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Epilogue

The world of humanity is gone, destroyed by fire and anger and arrogance. Resources started running out, Oil, coal, natural gases, you name it; and by the time the politicians finally got convinced that they were indeed running out and it wasn't a hoax, it was too late. There wasn't enough time to get the clean energy infrastructure up, then the politicians decided to do the next best thing; Take it. An all-out war raged, countries fighting each other for the scraps of land that might have had a little bit more oil. Alliances fell apart, the drafts were reinstated, everyone; man, woman, anthro they all had to fight. And if they lost then everything was lost, this wasn't a war to the standstill, it was a war of domination, to take everything. It ended just about as well as one would think. Some political leader got backed into a corner and said "fuck it" and unleashed the nukes.

No one is quite sure how much time has passed since the bombs fell, but they know that the environmentalists were wrong. Nature did not

Survive humanity, it quivered for a while and clung on in some places, but it didn't hold on without the last gasps of humanity breathing life into it like a smoldering ember. The land is barren, turned to dust and sand and in some places, glass. Great sandstorms rage, filled with Mother Nature's last bits of fury, giant lightening spirals of sand and destruction, leaving the last pockets of humanity huddled and trying to escape them

That wasn't even the worst of it all, black storms; pocket nuclear winters, cold enough to freeze blood in a person's veins in seconds. There are mutated animals from years of drinking irradiated water, cannibals, and raiders with no regard for life or death, and humans. Turns out when humanity has its back to the wall, it turns vicious and angry. But still it survived, even if just barely. Settlements have popped up, trying to rebuild, or just lead a safe and normal life, sheltered around oasis's and the last bits that nature has a hold on. Only hot springs, deep water wells, caves filled with water, were far enough from the radiation. Humanity lives on, even if it is broken.

Chapter 1: The Dance Macabre

>Sand whips past as your Chariot speeds through dark, billowing clouds of sand, and lightning strikes, scorching the ground.

>This sandstorm was perfect for masking your approach to the camp your scouts had spotted.

>The scouts said they had what you wanted, so you were going to take it.

>You stare forwards, through your goggles and face mask, searching for the walls of the camp or settlement or whatever it was.

>The cowards would be hiding inside, away from the stinging sand that plagued the world now.

>That's why this was perfect.

>They wouldn't hear you until it was too late.

>You lead your faction, The Sand Eaters, through the storm.

>This is your life in this world; travel from settlement to settlement and take what's yours, or what would be yours.

>The world ended decades, maybe centuries ago, long before you were born; bombs fell and turned the world to dust.

>So you lived the life you had always known, take what's yours from the weak.

>You look around, left to right, at the other Chariots following yours.

>So many, all following you to this temporary sanctuary that would become a tomb.

>"Rammer, are you ready?" you call through a handheld radio to your Faction's battering ram.

>"Ready boss!" comes an overly enthusiastic voice.

>"Good" you call out as the sand whips past, burning the exposed skin on your wrists as you move the radio.

>Long jackets and gloves have a few spaces between them much to your chagrin, and glass on chariots was hard to come by, so you had to opt for other means of protection.

>The rammer is a specially made Chariot, built heavier and stronger than even yours, along with enough armor to make it a tank.

>"Fucking start this shit" you call out earnestly through the radio.

>"DOIN' IT!"

>You hear the rammer before you see it, the nitro burns to life, the exhaust roars, leaving a burning trail of fire behind it as it hurtles forwards and slams through the front gates of this settlement.

>The sound of metal meeting bits of wood and twisted metal reaches your ears as the rammer hits the gates, knocking them off their hinges with ease.

>"Fucking waste everyone!" you call out through the radio as you smile maliciously, speeding into the settlement.

>Another settlement, another bout of supplies!

>You hear your gunner firing the gun on top of your chariot as you do donuts in the center of the enclosure, your men's chariots stopped with them pouring out like fire ants.

>Your chariot had a different kind of gun, no one of combustion and fire, but one of air and pressure.

>It used stored air pressure from your driving to launch spikes made of whatever; rebar, wood, stone into anything, with deadly accuracy.

>All housed in the shell of an old browning machine gun.

>Chariots themselves are similar to old world "Cars", made of metal and ambition, and they were what most of your fleet was made of.

