Compression
The ride was short and downhill, so neither Tip-Toe nor me bothered to start the engines. We just mounted and steered our bikes along the ridge, as they started to roll. We were maddeningly low on fuel and used every opportunity to save a thimble or two. Quite a lot of the Rock Riders had (reluctantly) been made into Rock Walkers, as the number of bikes we could keep operational dwindled. It was depressing to watch our mobility and reign over the highlands decrease by the day, the very thing that had earned us Father Mountain's protection. Where the flatlanders saw ravines of impossible steepness, ridges too narrow to navigate and rockslides too unstable to cross, we saw passageways, shortcuts and paths. The smooth ride through the canyon was for the unskilled.
In fact, that was all Father Mountain was about: deeming yourself worthy through strength and skill. He offered protection in his caves, if you dared enter them and used the planking wisely. He offered food, if you managed to climb after and hunt down a mountain goat. He even offered water, if you weathered the imperative desire to void long enough to become accustomed to the side effects of the salty liquid. He didn't give anything freely, but he put everything in sight and left it to the tiny people crawling along his massive flanks to figure a way to get it.
Even before I reached the guard-post, there was no way in hell I could have missed the road war raging in the foothills. The vibrant roar of engines was like a punch in the stomach for me who was sitting on a lifeless motorcycle. A thick dust cloud marked the way of the chase, still too far away to see details. Oily black smoke was drifting in from the desert, where something huge had been set ablaze. And the mad shredding of the Doof Warrior, amplified by a wall of speakers, was already loud enough to give me a headache.
Four Riders were waiting at the post, all up and alert. Crick and Big Sam took turns at using the rusty, dust coated pair of binoculars, while Dustfinger was looking through the scope of his treasured long range crossbow. Netta stood a bit back and had a small pot of goat broth tucked under her arm, hastily eating up, as if we were about to launch any second. But I wouldn't risk that: The combined forces of Gas Town, the Bullet Farm and the Citadel were way too much for us to take on and even a small scale assault on a straggler could be enough for a certain someone to retaliate. I didn't want to go down in history as the Chief who ignited the wrath of Immortan Joe.
"What's going on?", I demanded and was pleasantly surprised when Big Sam handed the binoculars over immediately. Being Chief, however reluctant, came with some undeniable benefits.
"Brand och mord ty tankbilen skall falla*", Netta muttered, chuckling dryly.
I didn't comment. People tended to slip into their mother-tongue and we had lots of them in the tribe. To Father Mountain it didn't matter where someone came from. Be skilled and be strong and thus you can become a Rock Rider.
The binoculars were in a horrible state, but through years worth of dirt and grease I scanned the trail leading to the pass. The Gigahorse was up front, it's rear bumper almost touching the War Rig, which in turn was in danger of being rammed by the Doof Wagon. A couple of Polecats were next in line, manned by stiffs or not manned at all. The rest of the armada behind them was foolish enough to let the terrain force them into the gorge that led straight to the pass. Flatlanders. It was almost comical how much they feared the uneven ground.
And suddenly I noticed something important. "Holy Father of Rock and Stone! They've taken quite a beating."
The force was still formidable. But it was down to about two thirds the numbers that had passed by only two days ago. The Bullet Farm apparently had taken the brunt of whatever had happened out in the desert. Most of their trademark plough-trucks were gone, as was, incredibly, the Peacemaker itself. The People Eater's Limousine was nowhere to be seen. The big rig that held spare pursuit vehicles was crammed with cars that were damaged and wrecked almost beyond recognition. The Citadel was running out of resources, for this time at least. Mayhap it was a bit early for conclusions - but I couldn't shake the feeling neither the People Eater nor Major Kalashnikov would ever again threaten someone.
"What do you think?", Tip-Toe mused, while I finally let go of the binoculars and handed them over to Crick. "They had a little run-in with the Harbingers? Or with the Wetland-Drifters?"
"I don't know and I don't care. For the time being, we stand by and watch. Let's see who's going to win." A thought occurred to me and I quickly reclaimed the binoculars. Those glasses could use a wash. But by now the convoy had closed in on our position and it was quite easy to recognize the woman who was just now crawling from the driver's cabin onto the bonnet of the War Rig. The Imperator. I couldn't help but be impressed by her relentlessness. Granted, she had killed Goat and so many others, but if I had been forced at gunpoint to root for someone down there, it was definitely the crew of the War Rig. Just imagine the possibilities of a world without good ole Joey...
There was an explosion on the Gigahorse. Tip-Toe, who was now holding the binoculars, was narrating: "She's thrust a lance into the back end... And now Rictus is getting out to see... Holy Father almighty tonight! Who is that?!"
"Who?!", Crick shouted impatiently.
"Looks like an angel", Tip-Toe replied flabbergasted. "Rictus is lifting her over and... there's more angels, wants to get 'em, now he's being attacked by... I think that's a Vuvalini... ages since I've seen one... and there she goes already."
Crick's patience snapped and he ripped the binoculars from Tip's grip, although the whole matter had moved close enough to see quite well without lenses. "Ah, that's heaps funny! Someone just attacked Rictus with a skull! And they fight... Whoops, behind the driver's cabin now, can't see them. Looks like a half-life is driving the Rig and I spot... two more angels and two more Vuvalini... three, there's one on the back of the Rig. And there's the man again... I'll be stuffed, seems like Rictus is down!"
