. He felt hollow, emptied out.

Colt whispered, almost to himself, “Feels wrong. Leaving them behind.”

Rex stared at the row of fresh graves, the smoke curling from the ruins behind them. “We’re not leaving them. We’re carrying them with us.” His voice was flat, but his hands trembled at his sides.

---

By the time the sun dipped low, they’d scavenged what they could — dried meat, a canteen half full of water, a couple of blankets, and what little ammunition they found among the wreckage. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to start.

They camped that night in the shell of a barn outside town. The roof was gone, and the walls leaned, but it was shelter enough. They lit no fire, wary of drawing attention, and shared a meager meal in silence. The weight of the day hung heavy over them.

Colt broke the quiet first. “Two hundred and sixty kilometers,” he muttered, staring at the cracked boards above. “That’s… days of walking. Weeks, maybe. You think we’ll make it?”

Rex didn’t look at him. “We don’t have a choice.”

They lay down side by side, their packs beneath their heads. Sleep didn’t come easy. Every crack of wood, every gust of wind sounded like footsteps. Rex stared at the darkness until his eyes burned. At some point, exhaustion pulled him under, though his hand never left the grip of his revolver.

---

The next morning, they set out.

The desert stretched before them, endless and merciless. The ground was cracked and pale, and the heat shimmered in waves. Each step carried them farther from Red Rock, farther from everything they’d known.

Hours passed. The silence pressed down like a weight, broken only by the crunch of their boots. Flies buzzed around the corpses of fallen horses by the roadside. Once, they passed the charred remains of a wagon, its wheels melted into black lumps.

By midday, the sun blazed high and pitiless. Their lips cracked, their throats burned, and sweat ran down their backs. Colt stumbled, catching himself on a rock. Rex offered him water, but only a sip. The canteen was too light already.

“Two hundred and sixty kilometers,” Colt muttered again, almost bitter this time.

Rex’s eyes were hard as stone. “Then we’d better get used to walking.”

---

As the horizon shimmered, the ruins of Red Rock faded into memory. The only home they had was gone, and what lay ahead was uncertain.

But they walked on, two shadows against the endless wasteland, carrying the weight of the dead and the fragile hope of something better.

The road to Havenrest had begun.

The sun beat down like a hammer. For hours, Rex and Colt trudged through the wastes, sweat soaking their clothes, boots dragging through scorched sand. Their canteens grew lighter with every sip, and their lips were cracked from the heat.

“Not a cloud in the sky,” Rex muttered, raising a hand to block the light. His skin burned red under the sun, and the horizon rippled with mirages. Colt stumbled behind him, dragging his feet.

Finally, Rex raised his hand. “We stop. Shade or not, we’ll drop if we keep pushing.”

They slumped behind a cluster of rocks, their packs thudding to the ground. Just as Rex reached for his canteen, movement on the horizon caught his eye.

Dozens of riders. Camels, long-legged and snarling, carrying men with rifles across their backs. Dust clouds billowed around them as they cut across the desert like a swarm of locusts.

“Bandits,” Colt whispered, fear flashing in his eyes.

“Down,” Rex ordered. They pressed tight against the rocks, hearts hammering.

For a moment, it seemed they had gone unnoticed. But then, a sharp voice rang out. “Over there!”

Rex’s blood went cold. One of the riders had spotted them, pointing their way. Shouts rose as the others turned their camels and charged. The ground shook with hooves, the riders closing in fast.

“What do we do?” Colt asked, panic rising in his voice.

Rex’s hand went to his revolver. “Stay close. If they reach us, we fight.”

But the desert had other plans.

The ground trembled. A low, clicking rumble echoed from beneath the sand, followed by another, sharper sound — like stone being split. The bandits slowed, their camels restless, stamping and pulling against the reins.

Then the sand erupted.

A creature burst from below, its massive body armored in jagged, blackened plates. An Ash Scorpion — its claws as long as wagon wheels, its stinger towering high, dripping with venom that hissed when it touched the sand. The beast shrieked, a piercing, unnatural cry that rattled the air.

Chaos exploded across the desert. Camels bucked and screamed, throwing riders to the ground. The bandits fired their rifles, but the bullets sparked harmlessly off the creature’s armor. With one swing of its claw, the scorpion crushed a man flat, his cry cut short. Another bandit tried to run, but the stinger lashed down, pinning him to the ground in a spray of sand and dust.

Rex and Colt clung to the rocks, their eyes wide, the sounds of agony filling their ears. The Ash Scorpion tore through the raiders with terrifying speed, smashing, stabbing, and scattering them like dry leaves in a storm.

“Don’t move,” Rex whispered, voice trembling despite himself. “Don’t even breathe.”

Colt’s teeth chattered as he stared at the creature. “That… that thing isn’t natural…”

The screams grew fewer, drowned by the monster’s shrieks. One by one, the bandits fell, until the desert fell silent again. The Ash Scorpion raised its stinger high, gave one last screech, then burrowed back into the earth. The ground rumbled, then stilled, as if nothing had ever happened.

Silence pressed in on the rocks.

Rex slowly lifted his head, staring at the blood-stained sand where the bandits had once been. “We… we’re not alone out here,” he muttered.

Colt only nodded, his face pale.

For a long while, neither of them moved. Finally, when the sun began to sink and the air cooled, Rex pulled Colt to his feet. “We keep moving. Before that thing decides to come back.”

They walked in silence, shaken and hollow. Every gust of wind, every shift in the sand made them flinch. The desert no longer felt empty — it felt alive, watching.

By the time the sky turned red with sunset, they stumbled upon a cave cut into the side of a rocky bluff. It wasn’t much, but it was shelter. Exhausted, they dropped their packs and lit a small fire, the glow bouncing against the stone walls.

Their meal was simple — beans and stale bread — but after the terror they had witnessed, it felt almost like a feast. For a moment, the firelight made them feel safe, as if the horrors outside couldn’t reach them here.

But safety was an illusion. Rex checked his canteen, his stomach sinking. Barely a swallow of water remained. Colt’s was no better.

Rex set it down quietly. “We’re running dry.”

Colt poked at the fire, eyes heavy. “We’ll find more tomorrow. We have to.”

Rex didn’t argue. For now, he let the thought hang in the air. Tomorrow would come, and with it, the wasteland’s trials. Tonight, they had fire, food, and each other. That was enough.

Still, as the fire crackled and the cave filled with shadows, both boys knew the truth: the desert had shown them its teeth. And the silence of the wastes would never feel safe again.