Author's Note: So on to Chapter 4 we go. Still Max's POV, but we will get back to Asher in the next Chapter for obvious reasons (yes, I am foreshadowing, and I am subtly daring you not to skip to the end of the Chapter) Plus, action. Because we all know it would not be a Mad Max story without it. Thank you all for the positive feedback you gave me for the previous Chapter (and especially for telling me about my performance with Max's character)! You all are too kind to me.
On that note, I won't keep you any longer. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own the Mad Max franchise whatsoever. Any original characters or scenes not seen in the series are my creations, and I only claim ownership to them.
Chapter IV:
The Chaos Theory
"When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle." –Edmund Burke
The sun had fully broken away from the horizon when Max saw the billows of sand rising from the ground, too distant to identify the cause but close enough to be alarming. He leaned forward, forearms resting on top of the steering wheel and fingers laced together. He squinted against the glare of the morning sun, watching the small dust cloud as it drifted over the land and threatened to cross paths with his muscle car within a handful of minutes. It was moving too fast and its shape was too peculiar to be a miniature whirlwind; and the possibility of it being a mirage was eliminated by Spitfire's acknowledgement of the oddity.
"Trouble?" she asked, nodding in the general direction of the disturbance. It was the first word she had spoken to him in hours, and the hoarseness of her voice gave evidence to the fact.
He hummed, leaning back in his seat. "Possibly two or three vehicles."
"Heavy-duty?"
"Bigger than the motorcycles we dealt with."
She was silent for a long time. Finally, she mumbled, "Well, I don't like the sound of that. Think they already spotted us?"
"Seems likely."
She nodded—stiffly, but sternly, as if she expected such an answer. Not that the truth was well hidden, with the proof directly ahead of them. Besides, coincidences were a rarity in the Wasteland. Whenever trouble arose, it was usually a blunt occurrence. All that mattered was figuring out how to handle the situation—a step Max was currently undertaking.
Typically, driving in the opposite direction with as much speed as possible was the best chance of escape, especially if the getaway car had a lot of power and gasoline to spare. His muscle car had the first quality, but the second was lacking terribly. Backtracking would be a waste, and attempting to take a longer route around the threat—if that was possible—would be expending his fuel. Spitfire said she needed every ounce he had to reach her source; they could not afford to deter greatly from their straightforward path.
Consequently, that left them with one option: Take the enemy head-on. Max did not particularly like the idea, since he did not know how many people were composing this group. He and Spitfire could not fight armed brutes, especially in large numbers. Bullets may work, but Max hated to deplete ammunition with thirty-two days remaining. Water and food reduction was a serious loss; no ammunition was a death sentence.
A risk. The whole ordeal was a complete and utter risk. What other choice did they have, though?
"Get your gun," he commanded, glancing sharply at Spitfire. She returned the stare, stunned momentarily before a grim expression settled onto her features. She reached behind his seat and withdrew the revolver, checking the bullet count.
"Not a lot to go on," she commented absently. If Max was not so concerned with how the confrontation would play out, he could have sworn he heard regret in her tone. Probably just his imagination. Spitfire did not seem to be one who regrets her actions much—or anything, really.
"It'll be enough," he said. "Now follow my lead."
"I believe," she droned dryly, "that requires trust. You claimin' we have that?"
His gaze left the road briefly to meet her hazel one. Anything but trust passed between them in that moment, and he knew it would be foolish to depend upon Spitfire to do anything for him. They were hardly on good terms—not that they ever had been to begin with—and he doubted Spitfire was overly willing to cooperate with him. He knew she would, though. With numerous threats on the horizon, a blunt dagger and a revolver with little ammunition, she could only hold her own for so long. She needed him, and he would only help if she committed wholeheartedly to his plan.
"No," he answered honestly, "but if you want to survive, I think you better listen to me."
