Red dust swirled around the pair of brahmin as their hooves kicked up Mojave sand, obscuring the view of the two-headed beasts. Although they were not much more than a blip from behind a spiny piece of brush on a nearby hill, Swank could make out four figures ambling along with the beasts through the crosshairs of his hunting rifle.
"Who do you think they are?" Swank whispered to Benny, lying prone looking through a pair of dark gray binoculars.
"Could be more of those people from out west. The one on the left has a shiny ass pistol," he replied giddily, peeling away from the binoculars, "Definitely some people about to have a bad day. You think we can take these cats right here, right now?"
Swank gave him a pleading look, "Bingo will have our asses. We gotta get the OK, Benny."
"Fine," Benny grumbled.
The pair scrambled backwards slowly, keeping their bellies on the ground until the incline blocked the line of sight between them and the brahmin. Walking in a half crouch, clad with gecko-skin, the pair slipped into the shadow of the hill. They moved silently across the terrain, their bare feet immune to the crunch of gravel in a way only possible through years of practice.
The pair came to a deep ravine nearly hidden from view but for a thin crevice. They slipped inside, having to turn sideways to get through the opening. As they continued on, the ravine widened, and the air filled with the smell of charred giant ant meat. Dozens of bighorner-hide tents had been erected in the widest part of the ravine, flanked on both sides by steep cliffs. A large red-brown tent, covered in a great tapestry, dominated the camp. Glancing upwards, Benny could see patrols pacing along the top of the cliffs. He quickly dodged out of the way as a cadre of children raced past him, screaming and laughing.
As they neared the large tent, Swank turned to Benny, "You know, we could just leave those guys out there. We don't have to do this."
Benny ran his hand through his dark brown hair, the plump features of his face narrowing into a scowl, "Do you think I'm scared of him, baby?"
"No Benny, I just –"
"Look, baby, I'm not having fucking grilled mutant ant for dinner again. This is our chance to get some of the good shit from out west, and ain't Bingo or anyone else gonna get in the way of that," Benny spat out in his shrill voice.
Swank sighed. His handsome face looked haggard. His sharp jawline drooped with exhaustion, and his dark shaggy hair hung over his face, covering most of his large forehead, stopping just before his brown eyes. "Look man, I'm just trying to look out for you," he said softly, sympathy in his eyes.
"You can look out for me by staying out of my way," Benny snarled as he walked away, making for the center of the camp.
Benny walked along the edge of the tent, running his fingers over the tapestry. The artwork was little more than a collage of violence, portraying the Boot Riders' exploits in sickening detail. Images of lesser tribes of the Mojave were shown being skewered by throwing spears. Crudely drawn Riders charged at caravanners with knives and rebar clubs. The most recent addition to the tapestry, closest to the tent entrance, displayed Bingo, the Boot Riders' chief. In his right hand, he held a baseball club; in his left, the head of a deathclaw. Benny sneered.
The tapestry wasn't the problem. Benny didn't mind a good piece of art. The problem was what it stood for. The Boot Riders were all machismo, no style. Caesar's Legion, down further south, they had style. Sure, they were bloodthirsty weirdos, but everyone knew not to mess with those cats. You couldn't help but recognize a horde of crazies wearing Legion armor. Roman troops in the middle of the Mojave, now that made an impression. The Boot Riders, on the other hand, were tough as hell, but without any flair. To anyone outside the tribe, they were just another band of raiders, looking to pillage and score some quick Jet.
Ducking his head under the entranceway, Benny walked into the tent. The inside was cool and dark, lit by a dim lantern on a table near the back. From floor to ceiling, the tent was lined with hides of various animals, from coyotes to yao guai – trophies from the hunt. Behind the table, Bingo stood, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, his chin resting on his knuckles, peering down at a sprawling piece of paper. He was a bear of a man. It would be easy to mistake him for a supermutant if you saw him lumbering around at night. He dwarfed Benny's spindly frame. His head was ensconced in a tangled knot of thick, blonde hair that hung down well past his shoulders. He was flanked on either side by two of his goons, both holding heavily battered submachine guns in various states of disrepair.
"Chief, you got a visitor," one of the goons said from beneath a massive mustache.
Bingo looked up and sighed, "Ah, Benny, back to camp so soon? I hope you weren't shirking on scouting duty."
Benny ignored him, walking slowly toward the table. He wasn't going to get under his skin that easily. "Look, Chief," Benny started, "Swank and I saw a caravan heading east; two brahmin loaded with packs, four people. They're armed, but they're on the main road surrounded by hills. It would be an easy ambush, you dig?"