>After a while you're satisfied with your donuts of death and slow to a stop, then get out of it; feeling the stinging sand blizzard over your thick jacket and your goggles.

>That is what this world was now. Sandstorms, hellfire, and death.

>All things you were totally accustomed to.

>As you walk calmly to the door of the main building (You only assume it's the main building because it's the biggest) you hear radio chatter just barely over the sound of sand.

>"Outpost 1 cleared boss" "Sentry 1 cleared boss"

>Your men are all doing their jobs with battle proven effectiveness and killing anything in their way.

>"Who's in the main building?" you yell through the radio over the roaring sands.

>"Me" Comes a voice you recognize immediately.

>Nickson, the giant, carries a fully automatic something gun; it was big as fuck and killed stuff fast.

>Your third in command; he must be busy killing everything in sight, even though you wanted him to hang back a bit.

>But can you blame him for wanting to get the party started?

>You smirk as you enter the main bunker and see staircases going both up and downs

>Calmly you pull off your mask and goggles, painted to look like a skull, and let your good eye focus in the dim light.

>You lost your left eye years ago, a raid gone bad; they took it and laughed as they squished it into pulp and liquid.

>It just made you angrier, you could still see because luckily you had a spare, and they paid for it with their lives.

>"Nickson, You gone up?" you radio questioningly.

>"Yep, left some fun for you down below" came the response.

>How considerate.

>You draw your heavy rifle off your back

>The MG 14, an improved model of the WWII variant, which fired 7.92 MM rounds was your weapon of choice, plus a sidearm; a Glock 45, and a fire axe strapped to your back, because no one should be without a strong melee weapon.

>"There are NO Survivors, I'm heading down" you call out to no one in particular.

>You can hear the pure sadism in Nickson's voice though as he answers.

>"Got it" then a few gunshots.

>Nice.

>You clear the halls, hoping for a chance to use your guns, but only to find dead or dying in your path.

>The sticky sweet metallic smell of blood lingers as you walk room to room.

>What a waste, your men are doing their jobs so well, and leaving you with leftovers.

>As you walk, your machine gun at the hip fire position, a strap over your shoulder to steady it, you feel a grab at your ankle.

>You jump and pull out your handgun, aiming at the offending grab.

>Only to aim your handgun at ...Someone from your faction.

>Honestly the only reason you can tell he is with you is his clothing, the black and grey and red colors, you certainly don't recognize him.

>"Boss, I'm hit. Please-" he chokes out.

>You tug your ankle out of his grasping bloody fingers and fire a round into his head, putting him out of your misery.

>Yea, it's so sad the people get hurt during raids.

>But you don't have the time or resources to let them heal up, this isn't Mad Max where "human blood bags" were viable.

>Keeping them alive was a strain on resources; food for both the hunter and the "blood bag".

>No, this was better, well better for you anyway.

>You would find some sad hopeless sap who gave up before he was hurt, and give him a chance to join you to replenish your numbers later.

>Walking through the corridors of what probably was an old military outpost, you meet no opposition.

>Your men are doing their jobs well.

>"Hey uh... Boss. We have a situation" You hear through your radio, pulling you away from your investigation.

>"What is it?" you say into the radio, annoyed.

>"Just...come here" comes Nickson's voice, a bit of concern in it.

>For fucks sake, what is it that would bother him?

>You backtrack upwards, and follow the path he took, grunting in annoyance as you climb a thin ladder.

>When you reach the top and trek a few dozen meters into the enclosure you discover why he was hesitant.

>These people must have been slavers.

>In front of you lay 2 large cages full of humans and anthros, both cages maybe 20 foot by 20 foot.

>The room is an auditorium of sorts, the cages on the stage and rows of empty seats watching them.

>You see a few of your men lounging in the comfortable seats, feeling the gentle springiness of softness; no doubt some of these seats would get ripped out, or at least the cushions would, to make their Chariots a bit more comfortable.

>The Slaves are all different kinds of people light skin, dark skin, and anthros of different species.

>They are divided up by gender to stop intermingling, even though you can see a few "couples" reaching towards each other in the hope that you would free them.

>You were not so kind though, they want to survive, and they have to fight.

>"What do we do boss?" comes a voice from your side.

