The blast shattered the silence, sending a wave of heat and dust cascading over the convoy. Sloan’s ears rang, his vision blurred as the heat washed over him like a physical blow. He staggered, half-blind, his hand instinctively tightening around the rifle as the world around him dissolved into chaos. The sky above was an unforgiving white, the sun a burning eye casting its merciless gaze over the sands, turning everything it touched into a smoldering hellscape.
The tanker carrying the fish—a prized shipment from Baron Kraag’s private lake—was already leaning to one side, its heavy steel groaning under the impact of the explosion. The water, fresh and pure, untouched by the radiation that had poisoned the world decades ago, was spilling out onto the sand. And with it, the fish—Kraag’s treasure, the reason he held so much power. They were slick, silver bodies flopping helplessly on the ground, the precious water evaporating in the brutal heat almost instantly. The air sizzled as it hit the desert floor, the fish shrieking in strange, short-lived cries, mouths gasping for air that wouldn’t come.
Sloane watched it unfold in a brief, disjointed moment of clarity. The convoy was supposed to be clear. The intel had promised it. No storms, they said. The sand pits are quiet, they said. It’ll be a quik convoy. Get the fish from Kraag’s to Munchausen’s domain and be back before the sun reached its zenith.
But there was no such thing as safety in no-man’s-land.
“Down!” Jerrick Sloane’s voice tore from his throat, raw and broken, but it was lost in the noise of gunfire. His men were already scrambling for cover, though there was none to be found. They were exposed, vulnerable—cut down in the middle of the endless expanse of sand and heat. The ambush had come from nowhere, the route ahead had been declared clean, but that intel was clearly worth less than the fish now dying in the dust.
He crouched low behind the wreck of the tanker, his back pressed to the scorched metal. It burned even through his clothing, a searing heat that threatened to melt the skin from his bones. Every breath felt like inhaling fire. The air itself wanted them dead.
“Commander!” one of his men called, crawling toward him on hands and knees, eyes wide with panic. It was Diaz—young, too young. He still had that glimmer of hope in his eyes, even out here. Sloane hated that.
“We’re pinned!” Diaz rasped with heat, his voice barely carrying over the roar of the firefight. “There’s too many of them, we—”
Sloane cut him off. “We’re getting out of here. We have to keep moving.” The heat was suffocating, oppressive. He could feel his strength draining with every passing second. They couldn’t afford to stay put, not out here, not in this heat. Even without the ambush, the sun would kill them if they stopped moving.
The sand beneath their feet was like molten glass, burning through the soles of their boots, radiating up through their legs. It was 150 degrees, easy. The kind of heat that made breathing feel like drinking scalding water, where even the sand burned the skin at the slightest touch. Bullets richocheted around the men. This was hell, and they were trapped in it.
Behind him, the tanker groaned again, leaning further, the metal bending under the pressure of its collapse. Sloane heard another shot ring out, this one closer, followed by a scream. One of his men—Stark, maybe?—fell, crumpling into the sand like a ragdoll. There was no time to mourn.
Sloane’s gaze flicked to the shattered tanker. The water was all but gone now, the precious liquid reduced to steam, and the fish... God, the fish were dying. Their slick bodies flailed helplessly in the evaporating puddles, gasping, twisting in the sand. The sight of them, alive for only moments before the sun claimed them, was grotesque in its brevity. Lives cut short, writhing in silence, lives claimed by the unbearable heat.
This is what the world had come to.
Another blast rocked the ground, and Sloane’s head snapped back to the firefight. He saw the flashes of gunfire in the distance—half a dozen riders, maybe more, kicking up clouds of sand as they circled like vultures. They’d come prepared, better equipped than anyone expected. Munchausen’s enemies? Raiders? It didn’t matter now. They were here, and they were taking his men.
He barked orders, forcing his legs to move, dragging Diaz with him. “Fall back! Regroup!” But the words felt empty, futile. There was nowhere to go.
The heat was relentless, and his men were being cut down one by one. Sloane could feel it slipping away—the mission, the fish, his team. All of it was slipping away.
