Jim peeked over the dune. The sun was setting now, casting a brilliant cocktail of orange, red, and rust hues upon the land. The shadow from his anchored land ship crawled eastward as he squinted and strained his eyes. His suspicions were verified. Ahead, behind an outcropping of rocks, the tattered sail of an overturned sloop fluttered in the breeze.

His eyes darted around cautiously. He knew the age old axiom as good as any, “if it looks too good to be true, is probably is.” This smelled like a trap. It felt like a trap. It probably was a trap but, desperation cares little for sense. Four days prior, a starving Suahim Lizard had attacked him in his land cutter.

The enormous creatures, sometimes up to three meters in length, typically avoided humans, instead preferring to feast on giant scarabs and other desert insects. However, when hungry enough, they could be a dangerous foe. Through the harrowing fight, he’d managed to kill the beast, but not before it shredded his mainsail and snapped the mast in half. Since then, the wind had pushed his ship along on its lone jib sail.

The only hope for him now was to make it to the busy docks of Freeport.

He would rather have avoided civilization. What had it been? Nearly a year since he last stepped foot in a city? At least three months between now and his last dealings with a passing trade caravan for sure. When trading, he had taken to calling himself Jim. It wasn’t his name, but that name had been lost to him long ago. Forgotten, yes, but really, he’d discarded it.

Although a trader by profession, Jim had never possessed a flair for conversation. Most people were put off by it, but he didn’t much care for the opinions of other people. The desert had stripped away social skills over the years. All that mattered now was survival.

Drifting northward in his small land cutter, he delicately sailed the rusty vehicle across the black sands of the Great Dune Sea. He’d been at it for three days now. The pitiful pace would barely pass for a brisk walk. His ship bobbed up and down hardly a meter above the sand.

With each new dune, he would dip, temporarily picking up speed, and then crawl up another. Sailing the great sands required tremendous focus and constant adjustment. A good sailor could find a semi-straight path upon the winding peaks of the dunes, rarely having to descend or ascend the treacherous faces. Of course, good sailors usually had good ships.

This ship is a pile of crap wrapped in a rusty wreck, floating on pushstones that were old when my grandfather was a boy, he thought to himself.

All landships operated on at least two pushstone slabs installed at thirty to forty-five degree angles to port and starboard within the hull. His slabs were so many years overdue for replacement, it was a wonder they worked at all.

Already low on water stores, he rationed his small container out as far as he could. The last of it had run dry yesterday. The sun was setting on his second day without a drop. The triangular sail of the sloop peeking over an outcropping of rocks to his portside was a beacon of hope in a sandy sea of despair.

Smacking his cracked lips together, longing for imagined rewards within, he crept along the perimeter of the rocks, looking for hidden threats. Jim’s light brown eyes were the only part of his body not covered by the heavy desert Jubba. Scattered across the ashen garment, darkened spots hinted at blood from wounds suffered recently.

Pushing the lingering pain aside, he fixed his eyes on the downed ship. With each second, desperate thirst overcame years of ingrained survival sense. Finally, throwing caution to the wind, Jim scurried his last few meters from the rocks to the overturned ship.

The landship was similar in size to his own. The capsized vessel was in much better condition than his rusted disaster though. I’ll have to salvage this thing later, he thought.

As he shuffled quickly from the bow to stern, Jim made a hasty inspection of the small cabin through a broken window. He could see the inside was empty, save a small bedroll of handspun desert cotton.

The creaking boat shifted in the sand as he made his way to the cabin door. Its port side pushstone lifted the ship at an odd angle, standing it slightly on its side railing before a new gust brought it to the ground with a thump and a spray of sand. The rising winds whispered in his ears, gently nudging him forward, encouraging him to continue exploring.

The fiery sun drifted lazily toward the western horizon, spreading upon the foothills. It’ll be dark soon. I have to hurry, he reminded himself.

The words in his mind were as tired as he felt. With every step, a struggle between his brain and body waged on. Just a moment of rest, his body would insist. No. If I rest, I may not wake up again, his brain would respond.

Again, going against his own cautious nature, he cracked the aged Manzawood door. Hanging at an odd angle, the door flew open and broke off its hinges. It bounced across the tilted deck and onto the sand. Jim cringed. No explosions came though. He examined the frame. No wires; no booby traps. Lucky. In the wastes, luck and instinct were the only things that kept a person alive. Let’s see how far it goes today, he thought, and he forged on.

Crawling through the slanted room, Jim made his way to the bedroll. Nothing special here, he thought with growing resignation. The room around him was a galley and crew quarters combined in one. Utility of space was common on a small ship such as this.

Rummaging through the cabinets, he found nothing. No empty tins. No dehydrated fruits. Worst of all, no water. His belly protested in disappointment. Hope was giving way to despair.

This is wrong, he thought with sudden alarm. A traveller of the desert wastes would never be caught this far out without a hefty pile of supplies. Although out of water, Jim still had a cargo hold brimming with spices, black-crystal, and other resources of the desert for trade.

