Thank you so much to Bradley Ramsey for this prompt! This one was a lot of fun to write.
Wolfkid stared at the blood-splattered flier in her hands. It was her fourth time rereading it, but it was still hard to understand. “Setwaer Run: Winner is Granted a Wish by the Great and Powerful Haywire.” Below the words was a crudely drawn image of a man with a crooked crown and a half-smile. One eyebrow was raised as if to say to Wolfkid, “Well, what are you waiting for?”
“Is this real?” Wolfkid spun on her heel and marched over to where Spider was lying on the floor.
The man still had a death-grip on his throat, attempting to hold together the torn bits of larynx and tissue. Blood seeped between his fingers and down his arm.
“Is it?” She shoved the flier into the dying man’s face.
Spider, seeing her impatience, only smiled. His yellow teeth were now a bright shade of pink-red. He spat a wad of blood and mucus at her feet. Wolfkid huffed and stepped away. She gazed back at the image of Haywire–the leader of Setwaer–infamous for his cruel reign.
“Why haven’t I heard of this?” She asked no one in particular.
There was very little information on the flier about what exactly the Setwaer Run was. However, the promise of a wish granted by Haywire was enough to pique her interest. She had traveled across the Waste and back with no cure–no hope for a cure–what if this was it? What if the crazed tyrant Haywire held her answers?
Wolfkid turned to ask Spider another question, only to find that he was dead, or at least unconscious. His hand had slipped from his neck. Now his shirt was a dark shade of red.
Fuck, she thought. I should have at least asked him a few more questions.
Setwaer wasn’t a far trek from Spider’s so-called compound. It was even closer with a stolen rig. The engine roared across the empty dunes. Inside the vehicle, Wolfkid grinned as she shifted into a higher gear. The rig ran even better than she imagined. Much like its original owner, it was rough on the outside–rusty and unapologetically worn. But under the hood was something of a treasure. The engine obeyed every command, eager to please.
Wolfkid wondered absently if Spider had breathed his last breath yet. Or had someone found him and helped? She supposed it didn’t matter much. Wolfkid was more than happy to bury the memories of the marauder and his clan under the sand. She wouldn’t look back. She never looked back.
Despite the protection from within the rig, Wolfkid felt as though she was being baked alive in the heat of the day. She wished she had stolen more water–or at least some canned food. Hunger raged in her gut, but not for canned beans or tasteless desert meat. She pushed the feeling aside as she focused on the dusty road ahead of her.
What had once been a silhouette on the horizon quickly became a living, breathing town. Broken buildings and other half-forgotten infrastructure rose from the dunes like claws reaching upwards. A weather-worn water tower sat in the center of it all. Upon closer inspection, she could finally make out the painted lettering on the tower. It had once said, “Sweetwater”. However, half the letters had all but faded away, leaving behind the new name of the town–a name better suited for the Wastelands–Sataer.
The streets were swarming with people and vehicles. Vendors shouted over the crowds, advertising for cooked meat, gasoline, and water replacement packs. Engines revved as competitors vetted their opponents. Large handmade signs had been thrown across the entrances to some of the buildings.
Wolfkid’s eyes lingered on a banner that read, “Are you the next winner of the Sataer Run? Or will you be among the fallen?”
She parked Spider’s rig behind a dilapidated building and turned off the engine. For a moment, she leaned back and closed her eyes. The hunger in her stomach was almost unbearable. Killing Spider had only magnified her hunger. She forced herself to ignore the sensation as she pulled a mask over her face. Between the respirator and goggles, it was next to impossible to see her features.
Feeling as safe as she could in a town like Sataer, Wolfkid stepped out into the desert air.
There was a celebratory feeling in the town. People were excited for the start of the Sataer Run. A variety of things were being sold at every corner–an additive that promised to make gas last longer, canned goods, and protective clothing. Wolfkid noticed a woman wearing barely anything at all, leaning back on a building, occasionally offering a ‘relaxation session’ to passing men.
The streets of Sataer were alive with traffic and commerce, but Wolfkid was focused on finding real answers. She made her way through the sun-bleached city until she found what could only be Haywire’s headquarters. An old government building stood tall against the decrepit skyline. The words ‘Law and Order’ were etched in stone above the front door. At the steps were two heavily armed guards.
“Do you work for Haywire?” Wolfkid asked. Her voice sounded strange beneath the mask.
“He’s not seeing anyone.”
“I want to know about the race–Sataer Run.”
The guards exchanged looks with one another. “Yeah? You and half the town. If you want to participate, you need a rig, kid.”
“I have a rig.”
Again, the guards looked at one another. One was doing a terrible job of hiding a condescending laugh. “The Run starts when the last bit of sun sets.”
“Alright,” she waited for more information. When it was clear they were not going to volunteer more, she pressed on. “Where does it start? How far is it?”
“It starts at the water tower,” one of the guards gestured towards the center of town.
“And it finishes at the water tower,” the other said.
Wolfkid bit back the desire to reply with something cutting. “Right. And where exactly does it go?”
“Through the dunes, down the canyon, and across the Waste and back.”
Even with their vagueness, Wolfkid could understand that this was no simple race. This was a test of endurance, speed, and stamina. It was not a simple task. “And if I win?” She asked, raising her chin.
“You’ll get an audience with Haywire. Even Wastelanders like you must know about that.”
“Is he really as powerful as they say?”