“Commander!” Another voice, this time from behind him. Turner. He was slumped against the tanker, blood seeping from a wound in his side, his face pale beneath the grime. He wasn’t going to make it. None of them were.
Sloane crouched next to him, barely able to think through the heat and the gunfire. “We’ll get you out of here,” he lied. “Just hold on.”
But Turner knew better. He gave Sloane a look—half resignation, half apology—and shook his head. “It’s over, Commander.” His voice was hoarse, barely audible over the cacophony of battle. “You have to... go.” The blood leaked from his lips as he spoke his final words.
Sloane clenched his teeth, his mind racing. He wasn’t going to leave his men. Not again. Not like this.
But the ambushers were closing in, and he could see the desperation in his men’s faces. They were surrounded, outgunned, and out of time.
Suddenly, the sound of engines roared over the battlefield—heavy, low, like the grinding of steel against rock. Sloane turned just in time to see the ambushers’ vehicles, motorcycles fitted with rusted metal spikes and scavenged armor, speeding toward them. Dust clouds rose behind the bikes as they charged, kicking up waves of burning sand.
Sloane’s men were falling back, dragging the wounded through the dirt, but there was no cover. Nothing but the endless, burning desert. And then it happened.
The tanker gave way.
A final, groaning creak of metal, and the massive vehicle collapsed in on itself, the last of the water boiling away into the air. The fish, what remained of them, shrieked their final cries as the sand devoured them whole. In a matter of seconds, they were gone—scorched, twisted remains of what had once been Kraag’s pride and power.
Sloane stared at the wreckage for what felt like an eternity. The loss of the water, the fish… This was the world now, where life could be snuffed out in an instant, where even the most precious resources were nothing but fleeting moments before the sun took them. His men’s lives weren’t worth any more than those damned fish, and he knew it. The thought filled him with a bitter rage, but there was no outlet. Not here. Not now.
The ambushers were on them, and Sloane felt the impact as he was knocked to the ground, his rifle torn from his grip. He fought, struggled, but the heat had taken its toll, his muscles weak and unresponsive. He felt the rough hands of the ambushers grab him, dragging him through the burning sand. His men—what was left of them—were being rounded up, thrown onto the backs of the enemy’s motorcycles, their bodies dragged like refuse across the desert floor.
The last thing Sloane saw before the heat overwhelmed him, pulling him into a dark, suffocating void, was the evaporating water glistening in the air, and the remains of fish curling and cracking in the sun.
—
The boot pressed down hard against Diaz’s skull, grinding his face into the burning sand. The muffled scream never made it past his lips before it was swallowed by the shifting dunes. Sloan’s breath caught in his throat, his body locked in place as he watched Diaz's life end with the brutal efficiency of someone who had done this a hundred times. Diaz didn’t even have time to struggle; his arms went limp, his legs twitching for only a second before they stilled completely.
“Good for the pits,” the captor muttered, stepping back from the corpse, kicking sand over Diaz’s face like an afterthought. His voice was calm, low, as if killing was just part of the day’s work. The captor turned his gaze on Sloan’s remaining man, Faraday, his smile a cold, dead thing. “That one won’t last a second in the fighting rings.”
“But you... you’ll do better. Might even prove your worth. Let me show you what happens when you don’t fight.”
He drew his gun. Rusted, a revolver that’s seen more bodies than perhaps even Sloane himself.
Sloan watched as they dragged Faraday to his feet, the man’s face pale beneath the layer of grime and sweat. He was barely holding it together, his hands shaking, and Sloan wanted to reach out, to tell him to fight, to resist, but his body wouldn’t move.
Everything was sand, heat, and death. Faraday’s wide eyes met Sloan’s for a moment—a fleeting glance filled with terror—before the trigger was pulled. The brain matter exploded across the sand, across Sloane’s face, across the burnt body of Diaz.
All Sloane could do is watch on his knees as his last man was executed in cold blood.
“Up,” the captor barked. “Get up.”
They hauled him across the barren expanse of the pit, the sun high in the sky, beating down on them with unforgiving heat. Sloan could feel his skin cooking under the glare, the fabric of his clothes useless against the assault of the desert. Every breath was an effort, the air too thick, too hot to draw in without feeling like it was searing his lungs. He struggled to spit as the blood from his men dried on his face.
