Gas Town glows in the night, the Thunderdome looking innocent from this distance. If fireflies still lived they would hold a similar yellow hue. He kills the motor of the bike, adding a still silence to the glowing view.
Why is he back here? He had sworn to himself years ago he would never return. Memories flash through his mind causing him to shudder.
Why did you leave us, Max?
Max?
Where did you go, Max?
Why did you leave us to die?
You left us to die, Max!
MAX!
He gasps in the night air. The smell of exhaust and diesel fuel force him back to his senses.
My dreams have led me here. He thinks. More like his ghosts actually.
He's far enough away from the town that the sounds of the Thunderdome are inaudible, yet close enough to sit within the shanty huts and slums of its outskirts. A few of the vagrants have peaked out of their dwellings to watch him, but their fear returns them back into their huts as soon as they spot him.
He must look the fright. His jacket is torn from knife fights, his face smudged with engine grease and sweat, he's certain that there's blood splattered across the motorbike, perhaps even pieces of bone. The remnants of the chases and battles he's recently encountered after crossing the wasteland with a gang of weathered Citadel escapees.
It doesn't matter. He says to himself. Pushing the images of their faces from his mind. Trying to forget the eyes of the woman he left behind, still injured from the fight; with his blood amidst her veins.
He has to move on. Keep going. Keep surviving. Memories will only kill him.
So he must return to Gas Town to barter and thieve away anything for a few mouthfuls of water and a gallon or two of gasoline. He just hasn't put together yet on how he will do it. Will he have to return to the Thunderdome?
He shudders again to block the voices. His heart rate quickens and he tries to take deep breaths to stop the images from flooding back.
Thankfully, a loud popping sound of an engine interrupts his tormented mind.
Driving towards him is a remarkable sight.
A Cadillac? Four doors? No... a limousine? Not even.
It flashes right past, just swerving enough to miss him by a few feet.
A hearse? Impossible. But the details can't be denied. The black finish with the blocky hatchback and silver floral decals that shimmer in the yellow light.
It hurls another hundred yards before the driver switches gears too fast and the engine kills causing to vehicle to screech to a stop.
A hearse that drives stick with a driver who can't manage it? He rubs his jaw. Telling himself it's too risky to investigate.
The driver's door opens. A figure half crawls half runs out of the vehicle. He makes it a few strides before crashing to his knees and vomiting profusely into the sand. The night returns to silence as the driver sobs between spits and curses.
Well, this is just too curious to pass up. Max moves out the kickstand of the bike to steady it, pulls out a shotgun from his bag and trots over to the hearse.
He softens his steps so no sound escapes them. Not that it matters, the figure is making enough noise on his own to muffle out a Boeing757. Carefully he tiptoes to the passenger side of the vehicle so the hearse is between him and the driver. He eyes the inside of the hearse and he freezes, heart leaping into his throat.
The back of the hearse is empty, there is no casket or body. But there is a body in the passenger seat, it's head lolling into the side window, a large splat of blood across the glass.
They are no longer amidst the shanty town, only sand surrounds him, the hearse, and the driver. He takes a breath, with the shotgun still drawn, he takes a step forward to look through the windshield.
The dead man inside is young, too young. Perhaps in his early twenties. Max notes the revolver in the man's left hand lying relaxed on the leather seat. The barrel points directly at the man's skull.
Shot his own brains out. Max figures. What a waste.
He moves around the hood of the car, quickening his pace as he walks up behind the driver. He doesn't lower his weapon.
The sobbing has stopped and is replaced by gasping. Max takes a step closer.
Suddenly the figure turns 180 and is pointing a pistol at Max's face but doesn't fire.
"Get back!" The driver rasps. His eyes are swollen but sharply clear.
Max stays silent and stares at the kid, because he is just a kid; younger than the dead man but not a child, no older than sixteen at the most. Still, Max keeps his shotgun ready, finger on the trigger.
He sizes the kid up. Marking the untattered expensive clothing, the clean skin of his face and the immaculate Smith&Wesson chrome pistol. He's even wearing white cotton gloves.
