Chapter 1

I drive steadily along what was once a highway toward my destination, the Skids. A flannel-clad man is strapped to the hood of my car - a thief who stole five barrels of guzzoline from a Skids local. I was hired to bring him in. The culprit, Billy Bogun, stopped screaming about an hour ago, leading me to believe he exsanguinated from the wounds I gave him. Either that or heat exhaustion. But it doesn't matter; Pash Rash has no concern for this man's well-being. He only needs the body and the stolen goods, so I'll still get paid.

I tap a finger on the cracked fuel gauge of my vehicle. I'm not sure if I'm actually that low on fuel or if my car is lying to me. It does that. Either way, I look forward to taking one of the stolen barrels in the back of my car as payment.

The sun is getting low when I see the Skids on the horizon. It's just as shitty and jury-rigged as everything else in the Wastes. This particular place is composed partly of a half dozen "buildings" constructed out of school buses with stripped interiors. The rest is tents made out of tarps and patched with old t-shirts. The whole town is snuggled up to the side of a small mesa.

As I approach, I see three men just outside the main building of the Skids, which is made out of two buses welded together and surrounded by a small wall of tires. The men are working on a modified ambulance, one of the community's two cars.

I brake to a halt and kill the engine before stepping out of my car. The tallest man crawls out from underneath his and vehicle approaches.

"Eh, now!" Pash Rash shouts, his unfamiliar accent as thick as his red beard and his foul stench. "I tol' you we could count on this lone Road Warrior, din't I, lads?"

His assistants don't respond.

"I see ye weren't gentle on the Bogan bastard!" Rash exclaims in a singsong voice as he rolls the thief's limp head around on the hood of my car.

Pash Rash meets my gaze. Well, one of his eyes does; the other appears to not take any orders from the man. His beard is littered with blood, oil, and dirt. His grime-encrusted coveralls are several sizes too big for him, held up with belts and garnished with a tool pouch.

"Now, I'll have me boys unpack all but one of them barrels, jus' like we's agreed. In addition to the wateh," the man says, handing me a sizeable canteen that he had tucked away in his tool pouch. "I'll even give ye a little bonus, for bein' so quick about the job!" He lets out a hearty laugh. "That, an' I like you, ye daft bastard!"

The two other men limp toward the back of my car to gather the guzzoline. One look at their crippled bodies, with frames smaller than even Pash Rash, and it's easy to see why the relatively fit, full-life mechanic is the leader of this settlement.

"Wait," I call to Rash's cronies before they reach my ride.

I start towards the vehicle, passing the skeletal men in a few strides. My legs work just fine, unlike theirs. I've managed to keep most of my body intact thus far - save for my right ear, which got shot off a thousand or so days ago in a little skirmish over my car. But that was a small price to pay for this machine, which has gotten me through many a scrape. It isn't much of a fighter, but it's fast and sturdy. I can do the fighting when the time comes; the car just gets me there.

I see my reflection in the window as I approach the car: tall; thin; facial hair cut close to the skin whenever I get the chance; shoulder-length, blonde hair bleached almost white from the sunlight; eyes a contrasting dark brown; right ear missing. As for clothes, I wear a dark blue sweater underneath a grey leather jacket that conceals a sheathed knife; dark brown leather pants; belt with a holstered pistol; and black boots. Missing my scarf.

I reach for the door handle. The exposed metal is hot under the sun, but my calloused hands hardly feel the burn as I open the passenger side.

"Sorry," I call back to Rash. "Don't like other people touching my car."

I've been through a lot out here - more than enough to know that there's no such thing as too careful when it comes to letting someone near my vehicle, even if they're crippled men like these. I lift the lever and fold the passenger seat down to reveal the barrels sitting cozily where the back seats used to be.

I do a quick visual scan of the interior, making sure nothing of value is exposed. I don't own much that I don't keep on me at all times - a few extra tools, a couple hidden weapons, some ammunition, medical supplies - but I don't want to risk anything being stolen. The back area is clear except for the barrels, so I move to the front. My eyes flit over the worn out metal and the scratched up leather. Everything is hidden as it should be - everything except my scarf, which is curled up on the driver seat. I take a couple quick gulps from the canteen, tuck it under the driver seat, and drape the scarf over my shoulders. Then I step away from the car and motion for the men to carry on. As they shuffle towards the open door, I can't help but wonder if they'll even be able to lift the barrels. But that's their problem, not mine. My work here is nearly done.