“If he wasn’t, would there be so many people showing up year after year? They’re not here for the fucking ambience.”
The starting line for the Sataer Run was in the heart of the city, right beneath the massive water tower and its sunwashed letters. There were already over four dozen vehicles lined up for the race. Wolfkid watched as a man stepped out of his rig and began to talk with a woman selling snakemeat. Other competitors stood beside their vehicles, waiting for the sun’s slow setting.
Wolfkid willed the sun to set faster. She fidgeted with eager anticipation. The guards had given her a map and the wise words, “You should probably consider not doing this.” She didn’t care how dangerous the journey was. If there was even the slightest chance that Haywire could help her, she refused to give up.
The air quieted as the sun met the horizon. Crowds flocked to the side streets, waiting and watching. The horde of vehicles tripled in the last few minutes, closing Wolfkid in on every side. She took a deep breath as her heart began to do backflips.
It’s just a race, she told herself.
Before she had a chance to calm her nerves, a cannon blast rang out into the desert night. The sound shook the entire town. Engines roared. Sand was sent into the air.
Wolfkid punched the pedal of her rig, listening as the wheels temporarily spun out. With a jolt, the machine gained traction and took off into the desert. Already, she was behind, but she wasn’t worried about that–not yet. The other vehicles raced out into the dunes, fighting with one another for first place.
As she opened up the engine, feeling the true power of the stolen vehicle, Wolfkid felt a wave of peace. She was reminded of what she was. Hunger burned in her gut. She ignored it. For now, the sounds of a motor and the smell of exhaust would have to be enough to fill her endless hunger.
***
“It’s boring,” Haywire proclaimed as he paced the length of his apartment, dressed only in a loose robe. The fabric trailed after him.
“I’m sorry, sir, I-”
“I told you to make it interesting. I don’t want to see a bunch of rigs driving; I want death or at least a bit of bloodshed.”
“Sir, we’ve already lost half the participants in the quicksand fields. I don’t know what else you could-”
“Not. Interesting.” Haywire hated repeating himself. He turned quickly to face his advisor, Grubtooth. The other man was playing with the edge of a document in his hand–a clear sign he was fighting with his own nerves.
“I suppose we could add something to the Run,” Grubtooth said at last.
Haywire leaned back against the railing of his balcony. The night was already cold. Being practically naked, he should have felt uncomfortable, but he felt nothing at all. “Add what?”
His advisor chewed his dry lip. “Bears?”
“Where the hell are you going to get a bear? Aren’t they extinct?”
“Right, yeah, yes. I…”
Haywire twisted a lock of his unruly hair around a finger. “I don’t suppose there are any gasleeches we could set loose in the canyon, is there?”
Grubtooth perked up at this. “Oh, sir,” he grinned, exposing his rotten teeth. “You’re brilliant.”
“Yes, well, I wouldn’t be in charge of this dumb if I wasn’t, would I?”
“Gasleaches,” Grubtooth repeated as if it were a magic word.
“Well?” Haywire clapped his hands together.
The advisor jumped. “On it. I’ll find the leeches and make sure they’re dumped in the canyons before any of the participants arrive.”
“Good.”
Grubtooth scuttled from Haywire’s quarters as quickly as his short legs would allow. In the quiet of his absence, Haywire listened as the generator ran idly. He turned to face the massive screen that covered the entirety of a wall. On it, he could make out the racers as they made their way through the dunes. In hours, they would make it to the edge of the canyons. He could only hope that Grubtooth worked fast to release the leeches. Otherwise, he was in for another uninteresting race.
Haywire continued to pace, occasionally glancing over at the screen. Half the racers had already been swallowed up by the sands. The half that remained was largely uninteresting. A few sons of distant warlords. The daughter of a gas king. A handful of people from Setwaer itself.
For the briefest moment, Haywire’s interest was captured by a vehicle taking up the rear. It had been there for most of the journey–seemingly uninterested in making it to the front of the line.
What’s their strategy? He wondered. Was their rig that much slower? Or is this a part of a plan?
He continued to watch the beaten-looking vehicle. It looked as though it had emerged straight from the Wastes themselves.
Haywire wasn’t sure how long he watched the race–longer than he had expected to, for certain. It wasn’t until Grubtooth returned that he realized how intrigued he was by the slowest vehicle.
“The leeches are on their way to-”
“Who is that?” Haywire pointed to the screen.
Grubtooth pulled out a notebook. He flipped through a couple of pages before saying, “The Nomad.”
“That’s their name?”
“She didn’t give us much more than that.”
“Why is she driving like that?”
“Slow, you mean? I don’t know.”
“She won’t win at this speed.”
Grubtooth shrugged, still looking at his notebook. “Maybe she’s craz…” He stopped himself before he could finish the sentence.
Haywire spun quickly, pulling a long, crooked knife from within his robe. He grabbed Grubtooth by the front of his tattered shirt and pointed the blade at the other man’s neck. “Say it.”
Grubtooth gulped. “Sir, I didn’t mean to-”
“Say it.”
“I…”
“You think she’s crazy? Crazy like me?” The words were wild as they left his lips.
This was phenomenal, Gracie! I absolutely loved the character names, the writing style, and that ENDING was brutal in the best way possible.
I am entirely invested and eagerly awaiting part two, haha. I'll also be featuring this one alongside the other Power up Prompt stories on tomorrow's podcast, so stay tuned for that!
This was so fun to read !