AUTHOR'S NOTE: This takes place immediately following my other story, Camarada, but is not directly influenced by its events, so if you don't read it before delving into this one, you'll be fine... unless you want a detailed explanation as to how Max got his new dog :)
Pay attention to the names at the top of each chapter in brackets. It lets you know which perspective we're delving into.
Enjoy!
Recursus: Latin meaning "to run back", "to return"
CHAPTER ONE
[imperator furiosa]
"We thought there were two vehicles coming in, and I mean, there are two, but one's being towed." Capable wrenched a strand of scarlet hair behind her ear as the wind snatched it up. "Looks pretty thrashed. I'll bet it's a junker looking to trade."
"And that would be all fine and dandy, except he's coming in hot," added Toast as she cocked a hip. "I've never seen a junker drive that fast with a payload."
With the biting slap of leather smacking leather, I jerked the straps of my metal arm into place as my good hand grazed the butt of the pistol at my waist. I wasn't too eager to open fire on anybody – we were running dangerously on ammo – but the gunmetal offered cold reassurance, something I needed right now. "Then we might not be dealing with a junker."
Two sets of eyes narrowed.
"He could be a decoy," I explained with a jerk of my head to the side, "sent to distract from an attack in another direction."
Quickly processing the information, Capable gave a sharp nod, tugging a strip of cloth from her wrist and using it to bind her hair at the back of her skull. "What do we need to do?"
I nodded as orders rolled off my tongue. "Get half a dozen assault bikes, pursuit vehicles, and lancers ready to roll, and see if you can get enough snipers to cover every watchtower and lookout."
"It's just one guy," Toast muttered. "I hardly consider that a fair fight."
"What if it's not just one guy?" Capable turned on her heel and was striding quickly away, glancing over her shoulder as she went. "We can't take that chance. Let's go."
I gave the girls an approving dip of my head as I stalked off in the opposite direction. All of them had proven themselves to be not only valuable to the survival of the New Citadel, but absolutely vital. There was no way I could function without their input, their gentle demeanors and positive outlooks. It took a load off my shoulders to know I could walk away and trust them to hold down the fort. I fell into a smooth jog towards the south gates, the ones that faced Gastown. I hated the idea of standing back and letting others handle the dirty work in my name when I could be there fighting right alongside them. Besides, if something happened to me, the girls could easily take over, and to be quite honest they might run the New Citadel better than I would.
Capable was right – that junker must've really been hauling ass, because he beat me to the gates.
Anticipation sparked through the air as I heard the unmistakable screech of searing brakes and the low growl of an aging engine. From my angle, I couldn't see through the crowd of War Boys and citizens, so I began to push my way through them, not unkindly. Once they realized that I was trying to get through, they stepped aside as a path yawned before me. I raised a hand in thanks and trotted up to the gates, where I was finally able to get a good look at the truck in question.
It was an old flatbed, so diseased with rust that I half-expected it to collapse right before my eyes. The apparently bulletproof windshield was peppered with craters and a web of cracks blocked my view of the driver. The engine seethed under the hood, angry and hot. Its low thrum-thrum-thrum sound reminded me of a heartbeat as I easily scaled the fence, twisted over the top, and dropped nimbly on the other side. From here, I could see the piece of scrap that the junker was towing – some sort of low-slung, mangled thing whose body had been twisted so bad it barely resembled anything besides slag. Some part of me thought that I recognized the car, but a flash of metal caught my eye and stole my thoughts.
A motor (a real V8!) was suspended over the hood and swung on its chains as the flatbed ground to a sloppy halt.
My War Boys, the ones tasked with guarding the south gate, descended on the flatbed as soon as its wheels stopped turning. I stepped back to watch them do their thing as they leaped all over the truck and weaseled their way underneath, searching for anything resembling explosives before they would allow it within the New Citadel's boundaries. Fists with thumbs pointed at the sky shot out, and having cleared the truck and its cargo, the Boys stepped back. One, a stocky fellow wielding a twelve-gauge shotgun, stalked up to the driver's side door, rapped on the rotting metal with the muzzle of his weapon, and called, "Exit the vehicle, hands in the air!"
All around me, weapons bristled, and I resisted the urge to un-holster my pistol. I understood that while it may be effective, violence was not always the best approach. If the junker was skittish, he would subconsciously gravitate towards me – the only person not waving a loaded gun in his face.
The flatbed's engine died as its driver flicked off the ignition. Tension rippled through the gathering as something on the inside of the door scratched, then clicked as the occupant found the latch.
The door swung open, and I forgot how to breathe.
I knew this man.
Arms extended and palms displayed in a submissive gesture, he slowly stepped down from the rusted truck. He still had that patched leather jacket with the one sleeve torn off, and that brace was still lashed over his left leg to support his bum knee, and that same wary expression roughened his features. His dark hair had grown out some and spilled in in unruly locks over his forehead, bleeding into a thick beard lining his jaw. His figure appeared thinner than I recalled. Not unhealthy, just leaner, like he'd worked himself hard out there in the Wasteland. Eyes the color of storm clouds gazed out from a tanned face weathered from weeks at the mercy of sun and sand.
He caught me staring.
