Taste of Dust

The pole bit into her spine as Dust watched the cannibals prepare their cooking pit. Her hands, bound behind the wooden post, had long since gone numb. The ropes around her ankles and waist kept her firmly in place despite her struggles. They hadn't bothered gagging her - out here, no one would hear her screams.

"You're lean," the cannibal chief observed, prodding her arm with a filthy finger. "But that makes the meat sweeter. Less fat, more flavor." His yellowed teeth flashed in a grotesque smile.

Dust spat at him, earning a harsh laugh from the gathered tribe. Her leather armor lay in a pile nearby, stripped from her during the capture. At least they'd left her the basics - these wasteland cannibals had some twisted sense of ceremony about their meals.

The sun crawled across the sky as they prepared their feast. She watched them pile wood around her feet, arrange their crude spices, and sharpen their knives. Each minute stretched into an eternity. Every sound made her flinch - would this be the moment they decided to start?

"The meat's been hanging long enough," one of them called out. "Time to light the fire!"

Dust closed her eyes, feeling the first tears break free. After five years of surviving the wasteland, scraping by on salvage and wit, this was how it would end. Eaten by these degenerate-

A shot rang out. Then another. Her eyes snapped open to see the chief clutching his throat, blood seeping between his fingers. More gunfire erupted from the rocks above their camp. The cannibals scattered, screaming about ghosts and demons.

Through the chaos came a figure in a dust-covered duster, rifle smoking. The stranger fired methodically, dropping cannibals with each shot. Those who could still run fled into the wasteland, leaving their feast forgotten.

The stranger approached, knife already out to cut her free. "Looks like dinner's cancelled."