Chapter 2

I drive away from the Skids, and it slowly fades into a speck on the side of a desert mesa. It disappears entirely as night falls. I feel the temperature drastically drop to near freezing over the span of a few minutes. It's a good thing I have the warmth of my car and my scarf to heat me up, otherwise I would've died from the cold long ago.

After about twenty minutes of driving, I finally approach the nearest lone mesa. It's nothing special - just sand and rocks, completely identical to everything else in the Wastes. This particular mesa is about thirty feet tall and completely devoid of any plant or animal life. However, I do notice one oddity: a lone tire leaning against a rock.

"Looks like a trap," I mutter to myself and my car as I cast a suspicious gaze on the tire. "Nothing's ever easy, yeah?"

I circle the mesa, looking for any places a person could hide. Someone could be camped out on top of the thing, but they'd be in severe danger of freezing up there at this hour. I don't think I'll be able to make it much farther without stopping to fuel up. If there is someone here, I'll just have to take my chances.

I really hate just taking my chances.

I pull up close to the mesa, far enough away from the tire to hopefully avoid trouble but close enough to keep an eye on it. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's just an old tire. But 'maybe' isn't good enough.

I kill the engine. The quicker I can do this, the better - and not just because of the cold. I open the glove box and take out a metal funnel with a long, angled pipe at the bottom. Out of all the things I've ever managed to get my hands on out here, this one is probably the best. Besides my scarf, of course. I adjust the fabric so it covers my lower face against the frigid cold.

I exit the car, fold the seat down, and reach into the back for the barrel of guzzoline. I haul the thing out of the car and shut the door before lugging the barrel around to the back of the vehicle. I lift the license plate to reveal the gas cap. I unscrew it and insert the pipe so the funnel opens towards the sky. Then I remove the cap from the barrel and tip the heavy container up to begin pouring fuel into the funnel. It seems a painfully slow process, especially when I'm having to be constantly on the lookout for danger. My eyes keep flitting to the tire and then to the top of the mesa. I can't shake my paranoia. Sometimes I wonder if it'll save my life or get me killed.

My hands are stinging from the cold. I would kill for a pair of gloves.

Just as I finish filling my car and set down the large barrel of guzzoline, the sky above me illuminates a fluorescent red. I look up to see a large streak of red light dancing its way across the night sky from the top of the mesa. On a dark night, from such a high point, that flare can be seen for miles. It's a signal, but who's it calling?

My question is quickly answered when, far to the west, I see an orange flare go up like a firework. Several headlights appear and begin to move. To make matters worse, I look back to the mesa to see three darkly dressed figures rappelling down from the top.

"Typical," I mutter as I draw my pistol from its holster.

I don't want to risk trying to drive away just yet; they could climb onto my car as I start speeding away. No one touches my car. And as much as I hate using bullets… No one touches my car.

My fingers are almost numb. I aim my pistol as best I can at the figure on the right and fire. I hear a cry of pain, but the figure doesn't fall. Still alive, but hurt. Good enough for now.

I shoot at the center figure next. Nothing. I hear the bullet hit the rock.

"Damn it," I snarl behind my scarf.

The adrenaline is increasing my body heat, and a stinging burn now creeps into my fingers. I grit my teeth and fire again, determined to take at least one of them down before they reach the ground. I don't think I can take on three at once, and I don't want to try. It takes two precious shots, but at last the figure on the left falls and hits the ground. The thud echoes against the mesa.

I holster the pistol and take out my knife. No more bullets if I can avoid it.

The injured figure is moving a little slower, but the other one is nearly at the bottom. I rush forward, hoping to catch him before he can stabilize himself on solid ground. Just as both of his feet hit the dirt, I grab him from behind and slide my knife across his throat. He goes down without a sound.

I turn to the remaining figure, whose feet are now very close to the ground. He's struggling to pull a gun from its holster, and there's blood dripping down his arm. I lunge, pulling him from the rope and tackling him to the ground. Before he can react, I jab my knife into the side of his neck. Hot blood spills over my frozen fingers.

The headlights are much closer now. No time to search the bodies, but I grab the weapon from the final man's holster as I get to my feet. I sheathe my knife, promising myself to clean the blood off of it as soon as I get the chance. I run to the rear of my car, remove the funnel, and replace the gas cap and license plate. Then I load the now much lighter barrel into the back, unfold the seat, and get into the car.

"Trap, see? What did I tell you?" I mutter to my car before the roar of the engine drowns me out.

I speed away from the mesa as quickly as my vehicle can go. Continuing north, I see the headlights turn to follow me. I'll try to outrun them and avoid wasting precious resources if I can.

I glance over the bandit's weapon as I speed across the Wastes. Now that I get a good look, I see it's not a gun, but small, collapsible crossbow. The thing is covered with crude carvings of what appear to be insects. Strangely, it's not loaded with a typical bolt, but some kind of modified syringe filled with a small amount of thick, dark liquid.