Her upper lip twitched, and she exhaled heavily through her nose. She was, undoubtedly, realizing the same reality as he had. Finally, she said, "Then you better not get me killed." She directed her gaze forward. "Whatever nightmares you have now will be nothing compared to me."
He blinked, ignoring the whispers in the back of his mind. He huffed, affronted. "Tryin' to scare me?"
"That's child's play," she scoffed. "I'm just givin' you some motivation."
"Don't need it."
"Too bad—you got it anyway. Now put it to good use."
Even when faced with an unknown enemy, Spitfire never lost her snarky attitude. Max supposed that was a good sign: Laughing at danger, no matter how great or small. Still, he did not enjoy being the victim of her crude humor.
As the distance closed between them and the caravan, Max began to spot some details. The long train of pluming sand had altered, curving until its head was pointed directly toward his muscle car. He was also able to detect at least three vehicles: One bulky pickup truck leading the way and two spike-prickled followers flanking its sides. It was impossible to judge how many occupied each vehicle, but Max expected all of them to be fully packed with desperate raiders. Better to prepare for the worst than to hope of the best. Besides, they could not turn around now. The challenge was accepted; he and Spitfire had to fight if they wanted to live.
Resolute, he switched from the gas pedal to the brakes, bringing his car to a jolting halt.
Spitfire snapped her head in his direction. "What're you doing?"
He hefted his shotgun and inspected the double barrels. "Waiting."
"You're going to risk hand-to-hand combat? We don't know what we're up against! We need to keep driving."
"With your poor aim and our limited fuel, we can't afford to play cat-and-mouse with them."
She narrowed her gaze and glared at him. He remained indifferent, casting her only a sidelong glance. Her lip twitched again. "And if they decide to just crash into us?" she argued.
He shook his head confidently. "They won't. We're valuable cargo to them. If anything, they'll be glad we stopped."
"Oh, so now we're bait?" she mocked bitterly. He merely jerked a nod. She growled, "You're an idiot."
Finally, he lifted his head and looked at her blandly. "You said we needed supplies?" He pointed at the nearing caravan. "If we play this smartly, then we'll have exactly that."
"At the expense that we could die."
"Everything has that problem out here. You should know that by now."
Her silence was answer enough. There would be no changes to tactic; and, even if he wanted a safer option, he knew the decision would be too late. The enemy was close now, and Max could not get away. He had to execute his plan perfectly, and Spitfire had to listen to him. The former did not worry him; the latter gnawed at his nerves. This was the very reason he traveled alone: Partners were too much of a liability, unpredictable and invested with insurmountable trust. Spitfire went beyond those normal measures, though. She was triple the risk with only a vague reward. It was a rotten exchange; but sadly, it was the most promising he had to go on.
Just live through this. See another day. Get closer to the goal. Survive like he always has. The end would work itself out.
It was time. The three vehicles were upon them, forming a semi-circle around his muscle car in an imposing fashion. Max scanned them all, watching for movement and waiting for the first strike. Spitfire remained completely still, acting oblivious to the threat that partly surrounded them; however, Max knew better, imagining how her hazel eyes darted amongst the vehicles and analyzed the scene with the same scrutiny as him. They had both lived in the heart of the Wasteland long enough to know to never underestimate their opponent. That was a fatal mistake.
Activity flared to life around the spiked cars, doors opening and figures flooding onto the scene. Max observed the left and Spitfire dutifully eyed the right. Three men exited the left car, tall and ragged, dressed in ill-fitting clothes that hung limply on their frames. Their faces were hollow, but their eyes were wild and constantly moving. One of them showed signs of ailment, abnormal lumps mottling his neck and right cheek. He was also the only one with a gun.
"I have three, one with a gun—carbine, by the looks of it," he informed, grip tightening on his shotgun as the small band sidled toward his car.
Spitfire unsheathed her dagger. "Two, but no visible firearms," she responded. "Wanna share your grand plan?"
"When they open the doors, start fightin'."
She snorted. "Could've told ya that." She raised her dagger, poised to lash out. "And the big guy in front of us? No one's exited yet."
