Mouse

Mouse trekked across the barren wasteland for days. Her tongue hadn’t touched water in two days. Her stomach had been without food so long she forgot what it felt like not to be starving.

A plume of dust billowed up out of the horizon. Soon, Mouse found herself surrounded by a convoy of motorcycles helmed by chiseled men in strategically-arranged leather straps and grimy football pads with spikes glued on more for looks than for any defensive advantage.

“Where you headed, little girl?” said the leader.

Mouse said nothing.

“Take her to Dragon,” said another biker, “He’ll make use of her.”