I take a few steps back towards Rash, positioning myself at an angle so I can talk to him and keep an eye on his men at the same time. I fight the urge to cross my arms. It's an old habit of mine that just won't seem to die, even after all this time. If I need to bring out my pistol or knife in a hurry, the last thing I need is tangled arms. I stick my thumbs in my pants pockets instead - still not ideal, but it's a compromise.

"You're welcome to take the body, too," I say to Rash, tilting my chin towards the hood of my car. "Said something about a bonus, yeah?"

"O' course!" The mechanic grins widely. "Honest work is as rare as good women nowadays! Behavior such a' that should be rewarded!"

All the commotion draws another figure out from the confines of the Skids. He appears to be the most deformed of the three half-lives. Red patches of scab or rash run from his balding head to his torso, which partly covered by a wife-beater. His left arm is significantly shorter and more sickly than his right. The cretin is shorter than his companions, too, mostly due to a hunched back. He also has somewhat of a gut, which only looks more exaggerated on his skinny and frail frame. The newcomer walks past Pash Rash and heads towards my car. I watch him with narrowed eyes.

"And as fer the body," Rash says with significantly less enthusiasm, pulling a jack knife from one of his many belts. "I'll have Chockers take care of 'im for ye."

The hairy man tosses the knife to the small man, Chockers, who displays surprising dexterity as he catches it. He flicks the blade open and cuts the rope in one fluid motion.

"You can jus' wait right there. I'll run in and grab yer shit, so you can keep an eye on the lads," Pash says as he spins around and walks toward the double-bus building.

For a while, I get to see the men work. The two collecting the guzzoline work together to carefully move one barrel at a time, setting them inside the ambulance. They're stronger than they look, but that's not saying much.

As for Chockers, he has little trouble prying the dead man from the hood of my car. As the corpse flops to the ground, the man looks intrigued. Curiously, he unbuttons the bloodstained flannel and removes it from the dead thief before putting it on over his ragged wife-beater. He looks pleased. The half-life, who is practically a corpse himself, then drags the body of Billy Bogan not-so-elegantly towards the compound. When he nears me, he stops, as if he forgot what he was doing. The hunchback lets go of the corpse, which lands with a soft thud in the sand. Then he looks up me inquisitively.

"So…" he rasps. "How did you kill this man? Did he put up much of a fight?"

"You got a morbid curiosity, yeah?" I say, surprised that the man spoke to me at all. "Well…"

I hesitate, weighing whether or not I want to share the story. The more people know about the way I operate, the more threatening they are to me. But this particular tale is pretty short and sweet, so I don't see much harm in telling it.

"I waited till he got stupid and let his guard down," I say after a moment. "Didn't take long. He was so eager to get some fuel in his car that he almost didn't notice me sneaking up on him. When he did, he was too slow on the draw."

I smirk a little, remembering the look on Bogun's face when he turned and saw me.

"Knifed him a couple times," I continue. "Then strapped him to my car and let time do the rest. I'm surprised you couldn't hear his screams from here."

Chockers stares at me with a childlike wonder in his eye. I blink down at him and his new flannel.

"Uh… Sorry about all the blood on that shirt," I add.

The hunchback seems to snap out of his trance. He adopts a more solemn look.

"It's okay…" He coughs as he picks up the body. "Blood doesn't really bother me."

With a sigh, the cripple begins dragging Bogan into the Skids. At the same time, the other two men finish packing the last of the barrels into the ambulance. They disappear underneath the bowels of the vehicle's machinery to continue their work. I notice they didn't shut my door, either because they respect that I don't want my car touched or because they simply forgot. I can't really gauge the intelligence of these men.

The sun is setting. It will be night soon, shifting the world from a scorching heat to a crippling chill.

Pash Rash finally steps out of the main building. The cross-eyed main is carrying what appears to be a large, rusted pot with a latched lid. He grunts as he carries the thing towards my car. He moves to set it on the hood before quickly deciding against it and putting the pot on the ground. Smart man.

"It may not look like much, since ye ain't from around here," Rash gasps as he unhooks the lid. "But where I come from, shit's nearly as valuable as oil or ammo."

The top comes off, and I peer inside. The contents of the container appear to be mostly a sand-colored salt and some kind of black pebbles. The mechanic stands up and places his hands on his hips, seemingly proud of himself.

"Spices. Straight from the ki… the kay… the kiez…" He struggles to pronounce a word before promptly giving up. "The Emperor himself. It makes e'rything taste better. Rotten carcasses, cat food, maggots - hell, you could even put it on shit!"

