The bunker's air was a stale tomb of recycled regret—dust motes dancing in the emergency strip's feeble red glow, the hum of failing life-support a dirge for the world above. Lena Kane jolted awake on her cot, sweat-slick sheets tangling her legs like desperate lovers, her heart slamming against ribs that felt too fragile for the apocalypse. Nineteen years of scavenging the rad-wastes had honed her to a knife's edge—lean muscle under scarred olive skin, dark hair cropped short for helmet-fits, eyes sharp as flayer-claws from endless horizon scans. But this wake-up? Not the usual rad-storm jitters or scavenger's gut-ache. This was wrong—a psychic yank, like invisible hooks in her skull, reeling her toward something feral, hungry.
Kill them. All.
The thought wasn't hers—raw, primal, laced with blood-taste and pack-scent. Lena bolted upright, grabbing her pulse-rifle from the wall-rack, its stock worn smooth from a thousand dry-fires. The bunker's hatch—reinforced plasteel, her last bastion against the wastes—rattled, not with wind but impact: muffled screams filtering through, wet crunches like bones under boot, the guttural snarls of... what?
She cycled the peephole, breath fogging the glass—raiders. Five of 'em, hive-scum from the Scrapyard Clans, faces masked in rad-filter grins, chain-axes revving as they pried her hatch. Her bunker—stocked with three months' hydro-rations, a gene-splicer kit swiped from an overlord convoy, and the last untainted seed-vault east of the Fracture. Word must've leaked; scavengers talked, and Lena Kane was a prize: lone wolf with a rifle that never jammed, rumors of a "beast-whisper" gift from her splicer experiments.
The lead raider—scarred brute with a cyber-jaw clicking threats—bellowed, "Open up, Kane! Your stash or your skull—Clan's claimin' this hole!" His axe bit plasteel, sparks flying, the others laughing like hyenas on rad-dust.
Lena chambered a round, adrenaline spiking—shoot first, splice later—but the yank hit again, harder: Mine. Protect. Her vision blurred, overlaying the hatch with... eyes. Yellow-slitted, glowing through the feed's grain, not hers but linked, a flood of sensations crashing in: hot blood on tongue, wind in fur, the raiders' scents—sweat-sour, metal-bitter, prey.
What the fuck? Lena staggered, rifle dipping, as the psychic bond snapped taut—a tether forged in her sleep? Her splicer kit—tinkered last night with a wolf-hybrid gland from a rad-mut carcass—had misfired? No time. The hatch buckled, raider axes shearing seals, gas hissing as pressure equalized.
They poured in—lead brute first, axe high—but it struck.
From the bunker's outer vent—a shadow exploded: massive, quadrupedal fury, fur matted black with rad-dust and fresh gore, jaws unhinging to reveal fangs like scimitars. The alpha-wolf hybrid—her splice gone wild?—barreled into the lead raider, claws raking torso in a spray of arterial red that painted the walls abstract. The brute screamed, axe swinging wild, but the wolf was blur: jaws clamping throat, crunch silencing him mid-gurgle, body crumpling as the beast shook like a terrier with a rat.
The others froze—froze—eyes wide behind masks, chain-axes whining idle. "Mutie! Burn it!" One fired a flare-gun, chem-round blooming orange, but the wolf dodged, psychic pull guiding Lena's aim: her rifle barked, slug punching the shooter's knee, dropping him howling. The bond surged—her thoughts meshing the beast's: Flank left. Tear.
It obeyed—no, synced: loping left, shadows its ally, jaws shearing the flanker's arm at the shoulder in a wet rip. Blood fountained, the raider collapsing, but the last two rallied—axes revving, charging tandem. Lena rolled from her cot, rifle cycling burst: slugs stitching the first's chest, plasteel vest crumpling like foil, but the second connected—axe grazing her thigh, pain lancing hot as the blade bit synth-leather.
She screamed, but the wolf roared—psychic echo amplifying in her skull, fury shared like venom. It leaped, massive frame eclipsing her, forepaws pinning the raider mid-swing, jaws descending in a snap that severed spine. The man twitched once, then stilled, blood pooling dark.