The vehicles behind me are slowing down, realizing they can't keep up. Just when I think I'm in the clear, I see a streak of green light in the rearview mirror. I expect a return flare from a nearby mesa at any moment, but nothing appears.

I'm closing in on a mesa to my right, and there's another one farther ahead on the left. The desolate rock forms suddenly come to life as three lights take off from each, heading in my direction. I'm almost immediately able to identify them as motorcycles, each carrying two people. They are most likely using crossbows loaded with the mysterious liquid. They are most likely using weapons loaded with the strange liquid. I eye the crossbow again. I've never been afraid of needles, but I can't say I'm fond of being injected with mystery drugs.

I keep one hand on the wheel and reach between the driver seat and the center console. My rifle is stashed there, down in a slot that stretches into the back and is covered by a floor mat. I pull it out and set it on my lap. Then I reach under the steering wheel and pull out another handgun - a revolver. Looks like I'm going to be using a lot of bullets today. Maybe Caesar will give me a good trade for the spices, but I'm not counting on it.

I check the guns to make sure they are loaded and ready for action. Still got a handful of shots left in my pistol, but I'll try to avoid using those all up in one night if I can. Once I'm sure everything is in working order, I bring the canteen up from under my seat and take a couple gulps of water before returning it. If I survive this, the first thing I'm going to do is clean my knife.

The group of motorcyclists on my right approach first. The riders are men wearing heavy, dark clothing that conceals their builds and faces. The men perched on the back are wielding long lances. As they approach, one of the lancers hurls his weapon at my front right tire with such force he loses his balance and falls off, causing the entire bike to tumble through the dark desert. I manage to turn sharply to avoid the incoming projectile.

The other two bikers easily swerve to miss their fallen comrade. They drive past me on either side. I glance in the mirror to see them cross behind my car and speed up to match my pace, driving alongside me on either side. Before I can swerve into them and take them out, the lancer on my left thrusts his weapon through the window, breaking the glass. The blade misses me, piercing into the passenger seat. The lancer struggles to keep his balance as he tries to pull his weapon free. I glance to the right; the other motorcycle's driver is aiming his crossbow at me through the space where another window used to be.

Fragments of glass lay scattered on my lap and around my feet. Pieces of my car. No one touches my car.

Focus. On the right. The lancer can wait.

I raise the revolver, but the man with the crossbow is already pulling his trigger. A syringe-bolt lodges itself in the side of the driver seat. I aim my gun at him as he starts to reload. I fire, and my shot doesn't miss its mark. The driver goes down, taking the bike and the lancer with him.

The lance that broke my window starts to move as the lancer finally yanks it free. Before he can pull it out of the car, I toss the revolver into the seat and grip the lance with both hands, using my knees to keep the wheel steady. I push the lance back out the window as hard as I can. The lancer doesn't let go in time. The force of my push sends the lance, the man, and the bike toppling over and rolling through the sand. I doubt the fall killed him, but telling myself it did makes me feel a little better. He touched my car.

The remaining bikers don't seem deterred by the failures of their comrades. They're speeding in from the left - three drivers and three lancers. Keeping my knees pressed against the bottom of the wheel, I raise the rifle and aim it out the driver side window at the closest bike. My shot misses the driver, hitting the lancer perched behind him instead. He drops off the back, but the bike and the driver continue towards me.

The lancer from the second bike prepares to throw his lance at my front tire, just like before. I fire at him, but I miss completely. The lance leaves his hand and collides with my tire. My knees can't keep the wheel steady as my car jerks sharply to the side. My head is knocked against the driver side door. The glass shards sticking up from the base of the broken window stab my arms, but they don't pierce the leather sleeves of my jacket. I manage to keep my grip on the rifle. I pull myself back inside the car, drop the rifle in my lap, and grab the wheel in both hands. I straighten out the car, but the jostling from the front left side tells me that the tire has been pierced. My head is pounding from slamming into the door.

Suddenly, a spear enters through the open window, piercing my right leg. A yell of agony rips from my throat, and I struggle to keep my foot on the gas pedal. I twist the wheel to the right, slamming my car into the bike and sending it tumbling sideways. The lancer lets go of the spear as he is thrown from his perch. He flies into the other bike, knocking it over as well.

The pain in my leg makes it hard to breathe, but I force myself to take deep breaths. The bikers must have moved to the right while I was getting control of the car. This is what I get for not paying attention. I shove my scarf into my mouth and then grab the lance with both hands. In one fluid motion, I pull it out of my leg and throw it out the window, biting down hard on the scarf to stifle another cry. I feel my right foot letting up off the gas pedal, so I quickly replace it with my left. It feels awkward, but I can't afford to slow down now.