Max hasn't seen anything so purely white since the drivers clothes on the FedEx commercial he recalls seeing the day the bombings had started.
The kid finally lowers his gun, obviously realizing that he is outmatched. He is still kneeling on the ground but stands as he holsters the pistol to his belt.
"What do you want?" He snaps. Max doesn't move or speak. He's been through enough gunfights to know he can't trust too soon
"There's water and gasoline it the car. Not much, but enough to get you to the nearest oasis, or at least until the next sunset."
The area has become brighter and Max realizes that the sun has begun to rise. He can see the boy clearer now. His outfit contains much more intricacy than it had at first glance. He wears a double breasted military jacket complete with a long line of medals and ribbons. A pair of bronze wings large enough for a humming bird are pinned below the flamboyant epaulettes.
Air Force Max recalls.
"You're a pilot?" He grunts. It's the first time he's spoken in days and his voice is dry and wispy.
The boy starts reaching for something and Max almost shoots him. The kid jumps. His hand was merely reaching for his left arm where he has quickly rolled up the jacket's sleeve.
There is no weapon in the sleeve. Max finally lowers his gun, the kid rolls up the right sleeve showing his small wiry arms. In the morning haze Max makes out the images tattooed onto the kid's forearms.
There are several gears and tires, a few propellers and airplanes, lots of airplanes. He finds himself stepping a tad closer to see. These are no brandings or jagged slave tattoos, but fine works of art done with care and skill.
The kid turns over his hands to show off his fists. A delicate bird's wing is inked on the back of each hand. Together they paint the wingspan of a swan or another large winged creature.
Max snorts. This kid is too young to have even seen a real bird. They all died before he was out of his mother's belly.
"I can fly any of these." The kid admits, eyeing out all the aircraft that are stained beneath his skin. It's not a boast, just a fact. The kid is valuable. An asset that should be kept not killed; and he knows it.
Max slowly realizes the treasure he has stumbled upon. This is one of the famed pilots of Gas Town, trained since childhood to fly the ancient machines of the past. Their knowledge is safely guarded and used only for moving heavy amounts of gasoline by plane.
But why is he out here? What's with the hearse?
"I need safe passage to the Citadel." He states, clearly reading the questions on Max's face.
Max watches him long and hard. He notes the matching pilot's hat on the ground that has been scrunched in the sand, the puddle of the boy's puke not far from it. He looks back to the hearse where the body sits before looking back at the kid.
"You teach me to fly." He states, his voice clearer now.
The kid doesn't even think it through, just nods in agreement.
"We'll need an aircraft. The hanger is just south of the city gates. You can pick whichever one you want and we'll be out of here by midday." The boy says, lowering his sleeves over his arms.
This kid has no knowledge of bartering. Max was expecting to argue a bit longer. He wonders why the kid is in such a hurry to leave.
"You mean steal a plane and fly out of Gas Town, just the two of us? Your friends will be following us with an entire fleet before we hit the air."
The kid's eyes change instantly. A sadness pools over them and he blinks slowly.
"No," He breaths. "they won't."
Max doesn't question him again. Instead he heads to the car and opens the passenger door, allowing the body to fall out to the ground. The dead man also wears a pilot's uniform and hat. Max doesn't linger to look at him, just pulls him away from the car and motions for the kid to follow.
"I'm guessing we don't have time for a burial?" He asks the boy. The kid nods as he walks toward the passenger door. He stalls for just a moment at the body, crouches beside it and puts his own hat over the dead man's face. He stands and salutes his fallen comrade before removing his jacket to cover the blood on the passenger seat.
Max takes the pistol out of the dead kid's hand, he won't be needing it, before entering the hearse.
The kid enters second, slamming the bloody passenger door behind him.
"Friend of yours?" Max dares to ask, shifting his head slightly toward the body. He hates sharing personal details with anyone, but in this case he owes the kid some sympathy.
"My brother." The kid responds. Max stares for a moment then nods. In a past life he would offer his condolences or even an embrace, but now he cannot. Instead he starts the engine and steers the hearse toward the city walls.