#bound captive

The sun hung mercilessly over the wasteland, a molten eye glaring down on what was left of humanity. The world had turned to sand — endless dunes swallowing the skeletons of forgotten cities. Water was a myth; survival was currency.

Caleb Thorn stumbled barefoot through the blistering desert, wrists bound, sweat cutting rivulets through the dust on his skin. His chest heaved as he fought against exhaustion, each breath burning like hot glass in his lungs. Behind him, the roar of an engine shattered the eerie stillness — a scavenger’s death song.

“Keep running, sunshine!” a voice jeered from the vehicle.

Caleb dared a glance back. A rusted dune buggy tore across the sand, its skeletal frame vibrating with speed. At the wheel was Draven Holt, a grinning warlord who ruled this stretch of wasteland with his gang of sandrunners. Next to him, Jax Mercer, Draven’s second, leaned out the side, waving a chain above his head like a trophy.

They had caught Caleb off guard at an old supply depot that morning. He’d been careless, stripping down to wash the grime from his body in a rare basin of water. By the time he realized they weren’t just passing traders, it was too late.

Now, stripped to his underwear and left without weapons, he ran.

The desert punished each step — sand slipping beneath his feet, skin cracking under the heat. His bound wrists made balance impossible, but adrenaline and terror kept him moving.

Draven’s voice carried over the wind: “You thought you could steal from me, Thorn? You thought I wouldn’t find you?”

Caleb’s heart pounded. The stolen canister of purified water — the reason for this chase — was gone. Lost somewhere behind him, swallowed by the dunes.

He wasn’t sure what hurt more — the sun or the knowledge that this world had no mercy left to give.

The buggy closed in. Jax laughed, “You’re done, man! Just drop!”

But Caleb didn’t. Something wild sparked in his eyes. Maybe it was madness, maybe defiance — but he refused to die crawling. With one final surge, he twisted his wrists, the rough rope biting deep as he wrenched them apart.

The buggy swerved closer, sand spraying into the air. Draven shouted, “Run all you want, boy — the desert always wins!”

Caleb sprinted toward the ridge, every muscle screaming. If he could just reach the rocks beyond the dune — maybe, just maybe —

The sun was a merciless eye above the wasteland — glaring, unblinking, and pitiless. The world had long since turned to dust. Cities had been swallowed by dunes, and oceans were nothing but cracked salt plains. What remained of humanity scraped by in fractured clans and raiding bands, fighting over scraps of fuel, food, and water.

Eliar Thorne had been a scavenger once — a good one. He knew how to read the wind, how to find old ruins buried beneath the sand, how to avoid the patrols of the Wastes’ marauders. But even the best make mistakes.

He had stopped at the ridge that morning, stripping down to rinse himself with the last of his canteen. The cool trickle was a moment’s peace in a lifetime of heat and fear. That’s when they struck — silent as snakes, roaring as devils once they had him.

They took his gear. His rifle. His boots. His clothes. They left him only his breath and his terror.

Now, bound and nearly naked, Eliar ran. His wrists were tied together, his lungs burning as he tore across the dunes. Behind him, a sandrunner buggy howled like a dying beast — its engine coughing smoke and fury. At the wheel sat the raider chief, Drax Vorn, bald as the desert stones and just as cruel.

“Run, little scav!” Drax’s voice crackled over the engine’s roar. “You said you could survive anywhere — prove it!”