"Uh, thanks," I reply, equally amused and disgusted at the thought of Rash eating shit with spices on it. "I'll be sure to put it to good use."

I gaze down at the open pot and its contents, wondering what I could trade it for. And where. I haven't met many people around here lately who're interested in more than water, fuel, and bullets.

"This Emperor you mentioned," I begin, looking up from the pot to meet Rash's good eye. "Who is he?"

"The…" He pauses and starts to silently form a word but then abandons it. "Emperor is the self-appointed ruler out here in this neck of the Wastes." Pash stops to lick his lips. "Well, not here here. We are about two days south of where his territory begins. Sorry, I can't fer the life o' me pronounce what he calls himself. Hey, boys!" he calls to the two handicapped mechanics working on the pursuit vehicle. "What the hell does the leader of the Empire call himself?"

The two men don't come out from under the car or in the engine where they are working. After a few moments, one speaks up without moving.

"Caesar!" His voice sounds strained.

"Uh. Yeah, that." Pash looks at the ground sheepishly. "Anyway, he rules his territory with an iron fist. Likes to trade spices, oil, bullets, water, and slaves between his cities - independant city-states he might as well control - and 'barbarians.'" On 'barbarian' he puts up two fingers on each hand and wiggles them up and down. Then he begins pacing back and forth as he continues speaking. "If yer lookin' fer work, you could go to him or one of his cities. They are always looking to hire barbarians to guard trading caravans or clean up the rabble. Jus' be careful, his whims change dramatically. Ye could be getting paid one day and the next have a blade slipped in your ribs in the arena."

"Nice to know you're so concerned about my well-being," I say, raising an eyebrow at Pash with a bit of a grin. I trust the man about as much as I trust a snake curled up in my driver seat, but I've worked with far worse people.

I squat down next to the pot of spices. I replace the lid and latch it in place before lifting the pot and carrying it to the open passenger door of my car. Keeping tabs on Pash out of the corner of my eye, I set the pot next to the remaining barrel of guzzoline. Then I quickly check to make sure the half-lives didn't put anything unsavory in the back of my car. No way I'm about to have another close call with a knockout gas grenade. Satisfied that everything is as it should be, I unfold the passenger seat and shut the door.

"Pleasure doing business, Pash," I say, turning back the man and giving him a nod. "But I think it's time for this barbarian to pay Caesar a visit."

"Good luck," he says with a toothy grin. "Jus' be sure you watch out for the Mozzies. Dey like to hunt at night."

With that, Pash Rash turns towards the ambulance and starts shouting commands to the two half-lives as he pulls tools out to begin work on the vehicle. Despite Pash and his men's rough appearance, they seem to be confident mechanics. Their ambulance has been turned into a halftrack, with normal wheels in the front and treads in the back. The rear compartment has had the top removed, making it an oversized truck bed. Within are the four barrels of guzzoline, various tools, a few nitrous containers that don't appear to be connected to anything, and two spear guns with arcs reaching either side. When taking into account the armor plating made out of scrap metal - mostly the school buses' stop signs - I can tell this vehicle isn't fast, but it's very tough.

I look to the north, the direction Pash told me Caesar's land lies in. It's mostly empty desert, speckled with small mesas like the one here at the Skids. But far off in the distance, I can see what appears to be a small mountain range.

If I'm going to leave, I'd better do it now. The sun is setting, and it will be night soon.

I walk around the back of my car and get into the driver seat. I know I need to put some fuel in the tank, but I figure I can at least make it to one of the nearest mesas. I don't want to stick around the Skids any longer than absolutely necessary. With any amount of luck, nothing too dangerous awaits me at the mesa, and I'll be able to use it as cover while I fill up the tank. Then again, luck is about as scarce as trees out here.

I readjust my scarf so it wraps around my neck instead of just hanging off my shoulders. It's a miracle the thing isn't in tatters after all it's been through. There's little doubt in my mind that it'll outlast me, just like it outlasted its previous owner. Shoot me through the neck and I'm dead, but the scarf remains - albeit with a bullet hole and a good amount of blood on it.

I start the car and take one last look at Pash and his boys before turning my eyes and my tires North.

Time to go.

Author's Note: This story is taken from an email-based Mad Max RPG that a good friend and I have been playing together for the past two and a half years (and still going strong!). I have taken the emails and edited them into a more cohesive narrative with chapters for ease of reading. Chapter 1 is a little slow to set things up, but Chapter 2 picks up with some good ol' Wasteland action. Stay tuned.