Silence fell, broken only by the bunker's hiss and Lena's gasps. The wolf turned—her wolf?—panting, tongue lolling red, eyes locking hers: yellow slits dilating, not feral but knowing, a mirror of her own storm-gray, flecked now with gold. The bond thrummed: Pack. Alpha. Ours.
Lena lowered her rifle, thigh burning, mind reeling from the flood—its thoughts bleeding in: Hunt with me. Wastes call. Raiders... weak. Images flashed: the beast's awakening in the ruins above, rad-mut howls drawing the clan, her splicer mishap birthing the link mid-night. Bonded. Evolved.
"You're... real," she whispered, holstering the rifle, hand extending tentative. The wolf padded closer, massive head level with hers, nuzzling her palm—rough tongue rasping skin, but gentle, loyal. The touch sealed it: psychic surge, senses merging—its nose scents (blood-iron, rad-dust, home), ears twitching to distant rad-storm rumbles, heart syncing her pulse to its thunder.
First command: Hunt.
The wolf's ears perked, tail low-wag, but Lena's gut twisted—command? The splicer had done more than mutate; it had tamed, or evolved her into tamer, the bond a two-way forge. Outside, the wastes waited: Fracture's glow on the horizon, overlord convoys rumbling distant, tribes warring over seed-vaults like gods over scraps. But with this—alpha at her side, pack potential humming in the link—survival wasn't scrape; it was conquest.
She bandaged her thigh—nano-seal from the kit hissing shut—grabbing her go-bag: rifle, splicer, rad-tabs, the last untainted water-canteen. The wolf watched, patient, but the bond urged: Pack grows. Hunt strong.
"Alright, fang-face," Lena said, scratching its ruff—fur coarse as wire, warm under her fingers. "Lead on. But if you eat my rations, you're sleeping outside."
The wolf chuffed—laugh?—nosing the hatch open, rad-wind gusting in: ozone-sharp, laced with mut-scent. Lena stepped out, rifle ready, the beast at her flank—shoulder level, a wall of muscle and menace.
The raiders' camp loomed beyond the bunker's ridge: fires guttering low, tents flapping in the waste-wind, survivors—three, nursing wounds—huddled around a chem-brazier. The bond surged: Ours. Claim.
Lena raised her rifle, but the wolf lunged—a gray blur vanishing into the scrub, psychic pull yanking her after. She crested the ridge, sights lining the first survivor— but the beast struck first: jaws closing on a leg, drag, the man screaming as it hauled him into the dark, pack-hunt instinct blooming in her mind: flank, tear, share.
She fired—suppressed phut, slug dropping the second clean through the throat, blood misting the fire. The third bolted—rad-rifle barking wild—but Lena rolled, beast's thoughts guiding: Left. Leap. She vaulted a crate, knife flashing to hamstring, the raider tumbling into the wolf's mercy—crunch, silence.
The bond flooded—kill-joy shared, a rush like endorphin high, but laced with hunger: More. Pack needs strong.
Lena knelt by the dragged survivor—the brute from the hatch, cyber-jaw sparking, eyes pleading. "Your clan's done," she said, rifle to his temple. "Last chance: overlord convoys—where's the next rad-run?"
He spat blood, grinning mad. "Fracture's edge... tomorrow dawn. Seeds for the Overqueen. You'll die screamin', beast-whore."
The wolf growled, psychic rage spiking hers—Lena squeezed, the shot echoing flat. Debt paid.
The camp yielded spoils: rad-rations, a chain-axe humming vibro-edge, and a map-slate etched with convoy routes—gold for the wastes. The wolf dragged carcasses to a pit, burying efficient, but paused, nose to the air: Storm comes. Pack calls.
Lena synced—distant howls, not wind: wolves, hybrids like hers, circling the ridge. Pack? The bond expanded, alpha's call rippling out, replies echoing psychic: Join. Hunt.
Thunder rumbled—rad-storm brewing, green lightning forking the horizon. Lena shouldered the bag, axe at her belt, rifle slung. "Lead on, alpha. Let's build this legacy."
The wolf loped ahead, Lena at its flank, the wastes unfolding: ruins jagged, megafauna shadows stirring distant. But as the first rain hissed rad-hot, a new pull tugged—deeper, ancient: God-beast stirs. Blood calls blood.
The legacy awakened. And the wastes would kneel.
To be continued...
End of Chapter 1