Scathing wind bit through John Artans scalp. He was sailing through the air, gliding almost, as an explosion smashed the area where he was just mere seconds ago. His motorbike roared in rage as he landed on the ground, sending massive exhaust fumes screaming outwards. He looked back frantically, cradling his side where blood was still leaking out of. Distant shouts, muffled only by the wind, were shouting after him. More rockets were fired. He focused on the road, and on the air around him, veering off to the left into the woods. His choice was a frantic but smart one, as plumes of fire chased him into the darkness. The motorbike noises died with it.
There was silence amongst the raiders who, despite their best efforts, missed out on the payday of the century. One of them, a small rat featured man, dropped his assault rifle and sighed deeply. Kicking his gun to the side of the road he sat with his face in his palms and thought about what he was going to do now. The others, who weren't as prone to taking a bitch fit, simply walked back to their bikes. Holstering their weapons they shambled back. The biggest put his .500 magnum into his holster. The small man gazed upwards towards the sky. He watched it thoughtfully.
"Fuck you, John."
And with that he collected himself and went with the others, who were now mounting their bikes and talking amongst themselves.
There would be others, they knew, but it's always nice to know that certain survival was always round the corner.
John Artan slowed down at last, taking a moment to collect himself. He removed his hand from the wound, gritting his teeth as pain resurfaced. A bullet had tore it's way through the side of is chest, possibly penetrating his lung. He would act quickly, and swiftly.
He felt the wound.
Good, no bullets.
Realizing it would be a patch up job, he wen to his bag and got his small bag of operating tools. He got the needle and the wire, and started stitching.
With no pain relief he felt sharp pains from where the needle penetrated, and resurfraced, over and over. It hurt. A bit. Certainly not the worst, and certainly not as bad as getting struck with bullets.
He finished stitching, and he took some anti biotics, an painkiller, and more importantly, a swig of his Captain Morgan 20 year old whiskey, which was a invisible, but noticeable, blue. The time and situation required it, and it wasn't a small loss for John Artan.
He had just escaped from The Underworld, a haven of technology filled with loony's that worshipped it. White monolithic walls, pillars of steel, cavernous corridors, bulbous lights, white lined borders, supermassive rooms, floating chairs, amazign floating bridges, enormous busts of old lords, strange inhabitants, which were also white, curious-gay (HAPPY!) pets which were cat like, weapons like gunz with scopes, like the javelin from an game called Modern Warfare 2, guard bots which had an array of both powerful weapons, which could at a moments glance tare a mans soul out, and, most importantly, good food.
Nothing that JOHN Artan couldn't handle.
He had stole a white, nucleus like object, which was held in a floating device. It had taken much work, and he was tasked to get it.
It was hard enough to get in to the place, let alone act like one of them.
And all for this.
He turned on the radio, and he started jiving to his favourite tune. "One track lover" by Sanchez.
His bike had suffered some damage, and he went down to fix it.
He grunted, as lyrics formed in front of his eyes.
"I'm a one track lover
Down a two way lane
Travelin' fast down the highway
Must have been insane…"
He had found the problem. And undetonated rocket had found its way into the pistons. He wrenched it free with a grunt.
"Because the temperatures too HIGH!
Travelin' way too fast!
And I knew our lovin'
Was too hot to last…"
It blew up in mid air, sending pieces of steel raining onto John Artan, who shrugged it off. There was worse things in life.
Like the radio exploding.
Startled, John Artan rolled to the side, came back up, ran up a tree and flipped out the way of a barrage of bullets, striking the area where he was. He landed, and thrusting his hand into his coat, pulled out his black steel pistol, which he fired 3 times into the darkness.
3 shouts came out.
"Ow!" "Dang!" "AHH!"
John smiled.
"Pff. Raiders…"
He slept peacefully that night.