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// OUR PART (By Skybolt) 
// Story: Chilling Wasteland Stories to Tell in the Dark 
// by MuseoSansPony 
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It can be tough out there in the open wasteland. The nights never seem to get any warmer, the days never seem to get any cooler. Every monster you kill seems to get replaced by three new ones.					

Every once in a while, even the most nomadic travelers want to settle down for a while. That was true of a buck named Dustprint.					

The little village he found was his first choice to stop at, because no other choices appeared on that old highway, despite walking for nearly a week. He thought he may be lost, or walking in circles. Either way, he needed rest.					

The Mayor of the town was an easy going mare named Ladle. She was a unicorn with a short cropped mane and a missing front leg. She doubled as the chef of their community of two dozen.					

“Each one of us must do our part,” she said, when he asked for a place to stay.			

Every evening, each villager brought something to eat to the kitchen, she would cook it all up and it would feed the village that night and the next morning.					

It was a simple system, and everyone understood.					

The next day a buck named Crosshair, with a similar looking scar over one eye, took Dustprint out into the wasteland to hunt for their daily kill.

There were an assortment of flood tunnels that ran beneath the highway near the village. Just enough critters seemed to congregate there that the village was able to thrive.			

After exploring 10 different tunnels, they stumbled on a pair of small radscorpions. Each were about the size of a hoofball, just large enough to cover their portion for the day.			

With careful aim, Crosshair fired an arrow into one of them, pinning it into the ground. The other was scurrying quickly, but Dustprint was able to nail it with his trail carbine.			

That night they brought their finds to Mayor Ladle and she was satisfied. Her horn floated up an assortment of knives. With a practiced precision, she carved open the shells of the radscorpions and extracted the pieces of meat. The chunks were mixed into a pot with some vegetable broth.					

After about a week, Dustprint was getting used to the simple routine of the town. Crosshair showed him some other places to hunt nearby: a shallow lake, a grotto, and an abandoned restaurant.				

Dustprint was really feeling at home, the villagers had been very kind to him.			

Crosshair returned early one day with a radroach, but Dustprint was hunting in the grotto.	

After a few hours, Dustprint realized it was almost nightfall. Frustrated, he gave up and returned to the village. At suppertime, each villager lined up and presented their portion of food for the evening roast.					

When Dustprint reached the front of the line he apologized and said he couldn’t find anything that day. He then turned to make his way toward the tent, not expecting to eat if he had nothing to give.					

“Now wait a minute,” Mayor Ladle said. Dustprint turned around and saw that she was sharpening one of her larger knives.					

He gazed around and saw that the group had gone silent. Crosshair was staring as Dustprint with a look that he couldn’t quite describe.					

Mayor Ladle finished inspecting the butcher knife once she thought it was sharp enough. It floated in place where her front-right leg used to be.					

“Each one of us must do our part,” she said again. “Which part will it be?”