Where is the captain of this vessel? He wondered. It looked to be in fairly good shape. Little dust, nothing broken. Recently abandoned, he realized. Why would someone leave it here in the middle of nowhere, and where did they hope to go? The nearest city was days away by sail. Weeks on foot.

A tingling started up Jim’s spine. Empty ship. No captain. No signs of life.

Trap.

In his desperation, he had walked right into it too. Lower back muscles tightened and hands shook as adrenaline shot through his system. His practiced calm was no match for millions of years of evolution. The animal part of his brain was shouting “danger!”, and his body was responding.

Have to get out. NOW, his instincts warned. For once, he was in complete agreement.

Then he heard it. Crunch crunch. Someone was approaching. Heavy footsteps in the cracked sand neared. Crunch crunch. The sound was right outside now. Two bronzed legs appeared outside the crooked cabin glass.

With dehydration setting in, Jim had to act while he had at least some strength.

He grabbed the bedroll and wrapped it around both arms. Shielding his head, he sprinted for the front window of the cabin.

The thin glass shattered around him as he burst outside onto the still burning sand and barreled into the unseen target.

His would be captor stumbled backwards. Tossing off the bedroll and rolling to his left, Jim pulled a jagged hunting knife (he didn’t have the water to clean the dried Suahim blood off) and single shot pistol from their belt holsters. He was on his feet within a second.

A few paces away, a very surprised, very large cannibal stumbled to a stop. Bigger than any man, cannibal or civilized, that Jim had ever seen, he was well over two meters and built like a steam room boiler. The creature’s thick yet hawkish build hinted at tremendous strength but constant hunger. The man had been caught off guard, but only for a moment.

There was little time to think.

The cannibal was nimble. More so for a man of his size. Despite being taken by surprise, he had quickly recovered. Already, with a frightening roar escaping his throat, he started toward Jim.

Leveling his pistol, Jim fired his single shot. CRACK! The gun kicked back, belching a cloud of black smoke. The musket ball burst through the behemoth's chest with a sickeningly wet sound.

With crooked femur knife in hand, in full sprint, the man threw his momentum into a final leap. Rolling to the right, Jim avoided the majority of his mass, instead sending his left foot sailing into the giant’s chest, further traumatizing the mortal wound. Giant or not, a mangled heart could fell any man.

The cannibal gurgled once and fell face first to the ground. A small cloud of dust shot out from under him. Jim wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it, but he could swear the ground shook a little with the impact.

His victory was fleeting however. Shouts and sounds of shuffling footsteps arose from behind the fallen sloop. This cannibal was not alone. He’d brought friends. Many of them.

Too many, Jim thought as panic sent new jolts of adrenaline through his deflated body.

Exhausted already, the lack of water was sapping away Jim’s remaining strength. All that remained to him now were instinct, determination, and, hopefully, a bit more luck.

One, two, three, five bodies leapt over the overturned ship with predatory speed. These cannibals were smaller than the first. In fact, they were easily a few hands shorter than Jim’s one hundred and eighty two centimeter build. Most likely the result of a lifetime of near starvation.

Wearing little more than loin cloths and painted head to toe in unrecognizable black and red patterns, they were gaunt with the same look of desperation he’d seen in the first. Maddening hunger was heavy on the face of each. There would be no reasoning with these husks of humanity.

Wielding spears tipped with black crystal, they were in a fury. Their champion was dead, and their dinner was escaping. With only a few dozen paces head start, Jim sprinted for the edge of the sandstone outcropping where he had anchored his small ship. The group gave chase, although a few stopped to feast on their comrade. I guess there’s no accounting for loyalty among cannibals, he thought with disgust.

The first spear whistled by to his left, missing him by only a few inches. His legs pumped in a blur as the next missile found flesh, cutting into his right calf and opening a gash. In full survival mode, his body had all but dulled any potential pain.

Running up the gangway and diving into the hold of his ship, Jim rolled into a run. He crossed the small space as quickly as his legs would allow. Grabbing two muskets, he scurried to the starboard forward porthole. Shoving the first through the hole, he had time only for a breath before squeezing the trigger.

The nearest cannibal crumpled over a now bleeding stomach. His bloodcurdling scream hastened his friends’ sprint as they leapt past him. It seemed these ones were not interested in eating their fallen comrades. He would have to kill them all or end up on tonight’s menu.

Tossing the smoking weapon behind him, Jim grabbed the second. Taking aim at the nearest cannibal who was now scrambling up the gangway, Jim fired again. **Click ** Nothing. Damnit. Alliance gets the turnguns, and the civilians get stuck with these worthless things, he thought with frustration.

Taking one last peek, he spotted four of them making their way across the sand only seconds behind the first. They too had no interest in eating their fallen friend, instead opting for the fresh meat of an outsider.

This was it. No more options. I never liked this ship anyways, he thought as he sighed.