"We'll deal with that when something does happen."
"Some plan you've got."
He grunted. He was not in the mood to squabble; nor did their predicament allow for one. He watched his group split: Two reaching for his door, the third—the one with the gun—circling to the front of his car, aiming at the windshield. The third man would be able to see them, the windshield lacking the dark tint the side windows possessed. He and Spitfire would be easy targets. They would be dead before they could take down one man.
He shot a glance toward Spitfire. She was focused on the two wily raiders slinking toward her door—lanky like the others, one gripping a hunting knife and the other carrying a club riddled with nails—but he had no doubt that she was mindful of the gun-wielding individual. Lone wanders were always aware—always on-guard.
She proved his point by asking a simple, one-worded question with a very strong meaning behind it: "Now?"
He faced his attackers again. He primed his shotgun. "Now."
One may call it graceful, how synchronized he and Spitfire were as they rammed their doors open as soon as the raiders cracked them open. Behind him, he could hear the distinctive, wet sound of blade meeting blood and flesh, followed by a couple of stunned cries. Spitfire was quick with her dagger; deadly, too, if anyone pissed her off enough. If Max was not so preoccupied with his own set of raiders, he would have wondered how he had survived these past few days with her and her dagger only a foot away.
Max ended the first man easily enough, holding the double barrel of his shotgun to the raider's chest and pulling the trigger a split-second later. He went flying backwards in a frantic display of crimson and flailing limbs. The second man proved to be a tougher challenge, regaining his senses as soon as the shotgun fired. He rushed Max and tackled him to the ground, grappling for the shotgun. Max kept his grip firm, though, and he brought his knee up awkwardly and rammed it into the raider's hip. The raider grimaced and faltered, and Max latched onto the advantage, jerking his head up and smashing his forehead against the raider's nose.
The raider wailed and scrambled away, cupping both hands over his bloody nose. Max rolled onto his knees and raised his shotgun, prepared to take a fatal shot; however, the sand inches in front of him sprayed upwards, followed by the rhythmic roar of gunfire. Now it was his turn to shuffle backwards and away from the new threat, eyes darting toward the source of the stray bullets. His search pointed him toward the man with the carbine. The raider stared at him with crazed, black-rimmed eyes while his lips pulled back into a half-snarl, half-grin, accentuated by the strange bumps that covered one side of his features.
Then his face was hidden as he raised the carbine to fire another round.
Max leapt to his feet and slipped behind his car, hearing the metallic echo of bullets meeting metal—his car taking the damage. Barely three seconds later, the dust stirred next to him as Spitfire took shelter with him. Max spared her a glance, eyes drawn to the dark red splotch on her jacket's sleeve, along her upper arm.
"Shot?" he asked briefly, turning away to poke his head around the car. He could not find the man with the freshly-broken nose, but the carbine-wielding raider was still standing in the open. Max ducked back into cover right before a dozen bullets could shatter his skull.
Beside him, Spitfire grunted and shook her head rapidly. "No. The smug dimwit has a lousy aim. I could shoot better, especially with a carbine in my hands." She laughed lightly at her own joke, oblivious to Max's lack of amusement—or, rather, did not care. "No, I was caught by the knife. Pretty shallow. I didn't return the kindness."
The bumper of his muscle car jerked, bouncing slightly. Someone was clambering onto it. Max's gaze shot upwards just in time to see the bloody-nose raider hopping down off the roof, shiny pistol in hand. Max rolled to the side, but Spitfire stood her ground and confronted the raider, dagger raised and body tense like a coiled snake ready to strike. He decided to leave that particular fight to her—mostly because the carbine-wielder had made Max his prime target.
