The Wait is Over

"Tighten your seat belts," the voice came from the driver's seat. The black van was doing 280 kilometers per hour through terrain that had no business being navigated at such speeds. There was no safety outside the walls of Central Mendea—we all believed that. But the van was already far beyond the walls, speeding through the eastern wastelands toward whatever destination awaited them.

"Are you nervous about the South?" one of the graduates asked from somewhere in the darkness. The voice carried the same forced optimism they'd all been trained to maintain.

James shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Like the others, he wasn't blindfolded or restrained—this was supposed to be a celebration, after all. Through the reinforced windows, he could see the landscape changing from the familiar buildings around School Central to something altogether more desolate.

"I don't know what to expect," James said honestly. He'd always been the observant one, the one who noticed when teachers' smiles didn't reach their eyes, when official explanations didn't quite add up.

The other nine graduates chatted nervously, their voices mixing with the hum of the engine and the occasional bump as they hit rough terrain. James had known most of them for years—classmates from mathematics, literature, the dormitories. They were good kids who'd followed the rules, earned their grades, aged out, and believed in the system.

Maybe I'm overthinking this, James thought, watching the sun begin to set through the tinted glass. Maybe the South really is everything they promised.

But something felt wrong. The driver hadn't spoken since his initial warning, and there was a tension in the air that had nothing to do with graduation nerves.

"Look," one of his classmates said, pointing out the window. "The walls are so far behind us now."

James turned to see the great protective walls of Mendea as distant lines on the horizon. They were deeper in the wasteland than any student had ever been, traveling through territory that was supposed to be uninhabitable.

That's when he saw the outside world for the first time. Vezia was no more. At least, not the green, fertile world they'd been told about in geography class. This was a desert of rainbow-colored sand that stretched endlessly, punctuated by twisted metal sculptures that might once have been buildings. The sky was a sickly yellow, and the air beyond the windows seemed to shimmer with heat and something else—something that made his skin crawl.

"What happened here?" someone whispered, face pressed against the window.

Before anyone could answer, the world exploded. BOOM. The van went airborne. Something like a rocket had struck them from the side, sending the vehicle tumbling through the air in a twisted symphony of screaming metal and shattering glass. James felt his body slam against the ceiling, then the floor, then the ceiling again as gravity became meaningless.

The impact came with a sound like the world breaking. When the ringing in his ears subsided, James found himself hanging upside down from his seatbelt, blood trickling from his forehead. The van had flipped completely, steam hissing from the engine. Through the spider-webbed windows, he could see figures approaching—dark shapes moving with purpose across the rainbow sand.

"Everyone okay?" he called out, his voice hoarse.

Groans and whimpers answered him. One classmate was unconscious, blood pooling beneath his head. Another was crying, her arm bent at an unnatural angle. A third was trying to unbuckle his seatbelt with shaking hands.

The rear doors had been blown open, and James could see their attackers now—about ten figures in dark purple robes, their faces hidden by deep hoods. They moved with the confidence of people who'd done this before.

Raiders, James thought. We've been attacked by wasteland raiders.

But as they approached, he realized these weren't ordinary bandits. They carried ornate staffs topped with golden symbols, and their movements had a ritualistic quality that made his blood run cold.

"We need the strong ones," one of them said, their voice cultured and educated. "The ritual requires healthy vessels."

Vessels? James watched in horror as the robed figures began pulling his classmates from the wreckage. They were selective—the unconscious boy was left behind. The girl with the broken arm was pushed aside. But the strong ones were dragged out into the wasteland.

"I'm just a student," one of them cried as they bound his hands with rope. "Please, I haven't done anything wrong!"

The hooded figures ignored his pleas, working with the efficiency of a well-rehearsed team. James realized with growing terror that this wasn't a random attack—they'd been waiting for the graduation van. They knew we were coming.

"This one," a feminine voice said, pointing at James. "He's perfect."

Rough hands dragged him from the wreckage. His legs were shaky, his vision blurred, but he forced himself to stay conscious. Whatever was happening, he needed to understand it.

They bound him with coarse rope and dragged him across the rainbow sand, away from the smoking van and his injured classmates. The ground beneath his feet felt wrong—too soft, too warm, like it was alive.

"What do you want?" James demanded, but his captors remained silent.

After what felt like hours of walking, they reached their destination: a circle of standing stones that rose from the sand like ancient teeth. The stones were covered in symbols that seemed to shift and writhe when James wasn't looking directly at them.

This is old, he realized. Older than School Central. Older than the walls.

"We need to perform the ritual today," the leader said, removing their hood to reveal a woman with silver hair and eyes like burning coals. "The alignment is perfect."

"The king's time is now," agreed another, whose voice carried an authority that made the others straighten.

Wait a minute. Purple robes. Ancient symbols. These are cradlewalkers.

The realization hit him like ice water. He'd heard whispers about them in the dormitories—religious fanatics who lived in the wasteland, worshipping the old gods. Most students thought they were just ghost stories told to keep people from trying to escape. But they were real, and they'd been hunting.

"Let me go, please" James pleaded as they bound him to one of the standing stones. "Please, I haven't done anything wrong."

The cradlewalkers arranged themselves in a perfect circle around him, their faces now visible in the dying light. They were human, but there was something wrong with their eyes—too bright, too knowing, completely mad.

The leader opened a book that looked ancient, its pages yellowed and cracked. The text was in a language James didn't recognize, but the illustrations were clear enough: figures being consumed by fire, planets cracking apart, gods rising from golden vessels.

"For decades, we have waited," the leader intoned, her voice carrying across the wasteland. "For decades, we have prepared. Today, our lord returns."