All sorts of emotions competed in my gut, each trying to overpower the others, but I couldn't settle on just one. I found myself pushing through the ring of suspicious War Boys so I could get closer.
Too shocked for eloquence as I neared him, I said simply, "Max."
The man's eyes flashed at the mention of his name. He dipped his head towards the ground in a gesture of acknowledgement, and lowering his outturned hands back to his side, he said, "Yeah." His tone was low and rough just like I remembered, scratchy from disuse but comforting all the same. A heartbeat of stillness passed but then I heard the rustling of dusty leather as he extended a hand towards me.
Feeling the eyes of all my War Boys, I reached out and grasped Max's hand, slowly as though any sudden movement would cause him to vanish like a mirage. His grip was calloused but warm, and I was finally able to let my guard drop, even if just a little bit. "Two hundred and nine days," I murmured.
The hard lines of his face softened with an almost apologetic expression. Of course he knew how long it'd been since he'd left. His thumb gently grazed the back of my knuckles, eyes flashing with a meaningful light as he gave my hand a final squeeze and released me. His jaws parted and I watched his shoulders rise as he drew in a breath.
Clearing his throat, he began, "I…" but then he trailed off and raked a hand through his mussed hair, sloughing it away from his forehead with nervous fingers. His brow furrowed and painted deep lines in his skin. Words had always seemed difficult for him, so I waited patiently, silently signaling for my War Boys to fall back. They did.
"Found my car," Max rasped. He thrust a finger towards the gunmetal machine tacked to the back of the flatbed. "It's in bad shape, and… mmf, needs parts." He tossed a glance to the side, where the gated entrance to the hallowed Junkyard loomed in the distance, nestled right up against one of the New Citadel's famed spires.
The pieces began to fall together in my mind. Max had spent some time here back when it was just the Citadel under Immortan Joe's rule, so he had a general lay of the land, and it was no secret that War Boys were the best mechanics in the Wasteland. Our Junkyard was known for its extensive selection of junked vehicles – and even if you pulled a part that was too busted up to be worth anything, the Boys could fix it right up, turn it into anything you needed.
Bottom line was this: you had a vehicle that needs something, the New Citadel was exactly where you needed to take it. And that's exactly why Max was standing before me.
"Lemme see this scrap-hauler," grated a gruff voice behind us. An older War Boy pushed his way through the crowd, and I recognized Rev, my lead mechanic and man in charge of our Junkyard. Slinging a grease-stained rag over his shoulder and swiping his blackened hands on his pants, he cocked his head at the flatbed and the smashed car before letting out a long, low whistle punctuated by a cluck of the tongue. "Ouch."
"It's not scrap," I said to him.
Brushing past us, Rev leaned in close to the machine, studying it from every angle, and said, "Eh, I've driven worse." He shrugged and spun to face Max. "Yours?"
Max nodded.
"It'll take some work," Rev said, folding his arms, "but anything's doable. Got no repair bays open right now. Might not for a few days, and I ain't letting you sniff around in the Junkyard 'til I get this thing on a lift."
Max showed his teeth.
"How long will it take to fix?" I asked tentatively, sensing the man's frustration.
"Well, I'll say even with a full crew on it, it'll be a good ten days," Rev responded, tapping his chin with one hand. "'Specially if you want us to bend some tin on it."
"Ten? Gah!" Max's breath rattled through his nose as he took a heavy step back towards the flatbed, violently shaking his head.
"Maybe more. Yeah. Prob'ly more."
Max grunted an intelligible curse and tugged at the short hair on his chin. "Too long." With that, he launched himself at the door, swung it open, and sat down heavily in the driver's seat as I started after him, calling out, "Wait!"
His attention snapped towards me, his hand hovering at the ignition switch, daring me to continue.
I did. "There's no reason for you to leave."
"Don't want to burden you." He flicked the switch and the truck coughed to life. The sound of the diesel engine reminded me of my old War Rig, a memory I pushed aside as I rushed in and caught the door he was trying to slam. Irritated, he glared at me, the line of his jaw sharpening under his beard as he ground his teeth.
"You are not a burden," I hissed, fueled by my inexplicable desire for him to stay. "We have more than enough supplies to support you. Food, water, clothing, you name it." I met his challenging glare with a hardened expression of my own. He only dropped eye contact when the flatbed's body vibrated, the motor wheezing before it suddenly coughed and collapsed into silence, which had Max spluttering curses and furiously slamming a palm on the dash before he tried to crank it again. The starter gave a few halfhearted chugs before it too went quiet, leaving Max to crank the key without as much as a click.
"We can fix that too," Rev offered, earning a glare that could have melted solid rock.
Smiling inwardly, I backed off and let the door click shut, fully aware that Max was staring at me through his truck's missing window. "There's always a place for you here," I said. "You know that, Max."
Letting my words hang in the air, I spun on my heel and pushed my way back into the throng of War Boys clustered around the flatbed. Behind me, the flatbed's door creaked, and I heard a male voice mumbling presumably to himself, then the scraping of fabric against floorboards followed by jogging footsteps. His eyes locked on mine when I tossed a glance over my shoulder. A battered bag swung from his arms, and I watched the cords in his neck tighten as he gave the tiniest indication of a nod.
When I passed through the entrance to the New Citadel, Max was close behind.