>It's a voice you don't recognize, probably because it was useless for anything.

>But you knew what to do.

>"Who has Useful skills? Doctor, seamstress, whatever" you call out.

>A small feeble looking mink anthro steps forwards.

>"I was a doctor" he says quietly.

>"I can fix solar panels and Cars" says a human awkwardly.

>A Female squirrel raises a paw.

>"I am a seamstress"

>"Get them out" you say to the nearest flunky, then address the slaves once more "We are going to open this cage. If anyone moves out of it besides those two, everyone gets killed"

>the slaves freeze as the door opens and they slide out, tugged along by your men, then the doors close once more.

>Alright then, time to replenish the numbers.

>"Nickson, how many did we lose during this raid" you call out to him over your shoulder.

>You hear him mumbling into his radio before he answers you.

>"We lost 23 boss"

>More than usual to be sure, but there were more than 40 male slaves here to replenish your numbers, and females...females always got special treatment.

>You speak slowly as you address the men in the cage before you.

>"Alright sooo.... We have openings...23 to be exact. You join us; you live and fight another day" you say calmly as you look into the cage casually.

>"Or you die, and I don't give you a second thought"

>You smile coldly at the gawking men and anthros

>"Make it quick"

>As the would-be slaves ponder what you mean, a Small mouse anthro grabs a rock from the floor of the cage and bashes it into the head of a large wolf anthro, then begins hitting anyone else within reach.

>You smile at that.

>You like tenacity.

>Fighters are always welcome, size doesn't matter.

>"Keep count and keep track of how many are alive for us" you say to Nickson, trusting his judgement for this.

>The females would always be kept alive.

>You were no monster to kill women in a dying world, and at the same time, if a male slave really wanted to keep his woman or wife or whatever he wanted to call it, he would fight all the more ferociously.

>Give him the chance to survive. You're more than sure that that small mouse hit that wolf to protect his lover.

>Or maybe he's just that ferocious.

>The sound of fighting goes on behind you as you venture back into the recesses of this old world bunker.

>Blood has a very unique smell, especially in large quantities like this.

>Like a wet dog that has killed some poor animal and rolled around in the carrion, it sticks to your nostrils.

>Your eye wanders the stained walls as you walk through, guns at the ready.

>This wasn't the first massacre that these walls had seen, you're sure of that much as you regard the faded blood stains on the walls, maybe years old, but a massacre nonetheless.

>In these confined halls, you set your machine gun on your back and ready your fire axe and your handgun.

>As you explore, you're more and more aware of how the scenery changes.

>It gets cleaner and cleaner.

>Less bare bone walls of grey stained cement turned to decorations, luxurious amenities and more comforts.

>How unoriginal, the leaders got the best air quality, the purest water and the safety if the underground...

>You walk slowly through a door into a large apartment; that was probably a stronghold for keeping some untold old world resource secure.

>Or someone secure.

>Along the walls you see separate rooms, a bedroom, a kitchen, and a bathroom, all around an unsecured central room.

>Was this building a prison? Or a fort? You would never know or care.

>What you did care about was the central room.

>One of your men is already in there, having cleared the rooms prior to you arriving.

>There was a large cage, the same size as the one housing 40 or so slaves, only this time with just one figure in it.

>The Anthro inside was a she, you could tell that much from the way her breasts are pressed against the bars, her looking at you with an odd eagerness.

>It took a moment for you to fully recognize what you were seeing.

>You have seen all kinds of feline anthros, Cougars, lions, Tigers, you name it.

>This girl has the body of a cheetah but missing the distinct trademarks of her kind.

>She is a spotless cheetah anthro, a rare anomaly in genetics, kept separate from the other slaves because she's just that rare of a catch.

>Probably kept separate from the other slavers because of the special treatment she was given, and to keep her safe, She probably got better treatment than the people who lived here.

>Some warlord would want to pay top dollar for a rare gal like this.

>A fancy little lady that was extremely rare and cute.

>And a perfect trophy for you.

>Just for you.

>You calmly walk forwards to her and extend a hand to her, eyeing her with your remaining eye, scarcely believing what it sees.

>"Hello there little one, what's your name?" you ask calmly.

>"My Name is Coul! Are you my master?" she asks happily, extending a perfect paw to you.

