No one knew her name and she didn’t volunteer one. A thin red cloth around her throat disarmed as many questions as it provoked. Not that she answered any.

Many born in the wastes know not to ask questions of the Wandering Woman. But some still did— foolishness proves hard to contain and harder yet to stop it’s spread.

“I heard she come from the Wolf Fang— over past Involta Hills,” said a beak nosed boy.

“That’s all garbage— you know the Wanderers don’t come from anywhere,” another boy said emphasizing the last word, “They just appear,” his bloodshot eyes widening for dramatic effect. The ragged gang warmed their dirty mitts around a small brushfire. All peeking in then at the woman that swayed back and forth at the edge of their camp.

Brave enough to wonder aloud— but cowardly or smart enough to not push the issue further. Everyone heard stories of meeting blood slicked Wanderers and the ruins of scavenger camps.

A rising gorge accompanied a keening sound that began in the throat of the dead eyed woman. It raised to her lips before a shriek burst into the wastes.

The camp broke into chaos as the kids scattered. Not all made it beyond the perimeter. Other Wanderers appeared from the ether. They moved in ritual unison as they closed around the remaining kids.

The scavenger misfits fell upon each other for someone to take charge— but heroes didn’t exist in the Wastes. Only the damned.

The brave didn’t exist amongst either the Wanderers or the scavengers. Each responsible for their own share of departed heroes.

The ring closed tighter— the solid bodies of the Wanderers became hazy. An immaterial sheet wrapped around the living.

An alien wail returned to the Wastes— and the former scavengers found themselves consumed by a foul cloud of static. The Wastes fell silent after.

Waiting for the next shriek of a line Wanderer.