They reached the gates of a crude compound, little more than a maze of rusted cages and half-crumbled walls. Sloan’s eyes adjusted to the sudden dimness as they shoved him inside, the stale stench of sweat, blood, and decay filling his nose. This was the gladiator’s den.
The captors pushed him down a narrow hallway lined with cells, each one filled with the broken remnants of men. Wild eyes peered out from between iron bars, gaunt faces streaked with dust and dirt, their bodies hunched and emaciated from hunger and thirst. The walls were cracked, the floors slick with grime, and everywhere was the stench of rot and refuse. It was as though the very earth itself had given up on these men, and now they lingered in this hellhole, waiting to die in the pits.
Sloan was shoved into his cell, the door clanging shut behind him, the heavy lock sliding into place with a dull finality. The captor didn’t say another word—just turned and left, his footsteps echoing in the damp corridor as Sloan slumped against the wall. His eyes flickered over the room, taking in the grime, the cracked stone floor, the meager bedding—a pile of rags in the corner. His body ached, his skin burned, but there was nothing left to feel except the weight of his own breath, each one slower than the last.
“You’ll fight tomorrow.”
The voice startled him. Sloan turned his head and saw the old man in the next cell, his grizzled face leaning out from the shadows, eyes gleaming in the faint light. The man looked like he’d been here forever—his skin leathery and sun-scorched, his body thin, almost skeletal, but with a hardened toughness that told Sloan he’d seen more than his share of death.
“First fight’s always the worst,” the old man said, his voice low, gravely. “Sun’s gonna tear you apart before your opponent does. No shade in the arena. Just heat and sand, and if you’re lucky, you die fast.”
Sloan grunted, dragging himself upright, his back against the wall. He could feel the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him, but he had to stay sharp. He had to listen.
“There’s no fighting your way out of this,” the old man continued. “You think maybe if you win enough, you’ll get a pass, get released? Doesn’t happen. Not out here. The Wandas, these fuckin' savages, they don’t let anyone go. Doesn’t matter if you’re strong. You’re just here to die for their entertainment.”
Sloan nodded slowly, his mind already racing, trying to find a way out. He’d seen it before—the pits. Makeshift arenas in old stadiums or gyms, dug into the ground by the nomads who roamed the sand pits deep in the Ravenlands. They were depraved, nomadic wanderers, trading in human lives, forcing captured men to fight for the amusement of the crowds. It wasn’t the first time Sloan had heard the stories, but now he was living it. The heat, the blood, the sweat—it was all real.
“Only thing that saves you is a sandstorm,” the old man said, his voice dropping lower. “Had a friend, once. Merchant. Survived one of these pits because the storm hit in the middle of the fight. The nomads pack up and leave when the sand comes. Too hot, too dangerous. They can’t risk losing everything to the storm. He was left behind, trapped in his cell. Everyone else died, but he made it.”
The old man’s eyes flickered to Sloan’s. “Storm saved him. Only reason he’s still breathing.”
Sloan’s pulse quickened at the mention of a storm. His mind jumped back to the mission he’d been running before the ambush, before everything went to hell. He remembered checking the weather reports, confirming the patterns. There was a sandstorm coming—three days, maybe less, sweeping in from the south. He knew it. He’d seen the signs. He had the intel.
It was a glimmer of hope, and in this hell, it was all he had.
“Three days,” Sloan muttered, barely loud enough for the old man to hear.
The old man leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “You got something planned, boy?”
Sloan didn’t answer. Instead, he let himself sink deeper against the wall, letting the tension in his body fade just enough to rest. His muscles ached, his throat was raw, but there was something to hold on to now. A chance. The storm would come, and when it did, everything would change.
He had three days. Three days to survive. 72 hours of brutality to endure. And then, with the sand ripping through the air, with the sun devouring everything in its path, Sloan would make his move. He wouldn’t fight for the Wandas’ amusement. He wouldn’t die in their ring.
No, when the storm hit, he’d escape. The nomads would leave, just as the old man said. They wouldn’t risk it. They’d leave their prisoners behind, and Sloan would be waiting.