>To your annoyance, your underling swats her paw away from your hand, and the Cheetah mewls sadly in pain, which sparks your anger.

>"NAH! She's mine boss! I found her first!" he says, eyeing you for weakness and even looking you in the eye.

>Not many of your people dared to look at you directly like this, the animal instinct of not making eye contact still alive in humans.

>His eyes blaze in lust and anger , your eye shines in cold calculated prowess.

>You frown but don't talk, better not to give him time to close this clear opening for an attack.

>A casual underhand swing of your fire axe, sharpened to the best point you could muster, hits your former underling right between his legs.

>Not a swing of anger or malice, just one like someone would swing a yo-yo or a garbage bag into a trashcan.

>Quickly, you yank it out, severing the tendon of his pelvis and whatever artery is in there.

>He falls over, grasping what remained of his crotch with howls of pain.

>"This one is mine" you say coldly, regarding the man.

>The arterial sprays of blood stream out of him as he tries to stop the bleeding.

>Sure he wears your faction's usual colors, but he opposed you, so he's nothing

>Grabbing your radio you call into it; "make sure 24 survive Nickson" before looking back to the cage.

>The cheetah eyes the scene with odd cheerfulness, her perfect sultry body pressed to the bars, letting little bulges of her supple flesh strain against them.

>"Back up" you say without emotion, which she does without question.

>Carefully you shoot the lock off the cage, freeing Coul.

>"You want me to be your master, you gotta be useful. Prove it" you say grabbing the writhing man's sub-machine gun from him and thrusting it into her paws.

>"OK!"

>No hesitation on her part.

>She lets loose a torrent of fire and lead, ending the man's life, sure most of the bullets hit the floor around him, but its works regardless.

>How adorably murderous.

>You eye her calmly as she looks back to you for reassurance.

>"Did I do good Master?" she says with a happy smile.

>You actually give her a smile to as you look at her handiwork.

>"Yea, you did good Coul" you answer.

>At this point in time, you take the time to fully observe her.

>she's a spotless cheetah, you can tell from the steel wire muscle in her legs; and she has the distinct facial and muscular features of a cheetah.

>No fluff like a snep, thicker fur than a lioness, and stockier than a Jaguar.

>Rare, but not impossible.

>She has wide hips and moderate sized tits; the best looking body type for a gal, in your opinion.

>She's been taken care of, given enough food and water to make sure she had a good body and a submissive mind.

>As far as you care, she's cute, willing to do what you say and won't ask questions.

>The radio flickers to life as Nickson's voice comes through.

>"We only got 22 here Boss"

>Your annoyance is undermined, because of your new female.

>"That's ok; did that mouse survive? The one with the rock?" you ask, thinking about the mouse that acted first.

>"Yea, he's alive; got a few scratches, but alive, they gave us one hell of a show"

>You smirk.

>A fighter is always welcome, and ferocity is a bonus.

>"Good, you know what to do" you say calmly

>The slaves would be freed, survivors would get to claim their mates, or try to find a position among the ranks of your Faction.

>If they didn't act fast, a mate would be claimed by another male, and then only a fight would end it.

>That or they were a single male, trying to find a spot to fit in.

>Sure you needed replacements, but there was no handholding here.

>They figured out where they were needed and did it, or they got left behind.

>You regard the chambers you were in currently, a large apartment, rooms branching off each with well-lit rooms and the faint smell off cooking food from one.

>You must have interrupted dinner time.

>Coul grasps your arm happily, her gun tucked away in the bare bones clothing she wore; but still clothing of better quality than any other slave would wear.

>Some kind of soft fabric for panties, and a top and bottom made of what looks like some kind of old world fabric, rare and hard to find, but on her to make her more appealing.

>She was a rare one.

>And is all yours.

>"Let's eat?" you ask, leading the happy feline to the kitchen.

>"Yes Master!" She chimes happily, "Uh, may I ask your name Master?"

>You pull off a glove and rub her hear right between her ears, scratching softly and getting a soft Purr from Coul.

>"My name is Tread" you say, as the two of you walk into the clean kitchen.

>Some kind of meat sits on a tray, along with bread and even some vegetables.

>Their loss, your gain.

>Another day, another night.

>Another blood-soaked raid ending in success.