Shuffling to the far end of the hold, hunched under the low ceiling, he pulled a worn canvas off of a nearby crate. The torn fabric pulled back to reveal a wooden box nearly as tall and twice as wide as Jim. On the front of the crate, in bold, white, hand painted letters was written, “Go to Hell!!”

With a thud, the first cannibal dropped through the entrance. Despite his impatient hunger, he moved slowly, eyes never leaving his prey. He’d witnessed the felling of his leader and friend and wasn’t about to make the same mistakes.

The starving cannibal crept across Jim’s small cargo hold, eyes stealing a glance left and right, scanning for dangers unseen. His breathing was heavy and his gaze fixed with hatred. Usually dinner wasn’t worth your life, but in the wastes, life and death were thin lines walked daily.

Withdrawing a small match and board from his belt pouch, Jim struck it. The small flame lit the hold in the dying light. From behind a dirt blackened face, the last thing the cannibal saw was a feral grin and a lit fuse.

Jim rolled out a side escape hatch, specially built for a situation such as this one. The creature had just enough time to register what had happened and shout a word of alarm up to his friends in their strange guttural language.

With only a few seconds on the fuse, Jim spent the last bit of strength he had remaining, his body still fighting him with each step. Sprinting toward the darkening horizon, he knew his chances of survival were slim. An exploding ship made of wood was a death sentence for anyone stupid enough to find themselves in the blast radius. It was likely that mortal wounds by a million splinters awaited him.

As he dove for a small indentation in the ground, the blast struck.

One hundred and twenty pounds of packed black powder made for a spectacular explosion. Suddenly, the world was white, and a terrific sound shook his bones. For a moment, the noise and light was beyond his ability to fully comprehend, and he was sent into shock.

The blast thrust his body downward into the desert sand, cracking a few ribs in the process. Trying to control his ragdolled form, he tucked himself into a ball with hands behind his neck. Finally, rolling to a stop, ears ringing and vision blurred, Jim looked back.

The gunpowder had done its deadly work. Where a ship once stood, a smoking crater remained, littered with splinters of wood and mangled sheet metal. Heavy clouds of black smoke drifted lazily into the sky as the remains of his life’s possessions burned away before his eyes.

Somehow, luck had continued to accompany him. He was alive, aside from a few scrapes, a few broken ribs, and a slowly seeping spear wound. When his hearing began to return, the sound of the crackling wood, the howling of the twilight winds, and...shouts reached him.

So much for luck, he thought hopelessly.

From behind the growing wall of smoke, two specters lumbered toward him.

In the failing light, the cannibals resembled horrific creatures from a world of nightmare and fear. Covered head to toe in soot and hunched over, with spears held at the ready, they approached like wolves moving in for the killing blow. Hunger and fury were in their eyes.

The wind wailed across sand and rock, buffeting his back. Quickly, the flame was thrown into the outcropping where the overturned ship lay. A second fire started to rise. Jim could hear the alarmed cries of other cannibals.

His energy was spent. He had no more tricks. No more strength but all the will in the world to survive. He shook violently, half from terror, and the rest from utter exhaustion. This is it then, he thought as anger replaced all traces of fear.

“Time to work for your supper, assholes!” he growled through bared teeth.

Jim limped out of his unintended landing spot. Wheezing, head still ringing, he calmed his heart and steadied his breathing.

This was it. The end to a life spent in the wastes, barely scraping by on the bottom rung of society. Filled with regret and anger over such an ending to a wasted life, he would give these animals something to remember him by.

Too close now, they could hold back no longer. The man-creatures charged at him. He mustered strength that he wasn’t aware existed and shouted his last dying breath with the entirety of his malice. It felt as if his very soul was being thrust upon them. The rage filled him.Then, it consumed him.

The howling wind crescendoed to a deafening roar.

Charging in utter desperation and hatred, he was upon them in an instant. What happened next, Jim would always recall as something between a dream and an out of body experience.

He saw the terror fill their eyes. He watched from above a familiar body...his body as the wretched remnants of a man swung his arms and hit air. No, he wasn't swinging. He was wielding the earth itself. With each swing, giant pillars of sand erupted from the dune beneath him and tore the cannibal’s flesh from limb. With each desperate shout, a mighty torrent of earth would rise and course into the frightened cannibals.

They attempted to flee, but it was too late for them. The shifting sand soon ran red with their blood. In seconds, their screams ceased. Their skeletons were tossed across the sand and landed in a heap of bloodied death.

Still floating above his body, Jim realized what was happening. He was an awakened! He had little time to celebrate his good fortune though. Suddenly, he was in his body again, and the world around him darkened. His power had quickly escaped his control, and now he watched, helpless as his awakening took its deadly course.

The rushing wind intensified and swirled into a terrible hurricane of fury. Lost now to the power swimming through him, he could only hope that his battered body would survive the immense explosion of power. An intensifying earthquake engulfed the remains of his vessel to the depths and turned the world around him a glowing ember red. Every nerve was on fire. Every inch of his body was in agony. The sky was filled with the maelstrom.

The pain was unimaginable. When the darkness came, he welcomed it.