Tomorrow would be the beginning of the longest 72 hours of his life, longer than any battle, longer than any firefight in the burning sands. Longer than today. But he could endure it. He’d survived worse.
As the cell around him darkened, as the sounds of the pit faded into the distance, Sloan closed his eyes.
The night bled into the day with a merciless sun that came too soon, and Sloane barely slept. The smell of sweat and decay clung to the air, heavy and thick, turning his stomach with every breath. In the cell next to him, the old man had fallen quiet, his labored breathing the only sound that broke the silence between them.
Tomorrow had come.
Sloane stood at the bars, hands gripping the cold metal, his mind racing with thoughts he didn’t want to have. The man in the next cell—grizzled, weathered, and beaten by time—was set to face him in the pit. The pit that Sloane had spent the last night convincing himself would be his salvation. But now, the reality of it sat in his gut like a stone.
His opponent wasn’t some nameless brute. It was the old man, the one who had spoken to him about survival, about the storm coming in three days. The man who had given him hope in this hellhole was now going to be the obstacle between Sloane and that hope.
And Sloane knew what the Wanda expected. They expected blood.
The Wanda’s form of entertainment was primal, savage—a spectacle for their twisted, nomadic hordes. They thrived on chaos, on the brutal simplicity of life and death played out in front of them. This wasn’t a sport. It wasn’t about skill or victory. It was about survival in its purest, most stripped-down form. And the only way to survive in their arena was to kill or be killed. There was no middle ground.
The old man coughed, a ragged, wet sound that broke the silence. Sloane looked over, his eyes narrowing as the man slowly stood up, his thin body a patchwork of scars and burns. Despite his age, there was a hardness in the old man’s eyes, a depth of resilience that Sloane recognized all too well. He could have been Sloane. Ten years older, maybe more. A version of himself that had lived through too many battles, seen too many faces die in the dirt.
The old man turned, leaning against the bars, his sunken eyes meeting Sloane’s. There was no malice in his gaze, no anger. Only resignation. Acceptance of fate’s cruel hand—of the rules of this game called life.
“Tomorrow’s it, huh?” the old man rasped, his voice dry, cracked from the endless heat. He gave a faint smile, the kind that held no joy. “They’ll throw us in there like animals, and one of us is supposed to walk out.”
Sloane didn’t answer at first. There was nothing to say. The man knew as well as he did how the Wanda worked. There were no victories in the pits, just bodies—some still breathing, some not.
“I didn’t think they’d throw me in against someone like you,” the old man continued, leaning his head back against the bars, staring up at the ceiling. “Figured they’d have me ripped apart by some fuckin' freak with a blade or a hammer. But this... This is worse, ain’t it?”
Sloane clenched his jaw, his fists tightening against the bars. He had fought before. Killed before. But this wasn’t war. There was no enemy to fight, no higher cause to justify the bloodshed. This was survival, pure and ugly, in the open heat of the day, and his opponent was a man who, in another life, could’ve been sitting beside him, not against him.
“They expect us to kill each other,” Sloane muttered, his voice rough and low. He didn’t look at the old man when he spoke.
“They’ll throw us in there, and they’ll watch, waiting for one of us to die so they can get their kicks.”
The old man nodded, his smile fading, replaced by something colder, more resigned. “I know. I’ve seen it before. You fight, or they throw you in with something worse. Something that doesn’t care if you’re tired, or old, or... broken.”
Sloane could hear the truth in his voice. The Wanda didn’t care who you were—soldier, farmer, old man, young kid. You fought, or you died. Matter of fact, in this pit, you die even if you fight.
“Don’t make it easy for them,” the old man said, his eyes locking onto Sloane’s. “If you have to kill me, don’t let it be easy. Don’t let me die like a dog in the sand. Let me die like a man.”
Sloane turned away from him, his mind churning. His humanity was clawing at him from inside, threatening to break free, to pull him back from the edge of this madness. But in this place, humanity was weakness. Compassion was a death sentence. The Wanda didn’t care about mercy, and in the pit, there was no room for it.
“They’ll throw us in at noon,” the old man continued, his voice dropping. “The heat’ll be unbearable. They’ll use it to wear us down, to break us before the fight even begins.”
