Silence.
An ocean of dirt and desolation.
Smoke rises over the horizon.
A big rig is flipped on its side. Its metal skin is ripped open and black blood seeps into the dirt. Smoke rises from the open wounds and fills the sky. Lodged in its side is a black arrow which has pierced its chrome heart – the Interceptor.
A trail of dead bodies follow behind the incapacitated truck. They're gaunt figures lodged in sand. What skin shows has been covered in white paint which flakes in the sun. What skin doesn't is covered in bone. Human bone. Bones wrapped around their lifeless appendages like armor. Hollow skulls worn atop their faces like masks. They have become the dead they worship.
Blood dots the sand. The dots begin to blur into a streak. The streak leads into the blood seeping out of the bottom of a green military duffel bag being dragged across the desert. The taut cord pulling it forward is wrapped around the shoulder of the sole survivor of the bloodbath being left behind
Max.
It is night. Max is alone at a campfire staring into the red liquid center of the flames. He sits atop the bloody duffel bag. He fans the flames at the slightest hint of flickering to keep it burning bright. The crackling of the burning wood is a brief reprieve from the voices in his head.
The bag begins to buck. Fresh blood begins to weep through its fibers.
Max stands up. He stomps down on the bag with the heel of his right boot. He sits back down on it.
Max grunts as the cord tightens around his shoulder. He drags the bag behind him as he pulls himself up the steep curve of a sand dune. Sweat trickles down his forehead. Blood trickles down the side of the bag. He lets out an almost feral shriek as he pulls the bag up with him over the lip of the dune. He falls to his knees panting and hunches over into the dirt. The sun-baked sand burns to the touch and clings to the sweat on his skin.
From this vantage point he can see into the horizon. Miles ahead of him below in the valley the dune overlooks he sees a settlement. Waster's Land.
Waster's Land is built around one of the last remaining oil derricks. Its rusted limbs stick pump slowly up and down as it drains the last drops of blood out of the earth. A makeshift village of shacks and shanties surround its base and the distant murmurings of humanity can be heard from the streets which cut between them.
The entire community is surrounding by a wall of of car shells. That wall is surrounded by an ocean of oil. A moat to protect the castle.
Max approaches the edge of the ocean. The smell of the oil burns his nostrils. The bag drags behind him limply.
The only point of entry is a ramshackle drawbridge crafted out of the halved tops of school buses and rotted wood. The bridge is drawn. A small alcove has been built into the wall near the chains which hold it up and a young man kneels down upon it looking down at Max. He wears a hard hat bleached white by the sun. Netting hangs down from the rim of the hat and covers his face.
The man balances a crossbow on his knee and points it down toward Max. His name is his duty. Kill.
"What is it you need in Waster's Land?"
"Transportation," Max growls back.
Kill eyes Max up and down. He gently rubs the back of his sunburnt hand on the quill of the arrow loaded into the crossbow. This figure he sees below him is broken. A brace on his leg. Bloody wounds decorating his face. Carrying nothing but the bloody sack which drags behind him.
"You got something to trade for this transportation?"
Max kicks the bag.
Bone bangs against bone. The sound echoes through the dead plains. A hand covered in the severed skeletal fingers of fallen prey reaches forward and lightly graces the cold steel of the Interceptor. Its back end floats impossibly in the air; its front end still lodged in the side of a demolished big rig.
The hand pulls back in anger.
"Where is my son!?" Kallous screams.
Kallous. The leader of The Dead. His body encased in the bones of those he has killed. Ribs lining his chest like armor. Femurs wrapped around his legs. His arms encased in humeri. His proud father's skull halved and its front worn atop his face like a mask. His fierce, piercing eyes peer through the hollowed sockets.
A dozen of his men scramble before him. They loot the bodies of their fallen brothers who have been almost entirely consumed by the rising sand. They search for the location of Splat, Kallous' son who led the war party that now lay in ruins before them.
He is not there.
No trace of him remains except for dried streaks of blood unearthed from the sand which dusted them.
They are aimed in the direction of Waster's Land.
Stray drops of oil rain down upon the streets of Waster's Land. As long as the derrick pumps, they fall. Max and Kill each carry one end of the duffel bag as they push their way through a crowded marketplace in which fried geckos and guns are paraded in front of their faces by desperate sellers. Max stares in bemusement at the women who walk with buckets atop their head to catch the oil which rains down.
At the edge of the marketplace begins a long wooden path made up of round barrel tops stomped into the dirt. Armed guards stand alongside it staring suspiciously as Max but refrain from saying a word with Kill in stride beside him. Max can see that the path leads to the base of the derrick and a dilapidated hut which leans uneasily against it. Their heavy boots clomp loudly against the wood beneath their feet.
As they approach the hut, Kill glances over to Max.
"You get any thoughts 'side from bartering…I bury an arrow in your head."
Max says nothing.
Waster brings a bowl of oil to his lips. He keeps his eyes locked on Max as it dribbles down his chin. The narrow trapezoid shape of the derrick is tattooed onto his forehead. His hands are scarred with burns and loosely wrapped in blackened bandages.
He wipes the oil from his lips. "Do you know why I drink it?"
Max glares back.
Waster dips the bowl into the pool of oil formed into the floor in front of him. The black liquid slowly drips down through a perfectly round hole carved into the ceiling of the hut. He holds the bowl out to Max.
"Have a sip. Find out."
Max slowly reaches out to the bowl. He takes it in both hands. He pours it out onto the floor. He hands it back to Waster.
Waster smiles. "I admit, it is an acquired taste."
Waster glances down at the bag that Max and Kill dragged into the hut. It is twitching.
"Kill tells me you're in need of transportation. I do hope that's something of value squirming in there."
Max kneels down. He reaches behind his left leg and pulls out a long corrugated blade concealed in the straps of his brace. He stabs it into the dense fabric of the satchel and begins to rip it open.
Within the bag appears bone. And then bloodied flesh. And finally the bruised beaten face of a member of the Dead who seems to drift in and out of consciousness.
Waster's head cocks in confusion. "This is what you bring me? I have no use for the Dead. The only value in a prisoner of war is with a pike through its head."
Max reaches into the bag. He grabs onto one of the dusty aged bones the Dead wears around its arm and yanks it free from the rope tying it down.
Max holds the bone out to Waster. "This bone he wears. This is your wife."
Waster's eyes glaze over. His shoulders hunch over. He snarls at Max.
Max rotates the bone in his fingers. A name is carved into its bottom. He holds it out into the light streaming down through the hole in the ceiling.
Waster snatches it out of his hand. His fingers tighten around it as his eyes scan the figures carved into it.
Waster looks back up at Max. "A car for this monster. Deal."
"You're not getting him," Max replies.
Waster is no longer amused. "You come bearing my wife's killer but he's not for sale?"
"This man's father is Kallous." Max points back to the direction from which he approached the settlement. "Kallous will be following behind me. He will reach Waster's Land by dusk. His desperation will make him weak. It is him I bring you."
Waster's eyes still flare. "Why would I want him?"
"He wears the bones of your son."