Max sprinted at an angle, away from the trail of bullets at his heels and toward the raider. At the first break, Max slid to a stop and fired his shotgun. The raider attempted to dodge, but the shot caught his shoulder and tore through his clothing and skin. With a cry, he dropped the carbine, cradling his injury. Max darted forward, not bothering to reload his shotgun; rather, he dropped it and went for the carbine. He got his hand around the barrel of the gun; however, before he could take it into his possession, the former owner had reclaimed the stock and was reaching for the trigger. Max shoved the carbine toward the raider, consequently ramming the stock into the man's gut and making him reel in pain. Max ripped the carbine away, flipped it around, got a good grip and pulled the trigger.
Click. Empty.
God forsake it all.
Irritated, he turned the gun once more and cracked the stock across the stunned raider's temple. The man collapsed heavily on the ground with a satisfying thud.
Max peered over his shoulder, unsurprised to see Spitfire stepping over her dead opponent and sporting a new pistol, holstered opposite of her revolver in her jacket's pocket. She glanced down at the fallen carbine-owner, then looked at him, nodding her approval. He shrugged.
Something caught her eye, and she stooped down and removed an object from the sand—the object being his shotgun. She joined him a moment later and shoved the weapon into his free hand. He grunted his appreciation; she hummed in acknowledgement.
They stood side-by-side, staring at the last vehicle—the truck with thick armor, large tires, heavily tinted windows and a ridiculous amount of lights decorating the grille—that had yet to join the fray.
It seemed strange how the truck and its occupants had failed to aid their companions whatsoever, watching them die one-by-one. It was even odder that they were not attacking now, with him and Spitfire in clear display before them. Were they hopeful that he and Spitfire would leave them alone? If they were that afraid, though, why would they not drive away? Did they believe that he and Spitfire would merely ignore more conflict, discouraged to fight any longer? Was it a dare to come closer?
Spitfire seemed to believe the latter, for she marched confidently toward the final vehicle with an air of perturbed doggedness. Max did not openly object, shadowing her as he tossed the carbine to the side and reloaded his shotgun; however, nagging at the back of his mind, like the ghosts that enjoyed tormenting him, he believed the scenario was a trap.
No, not believed—he knew, yet he was walking right into it, anyway. Later, he would convince himself that he was simply scavenging for the best supplies, confident that the leading vehicle would hold such desired riches; however, in truth, he was actually accepting the unspoken challenge of his courage. He was riled up from battle, the adrenaline still rushing; and Spitfire's irate attitude did nothing to stem the flow. He was not ready to settle down.
Spitfire strayed toward the driver's side door, looking over her shoulder briefly and motioning with her dagger toward the passenger door. Max had to wonder when following his lead became following her lead. Still, he accepted the suggestion—not an order, for he would not have followed it—and strode toward the opposite door. He curled his fingers around the door handle, hesitating momentarily before yanking it open and pointing his shotgun at the passenger seat.
He was met with nothing but open space; not until Spitfire opened the driver's door and stuck her blade in. Her head swiveled from left to right, clearly confused. He could hardly blame her.
He gripped the frame of the door and hauled himself into the vehicle, sweeping the shotgun back and forth in cautious preparation. There was a backseat, but it was also vacant. The floor, on the other hand, was a cluttered mess of broken-down guns and random ammunition—as if it had all been carelessly dumped there with the hope of one day sorting through it properly.
Dumped. Dumped on the floor in a haste—in a haste to hide before they could be killed like the others. But hide where?
Max eyes trailed to the backseat again. It was clean, aside from a few tears and stains.
"What're you sittin' around for?" Spitfire asked, an edge to her tone that showed her impatience. She never did like suspenseful silence. Too bad for her, she would have to wait a bit longer. If his assumption was correct, he did not want the raiders to receive a forewarning.
He pointed his shotgun at the backseat while he extended his opposite hand and grabbed the top of the cushion. He considered counting to three, but found the notion foolish and yanked down the cushion on one. The seat pulled away easily; however, the chaos that followed did not go as smoothly.