Bingo's eyes gleamed. "A HUNT!" he bellowed, followed by a thundering laugh.
"About that," Benny said, as Bingo pulled a clear bottle of dark liquid out of a small, heavily scratched, wooden cabinet next to the table, "I'm thinking maybe I could lead this one. Maybe run a different game plan."
"Benny, we're not going through this again," Bingo replied, taking a massive swig of the dark liquid. Putting it down, his teary eyes suggested whiskey.
"Bingo, look. If we charge in headfirst, we'll get them, sure, but think about it. These cats are heading east; that means they probably came from out west," Benny quickly rattled out, "We grab a couple of hostages, maybe we get lucky, and it's somebody bigtime. Then we're negotiating with a civilization in the west with a fucking government. Think of all the shit they have. We could get way more than a few packs of pork n' beans. And then people hear that the Boot Riders stood them down, and we get more people wanting to join up. We could be big league."
"Are you finished yet?" Bingo asked, taking another swig.
"Just listen. Swank can spot for me, and I'll sneak in behind them, get the drop on 'em. We pull this maneuver a couple of times, word gets around. The Boot Riders aren't just your average raiders; they're a gang of gentleman outlaws. That's an idea, people are willing to join an idea. We don't have to keep surviving, we can be powerful," Benny pleaded.
"You're a coward, Benny," Bingo said flatly.
"Chief –" Benny started.
"No, Benny. Boot Riders don't sneak in anywhere. If you don't like it, you can get the fuck out, or try your odds with Great fucking Khans" Bingo snarled, referring to another nomadic tribe known for its brutal guerilla tactics, but not exactly friendly to outsiders and not seen at all in recent months. He turned to the mustached goon, smiling with his set of vicious yellow teeth, "Tommy, tell the Riders to prepare for a hunt."
Benny skulked out of the tent before Bingo had a chance to continue the verbal lashing or – worse yet – turn it into a physical one. Tommy dashed out behind him, running between tents, barking orders left and right to form up for a raid. Benny made his way to his own tent, slipping inside. It was simple. Just a brahmin-hide bedroll, a small duffel bag, and his prized possession hanging from a piece of yarn near the back of his tent: a porcelain-framed mirror. As far as Benny knew, he had the only one in the whole camp. Turns out people who wore gecko skins didn't care so much about aesthetics.
He reached into his duffle bag, pulling out a small sphere-shaped bottle with a snug lid. He twisted the lid off and dabbed his hand at the contents. His ran his fingers, now covered in a translucent goo, through his hair, slicking it back. His slicked back hair rested atop what some might call a baby face with small eyes and a rounded chin. The Boot Riders, not big on vanity, absolutely skewered him for the look. He didn't give a shit. He was going to be bigshot one day, so he might as well look the part now.
When Benny emerged from his tent, he was Swank on the fringes of the small crowd forming – the beginnings of a Boot Rider raiding party. Swank was staring off idly as Bingo was working the crowd into a frenzy. He turned, his eyes making contact with Benny's. He quickly turned away, looking back at Bingo, who was barking his nonsense about the glory of the hunt to the amped up Riders, most of which had some kind of hard liquor in hand.
Benny sauntered up to Swank. "Hey man," Benny began, while Swank still pretended to pay attention to Bingo's war speech, "I fucked up. I shouldn't have done you like that. We're partners." Swank just kept looking on, unphased. "You were right," Benny grumbled.
Swank, finally perking up, grinned, "Yeah, I was, wasn't I?"
"Oh shut up," Benny growled, punching him in the shoulder with a smile on his face.
Swank nodded toward Bingo, who was now practically frothing at the mouth, screaming that it was the time to embark on a hunt for glory. "Anything new?"
Benny frowned. "No, still thinks anything other than a full frontal assault is just being a punk ass. I just don't know how much more of this I can take, baby," Benny said, winding up for a rant Swank knew too well, "Some cats are cool with pissing their existence away pretending like they're a big fucking deal, taking potshots at caravans just to score a couple bags of potato chips. Some cats are cool with being second fiddle. I ain't either of those, you dig?"
Swank nodded. Benny had a short fuse, and he knew better than to push back when he was this worked up.
"NOW WE RIDE!" Bingo roared, downing the last of his whiskey. The Boot Riders went ballistic, screaming and throwing their fists in the air.
"Just promise me you won't do anything dumb," Swank cautioned, as Benny continued scowling.
"Let's get this over with," Benny said curtly.