All the ruckus on board the War Rig provided ample distraction from the happenings on the Gigahorse, but from the corner of my eye I saw a bright flash of red on Joey's mobile throne. "Crick! The Giga..."
No one needed conformation by our brother in arms, as a thin, feminine voice shouted: "He's dead!" Not even the Doof Wagon could silence this simple sentence, as it echoed in the canyon. I felt, as if a weight had been lifted off my chest, a weight I hadn't even known about. "He's dead!" Immortan Joe was - had been - feared and dreaded by any sentient being in the Wasteland. No one dared to stand up to him, even the Buzzards who leaped at everything and everyone like rabid dogs, fled when Joey's half-lives were looking for trouble. People had come by the hundreds to bend the knee and live by his mercy which was even more disturbing to me, as a Rock Rider and worshipper of Father Mountain. And now he was dead, as were all his Lieutenants: The Bullet Farmer, the People Eater, Rictus Erectus...
"Big Sam", I called, without turning away from the road war. "Alert everyone with an operational bike. Tell them to bring their iron rations. Once this hubbub is over, we're going to raid Gas Town."
The crew of the War Rig was making haste to board the Gigahorse. It was a simple plan: escape in the monster truck and let the War Rig crash to block the rest of the armada. Simple and clever, as there was no comparable bottleneck anywhere in the region. And it would leave them all trapped in our canyon...
"Make haste!", I shouted over my shoulder, but Sam had already mounted and ridden away.
The only one left aboard the Rig was the War Boy. The cars were close now, I could see his eyes and was surprised not to detect any trace of battle fever or excitement. He was driving carefully, so the last of the angels could climb aboard the Gigahorse safely. He wasn't hell-bent for Valhalla, I realized. He would try to get out of there, the moment he didn't need to drive anymore. Amazing.
And then, Rictus scrambled over the roof of the driver's cabin, not as dead as they must have thought. The War Boy slammed down on the brakes. The Gigahorse sped away safely, while Rictus was thrown off his feet and almost off the Rig, too. He clung to the exhaust vents, howling with rage, while the War Rig accelerated yet again, but Joey's son wasn't having it. He grabbed the vents and ripped the whole motor clean out of the Rig. Flames burst from the gaping hole in the bonnet and danced around his boots, but Rictus didn't seem to care, holding the motor high over his head, turning to face the War Boy.
It was a breathtaking sight and a breathtaking display of stupidity.
Crick chuckled humorlessly. "He just bailed a War Boy up. Seriously?"
It was something basic. Don't corner a War Boy. Not. Ever. Because the second he realizes that he won't live another day, he will call for a witness.
And this one was no exception.
He steered the Rig against the next available bump and jerked the wheel violently. The whole mighty battle beast somersaulted, crushing Rictus and the War Boy alike. The tanker detached, rolled and skidded to a halt on its side against the wall of the canyon. Intact. I watched mesmerized, hardly noticing what happened to the tractor. Ten seconds... twenty... thirty... The tanker remained on its side, silent and still and fully intact!
The tractor had not been so lucky: the Doof Wagon and a number of Polecats had crashed into the wreck and the stone arc had collapsed on top of them. A single lucky bastard crawled from the wreckage, clutching his right arm, eventually collapsing to the ground. The rest of the armada came to a screeching halt in the canyon. Bumpers were being put to good use, but they all managed to skid to a standstill without any more wreckage.
The whole frigging armada was inside the kill-zone! And in utter turmoil, come to that. No one seemed to know what was going on, everyone was scrambling towards the crash site, even the Imperators. Their main concern was probably the fate of their almighty Joe.
My mind raced. We were only five and down in the canyon there were at least fifty men, but I didn't want to give them time to reorganize let alone to escape. Big Sam would arrive soon enough with reinforcements, but we couldn't just sit on our asses until then. And whatever we were going to do - it would be my decision. I was the Chief.
"Dustfinger", I started, hardly recognizing my own voice. "Do you see the Imperators? Can you get them from up here?"
Carefully, the sniper unsheathed his crossbow and re-attached the optics. "Mhm."
"Great, you stay up here and provide cover fire." I stopped for a second, clearing my throat. Something bugged me about this last sentence, but I couldn't put my finger on it. "Make sure you get any Imperator who is too close to the roadblock. Crick, stand ready to seal off the eastern entrance of the canyon. Go now and don't flip the switch until I give you the sign. Netta, Tip-Toe, mount. We'll ride down there and shell them. Hit and run. Stay close to the flanks and the rear, feel free to try running through the mess, but make sure you get out on the other side. Target the heavy weapons, flamers, mounted guns, the like. And the Imperators, we need to take them out as quickly and efficiently as we can. After each strike, climb up the precipice again, hide for a while, don't use the same route twice. Ready?"
"Reckon", Netta said, righting her bike. Crick was already speeding off to the eastern blocking position.
I grabbed the pouch of shells from the saddlebags of my bike and fastened it in front of the handlebars while mounting. Five homemade grenades and a loaded pistol against flamethrowers, harpoons, lances and whatnot.
This could be a disaster.
Probably not though. They wouldn't know what hit them.
But as the person responsible I stuck to the worrying thoughts.
*Swedish: Fire and murder 'cause the tanker shall fall.