Sloane nodded, though his mind was already elsewhere. The storm. Three days. All he had to do was survive for three days, but to get there, he had to fight this man. And he knew, deep down, that the old man wouldn’t make it easy for him. He wouldn’t want it to be.
“You can’t fight your way out of this,” the old man said again, repeating his words from the night before. “But you can survive. You keep your head down, you stay focused, and you wait for your chance. That’s what I’ve done. That’s why I’m still here.”
Sloane let the silence stretch out between them. He didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know if there was anything to say. The sun had already started its climb into the sky, and with it came the promise of another scorching, merciless day. The heat was suffocating, the kind that drained the life out of you slowly, until even breathing felt like a battle.
“Tomorrow,” the old man whispered, more to himself than to Sloane. “Tomorrow we fight.”
The arena was nothing more than a hole in the ground. A crude, circular pit surrounded by jagged stone and scrap metal with a ring of onlookers—the Wanda, their ragged clothes whipping in the breeze as they cheered for the violence to begin. Sloane could feel their eyes on him as he stepped into the sand, the heat blasting up from the ground like a furnace. The sun was directly overhead, glaring down on him, on the old man, and on the dozens of Wanda who gathered to watch the bloodshed.
Sloane’s body ached, his skin already blistering from the relentless sun, but none of it compared to the weight in his chest. Across the pit, the old man stood, his frail body hunched but steady, his fists clenched at his sides. He looked at Sloane with the same resignation he’d worn in the cell—no fear, no anger. Just acceptance.
The crowd was silent now, waiting.
Sloane took a step forward, his boots sinking into the hot sand, his heart pounding in his ears. He had no weapon, no armor. It was just him and the old man, two bodies thrown into the heat to tear each other apart for the Wanda’s amusement.
The old man moved first, lunging forward with a speed that belied his age. His fist struck out, aiming for Sloane’s ribs, but Sloane sidestepped, his own hand shooting up to catch the old man’s arm. They grappled, the heat making every movement sluggish, every breath labored. The old man was stronger than he looked, his wiry muscles taut with years of survival. He wasn’t just some weak, broken man. He was a survivor, like Sloane.
Sloane shoved him back, sending the old man stumbling into the sand, his body hitting the ground with a thud. But he got up quickly, faster than Sloane expected, and they were back at it again, their fists striking out in the blazing heat, each one fighting not for victory, but for survival.
The heat made it hard to think, hard to breathe. The sun scorched their skin, and every movement sent a wave of pain through their bodies. Sloane could hear the Wanda shouting, calling for blood, but all he could see was the old man—his grim determination, the sweat dripping from his brow, the knowledge that this was his last fight.
Sloane’s mind raced. He didn’t want to kill this man.
But if he didn’t, they would both die. The Wanda didn’t allow for mercy.
The old man lunged at him again, but Sloane caught him, using the man’s momentum to throw him to the ground. The old man’s breath came in ragged gasps as he struggled to rise, but his body was slowing, his strength waning. He looked up at Sloane, eyes bloodshot, chest heaving, and nodded—just a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
“Do it,” the old man rasped, his voice barely a whisper. “It's a warrior's death!"
Sloane hesitated, his chest tightening. His hand hovered over the old man, his mind screaming at him to stop, to fight back against the madness. But the Wanda’s eyes were on him, and they wouldn’t let this end any other way. They wanted blood.
Sloane closed his eyes for a brief moment, then struck with all the force he could will. Again he struck. Again. And again he struck with animalistic force as the sand burned the old man’s skin.
The crowd roared, and Sloane’s vision blurred as he pulled away from the old man’s still body, his bloodied hands shaking. He had done it. He had done what they demanded, what the pit required. But something inside him stirred, deep, guttural, a primal feeling. As the old man’s bloodied body lay still in the sand, the roars of the Wanda filled the air like a distant, terrible echo. The sun seemed even hotter now, the weight of it pressing down on Sloane’s shoulders like a judge’s hand.
He stood there, motionless, staring at the old man—his opponent, his reflection, his future—the realization of what he'd done slowly seeping into his bones. The old man had fought as hard as he could, but in the end, it had been Sloane who stood over him. It hadn’t been about strength or skill. It had been about survival. It was always about survival.
