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Silvia readjusted her brown hat, the pale blue ribbon matching the hijab she wore beneath. The Mojave winds threw dust into the air, flecks of shifting sands scattering onto the pale fringes on her black shirt, and the floral patterns of the matching jacket.
A loud huff came along with the wind. Jumping, she reached a gloved hand to her waistband, fingers wrapping comfortably around a shining blade handle.
They marched forward, long blue ruffled skirt hiked up to show the white under layer, as the sands flew beneath their dusty boots.
Silhouetted, as Silvia strode over the dune, stood a four legged beast, flesh worn by radiation, straggly mane of hair floating over its neck. The remaining fur it has was a dark brown, the peeled off patches revealing oozing green pus, along with pink hairless skin.
She approached it, hand remaining on her sword, for fear of danger.
The beast turned, its long face turned into a decaying snout. It opened its mouth, exposing damaged teeth and a rotten tongue.
By the time she was stood beside it, its dark hair lined back was the height of her ear, and its head was bent down, attempting to sniff her hat.
Silvia blinked, tentatively holding a hand up to the snout of the beast, “you… appear to resemble a horse? I was unaware that you had survived the Fallout.”
The horse snorted in response, “of course. You are also unaware. On account of the fact that horses do not have the concept of time. Or nuclear war.”
The horse shoved its lengthened nose into Silvia’s gloved hand, whinnying roughly in delight.
“Oh. Hello. You are a rather friendly creature. I never did think I would see a horse. There are not any in the Capital. And I was not of the belief that I would be able to leave the Vault.”
She shrugged, petting the horse’s snout.
It leant its side into her, swishing its ratty tail into her arm.
“Well. I suppose that I have read a book about the riding of horses. You are the friendliest Wasteland creature I have encountered. Although, to admit, I have not encountered one, prior to today, who did not wish to attack me.”
Hesitantly, she hoisted herself onto the horse, legs flailing, while her arms remained sturdy.
“Well. Hello there. Would it be okay, if I were to name you?”
The horses head bobbed.
“I shall interpret this as a yes,” she paused, “how does al-Mandoob sound? It is a horse that the Prophet, blessings and peace of Allah be upon him, rode once. He was very swift of foot.”
Al-Mandoob did not respond.
“Right. Horses are not able to speak. A shame.”
The sun set over the sandy hills, bright lights shimmering over Silvia, and the first friend she made in the West.