The driver of the only remaining bike has positioned himself in line with the broken window and is reaching for his crossbow. I grab the revolver from the passenger seat and aim it at him. Before the man can shoot, I fire a shot into his arm, then another into his head. He and the bike go down. I try to ignore the pounding in my head as I drop the revolver into my lap and press a hand against the hole in my leg. Blood oozes between my fingers. I spit out the scarf, grit my teeth, and keep driving.

With my front tire gone, my top speed is significantly reduced if I want to keep from wiping out. The area has grown quiet; no engines roaring, no gunshots, no shattering glass. Just the pounding of my head from a possible concussion. What's worse is the gash in my leg. I spread my fingers for a second to take a look. It's a lot smaller than it feels; the lancer couldn't push the weapon in farther without losing his balance. But it will still get infected if I don't take care of it immediately.

I look in the rearview mirror. The headlights behind me are slowly getting closer. Four lights, but three shapes. There is another fight coming up since my car can't outrun them anymore, but thankfully I see no more flares. These bandits must just be a small band, made even smaller after my massacre of fifteen of their men.

Ahead of me, the mesas are getting more numerous and closer together. The terrain is also significantly rougher, making a transition from soft earth to rough rocks. It will be difficult to drive through boulders and uneven earth while fighting, let alone with an injured leg and head.

The sound of engines finally starts to form behind me, shortly followed by the hollering of an angry War Party. I look again, now able to make out the three shapes as two motorcycles - same as before save the lancers - and a large modified tow truck with four men hanging off the sides. Mounted on the front of the truck are three human-shaped sacks. They are going to catch up soon, but not before I hit the gravel.

I lean over and reach under the passenger seat. My hand is covered in blood from my leg wound, but I manage to grab hold of the small, metal box underneath the seat. I set in on my lap and open it up. Inside are some medical supplies - things I've scavenged or picked up from jobs. I don't have much time before I hit the gravel, and then I'll have to be on the lookout for rocks while I drive. The best I can do now is wash out the wound and wrap it up to stem the bleeding a little. It needs stitches, but that will have to wait until after this fight. If I even make it that far, anyway.

I tear the hole in my pant leg so I can access the wound easier. Then I grab the canteen from under the driver seat and take a roll of bandages from the box. I wash the wound with water as best I can, trying to use as little as possible. I hiss through my teeth as the water hits. I rip a section of bandage from the roll and stick it underneath the fabric of my pants to cover the wound. Then I wrap that section of my leg with more bandages to hold the smaller one in place. It really should go under the pants, but I have neither time nor coordination to do that right now. Once the wound is wrapped up, I put the medical supplies and the water away and focus on what's in front of me.

My car hits the gravel moments later. The rocks and boulders seem to grow bigger and more numerous as I go, and dodging them is even harder with a missing front tire. The War Party is close now, almost close enough to use the harpoons. My head feels like it's about to explode.

There's a cluster of closely grouped mesas ahead to the right, and I turn my tires that way. I might be able to get some cover. I'm nearly there when the motorcycles pull ahead of the truck and speed up to match my car on either side. They have the same crossbows as the others.

I drive between two of the mesas. There's little room for maneuvering, especially with the bikers on either side of me. The one on the right fires his crossbow, but the syringe-bolt sails through both windows and strikes the biker on the left right. He swerves into the rock wall and goes down. Before the biker on the right can reload, I veer to the side and slam him against the mesa.

Two down, one to go. But it's a big one, and it's about to fire harpoons at my car. I see an opening in the rock wall just up ahead - an alleyway in the space between the end of one mesa and the beginning of another. If I can just make it there…

One of the harpoons comes flying at my car from the truck, but it's just a hair too high. I hear it land on the top of my car and slide off with a terrible metallic screech that sends a shiver down my spine. The second harpoon gun fires, and this time the projectile slams into my rear windshield, shattering it, but the hooks don't catch anywhere. More damage. I grimace, forcing myself to focus through the anger. My vehicle is battered but still alive, just like I am. For now, anyway.

I swerve into the side alley, almost losing control of the car. This passage is even narrower than the other one, and it's also much shorter. In seconds, I find myself back outside the group of mesas. I veer to the right a little and ready my revolver. Moments later, the truck emerges, going full speed and pulling up alongside my car. I aim my revolver at the driver as our broken windows line up. I shoot and miss. The truck is starting to pull ahead, and my opportunity is going with it. I fire at the driver again. Another miss. I only have one shot left in the revolver, and the driver will be too far ahead by the time I take out my pistol. I fire one last time, and the driver slumps over. The truck careens to the side, colliding with the front of my car. Both vehicles spin out in the gravel.

My car finally comes to a halt in the rocks. Two men suddenly appear from the settling cloud of dust. As I reach for my pistol, a syringe-bolt embeds itself in my neck. Before I'm able to respond, I get dizzy, and my vision fades. I drop the revolver, which suddenly seems to weigh a thousand pounds, and collapse onto my steering wheel.