“Life is a zero-sum game, someone has to lose.” Sloane muttered with baited breath.
But there was no satisfaction in winning. No relief. No victory. No liberation. Only a warrior’s death for a man who, in Sloane’s eyes, greatly deserved it.
The Wanda howled in approval, their twisted, wild faces looking down from the edge of the pit, reveling in the violence they had forced upon them. Their nomadic existence, their depravity, had made them thrive on the suffering of others. But to Sloane, it was just another reminder of the wasteland’s brutality—a brutality that now ran through his veins, that stained his hands, that weighed down his aging breathe. How many more would he have to kill just to keep pushing?
Two Wanda descended into the pit, their expressions hard, dragging the old man’s lifeless body away like it was nothing more than another piece of discarded refuse. Sloane couldn’t take his eyes off him. That could have been him. It should have been him. In some twisted way, the old man had been right—they were the same. Just two men thrown into the pit, trying to survive a world that wanted nothing more than to grind them down into the sand.
As the old man’s body disappeared, the Wanda began to disperse, the spectacle over for now. There would be more fights, more bloodshed. There always was. But Sloane had survived today. His humanity, though fractured, remained intact by the thinnest of threads. And the storm was coming. He had to survive two more days.
A hand clamped down on his shoulder, dragging him out of his thoughts, and Sloane turned to see one of the Wanda, grinning through yellowed teeth. “You fight good, city dog. You’ll see more of the pit.” He spit with his exhale, a blackened spit of a soulless man.
Sloane said nothing. His body ached, his mind was spinning, but he stayed still, letting the Wanda’s grip hold him in place. They shoved him toward the exit, back through the narrow, suffocating corridors of the compound. The cell door clanged shut behind him, and the sounds of the pit faded into a dull hum in the distance.
He sank to the ground, his back against the wall, eyes closed, trying to slow his breathing. His chest felt tight, as if the weight of the entire wasteland was pressing down on him. It wasn’t the fighting that got to him. It was the silence after, the way the world seemed to move on as if nothing had happened. He had taken a life, and for what? To live another day in this forsaken place?
In the cell next to him, there was no voice. No old man to talk to him about survival. Just empty air and the ghost of the conversation they’d shared. He opened his eyes, staring at the spot where the old man had stood just the night before, telling him about the storm, about how there was no fighting your way out of this.
But the storm was still coming. At least he hoped. Hope is next to useless here, but the grit in Sloane’s teeth told only one story: Sloane would survive to see the sand envelope this hell-pit.
The memory of the old man’s face, the way he had accepted his fate, haunted him. The man had known. He had been resigned to it long before Sloane had struck the final blow. He had seen too much of the world, been through too much of its suffering, and in the end, maybe he had wanted the release.
Sloane, though—he wasn’t ready to die yet. Not like that. He still had fight left in him. He still had a storm to wait for.
And so, as the sun began to set, casting long shadows through the narrow windows of the prison, Sloane rested his head back against the cold stone, his muscles twitching with exhaustion. Tomorrow would bring more blood. More fighting, more Wanda cheering for the death of another poor soul thrown into the pit.
But in two days—two days, if the storm came as he knew it would—everything would change. The Wanda would scatter, leave the prisoners behind to fend for themselves, and in the chaos of the storm, Sloane would find his way out. He had to.
For now, though, he closed his eyes, letting the darkness take him, knowing that the hardest part was yet to come. The old man had been the beginning, but there would be more. More men, more faces. Each one a reminder of what he might become if he stayed in the pit too long.
But he wouldn’t stay. He couldn’t.
As the night crept in, cooling the blistering dead-man’s heat of the day, Sloane drifted into a fitful sleep, the sounds of the Wanda fading into the distance, their jeers and laughter replaced by the howling wind outside. The face of the man could not leave the space behind his eyes, no matter how hard he willed it to.
Tomorrow, he would wake again. Tomorrow, he would fight again. But tomorrow, he would also be one day closer to the storm. One day closer to freedom. No matter the cost, Sloane would survive.
He always did.