Mad Max: The Razor's Edge.
Chapter One: War Pup's Lament.
The air hung still, as if Mother Nature knew a storm was coming, even though it didn't rain much anymore. The silence stung like sweat in an open wound; something was coming, though not even the seers could sense it. In the deepest distance, a bit of sand, the redness of the road rash that the soil had become, kicked up. The insects that survived the end and claimed their place in the new order of things were the first to feel it. A distant rumble, an aggressive hum that crescendoed only for a moment and then fell away, snuck around the perception of the lesser creatures. Still, they knew something was coming.
The rumble rose again, higher, faster, angrier, then began to fade, but only for a moment, as the silence was punctuated with great force by a down-draft; a glottal stop in an unholy growl. A glint appeared on the horizon; the dust that blew in from the vomitorium opposite, then it quickly retreated as the rumble surged in again. The hum grew larger, louder, and became sharp, burning away the basso veneer until it became a whine that attacked the senses; deafening ears and stabbing vision until it squinted in uncertainty. The white-hot whir hastened as the glint shined brighter and brighter; then, in a chorus of mayhem, another joined; then another, and another, and more still. The rumble returned and echoed like the report of a super-cell thunderstorm in a mountain valley.
From the annals of time itself, great rusted machines charged through the sand-wastes with whooping soldiers of the apocalypse at their helm. This was the new order, and war had been declared.
"Watch and learn, Small One," said the soldier who spearheaded the charge; he commanded a 3.8 liter V8 engine and the heavy iron body of a former luxury car turned apocalyptic convertible, with the knowledge and charisma to charge headlong into a suicide and come out the other side with rewritten odds.
"By my deeds... I honor him. V8" the smaller boy in the passenger seat muttered under stolen breath, "and for those about to rock, we salute you."
The driver gave his number two a slight side-eye, but looked back at the road ahead of him through thick blowtorch goggles, focused on the task ahead of him. While his passenger said his prayers, the driver only said his goodbyes. It was the same, every mission, every fuel run, every ambush; he always said goodbye to those whose lives he would soon end. His counterpart, joyous in his pursuit of death, looked out for himself and always tried to look 'worthy' in what could be his last moments.
"Issa good day t'die, ain' it Shox?" 'Small One' asked: a smile crossed his boyish features and a spark of joy burned in his eyes like a guzzoline fire.
"No Hak," Shox replied, "it is a good day to survive."
"You suh-vive alyoo want," Hak retorted, "I am awai'ed in Valhalla."
Hak was but a small boy; a child in what passed as the dawn of his life. His green eyes glittered like the fading paint-job on a new machine. His head had been shaved recently, before the locks of blond could grow in; he had insisted that it not be allowed to take a foothold. He had to remain "War Ready." To Hak, there was no downside to life and its perils, only another opportunity to become immortal.
Suddenly, a high-powered roadster galloped ahead of the convertible and cut off Shox's kamikaze approach. In the plume of dust that leapt up from under "Esme's" wheels, he recognized the driver and spat in disgust. The roadster's driver peeled himself from its seats and approached the passenger's side of the Benz convertible.
"Small One Hak," he muttered in agitation, "you are not to be here. War Parties are only for worthy War Boys; those deemed so by the God King of the Citadel, Immortan Joe, those who are awaited in Valhalla."
Shox felt the anger that choked Hak like bile. He could have written the words that scratched and clawed forth from his throat.
"I am a War Boy; fueled by guzzoline an' thirsty for blood! I am awaited in Valhalla, and you shall witness! By my deeds, I honor him! V8!"
The driver simply shook his head.
"Pitiful little Hak, you are not a War Boy. Now come along, back to the Citadel."
Hak balled his fists as tears that pricked and stung like the pop of a grease burn welled up in his eyes. The rumble of the War Party grew closer; Shox guessed that they would be upon the scene in two minutes.
"Get gone, Hak" Shox barked, "live and see another sunset. Now."
"Shox!"
A hard shove met his protest and he toppled over the side of the car and into the dirt. The driver hoisted him to his feet and kept a tight grip on his shoulder; he was led to the roadster as his companion sped off again. The noise and heat of the roadster's cab was an all-too-familiar place for him, but it never lessened the bitterness of the ride back to the Citadel.
"Slaine," Hak croaked as the white paint of his arm smudged from the warm tears he tried to hold back, "why? You tryin' shame me? You say Joe don' wanta ridda me?"
Slaine grew tired of repeating himself, but knew that he had no other option.
"You, Hak, are not worthy. You are not a War Boy; you are a runt who is otherwise without shelter if it were not for the benevolence of the God King. You have humiliated yourself again, Hak. Your 'friend' Toxic Shox takes pity on you, but you just slow he... you just slow him down."
"Don' you speak Shox name like dat," Hak muttered in a flash of anger behind the steady tears, "Shox more man than you easy. You jealous Shox, Slaine? You mus' be, way you talk about him."
"Me? Jealous of Shox? You really are a delusional little crybaby, Hak. Oh, and, try and cry into your arm. There are still tear marks on the seat from the last two times."