He had tugged the cushion halfway down when a brutal kick jarred his wrist. He withdrew hastily, aiming the shotgun at the blur of movement tumbling his way and firing a shot. There was a cry as a figure collapsed against the folded backseat; however, two more people took his place, rushing at him with ferocity. He felt his shotgun arm wrench backwards while a heavy force pinned his other arm to the dashboard, a sudden, agonizing sensation traveling up his bicep. He kicked in retaliation, the heels of his boots managing a couple solid blows; unfortunately, it failed to drive away either attacker, fueling only their anger. A hand snagged his hair and slammed his head down—a painful connection between his skull and the console that littered his vision with black spots.
There was a flash on his right, dangerously close to the raider's throat, then a sprinkle of carmine. His right arm was suddenly free, and he swung it around, the butt of his shotgun striking the other man holding him down. The raider tumbled out the passenger door, and Max lazily followed him, landing in the warm, uneven sand.
He probably should have rolled back onto his feet and assessed the situation again; yet, strangely, he felt disoriented. He blamed the blow to his skull—must have struck a sensitive spot. Still, did not eliminate the raider lying inches away from him, moving and shifting and recovering faster than Max.
Then someone landed beside him, and he turned his head to the side to see the masked features of Spitfire. Her depthless goggles stared at him, then moved away to some object behind him. Her dagger glinted in the sunlight, stained dark red with blood. She disappeared from sight and a squelching sound met his ears. Moments later, Spitfire returned, goggles perched on her forehead and eyes narrowed curiously.
"What's wrong with you?" she asked, but her voice sounded strange. Distance and muffled, like she was talking behind a wall. He could barely understand her.
He shook his head—or, at least, he thought he did. Either way, Spitfire walked around to his side and knelt down, scanning him and searching for some visual answer. Finally, she grasped his left elbow and turned his arm, eliciting a sharp, burning stab of pain from his bicep. He grunted, gritting his teeth together and shutting his eyes. He faintly heard Spitfire mutter under her breath, but he could not make out the words.
"Hey. Hey."
He cracked his eyes open, but the world was merely shapes and shadows. Spitfire was only a blotch against the sun—a sun that was too bright.
"Buddy, listen to me."
He drifted, barely clinging to consciousness as he waited for whatever nonsense Spitfire had to tell him. He wished she would hurry up and quit with the suspense. What could she have to say, anyway? A last-minute joke? A bitter comment?
"I think you were poisoned."
He could not discern whether she was jesting or telling the truth. Quite unfortunate, since he slipped into darkness as soon as Spitfire finished her sentence. He could only hope that Spitfire had told him a cruel lie. If not, he would have to rely on aforementioned woman to ensure his safety—his survival.
He would probably never wake again.
To the Reviewers:
reddevil47: Just when they begin to show signs of progress, Asher screws everything up. She regrets nothing. Thank you for the review!
KatieBees: I'm super glad Max's POV came out well! Based solely on what I have seen from Fury Road, it can become difficult to capture what runs through his mind - other than survival and the ghosts that haunt him, of course. As for Asher: She likes to test her boundaries. A lot. Has she learned her lesson? Nah, probably not. She'll probably lay low for a bit then go right back at it. Although, she is going to have to make some deliberating decisions next Chapter, I'm sure you can imagine after what happened at the end of this one.
Thank you, and I hope you enjoyed the new installment!
Alya Kihaku: Yeah, they probably would. Lately though, I think Max and Asher are more eager to get rid of each other. They have a long road ahead of them (literally and figuratively). Hope you liked Chapter 4!
K: Don't worry: There will be plenty more, haha. Thank you for reviewing!
Oddmosis: Thank you very much, and I'm really glad you are enjoying the story so far! I hope to keep you hooked!
Comingsummers: It's good to hear that! And of course Max needs a challenge in his life; hence, Asher enters the picture. Even the Wasteland could not prepare him for Asher...and vice versa.
MaggieMcCartney: Luckily, tension and action are my specialty...well, not really, but I do enjoy writing those type of scenes, haha. Thank you for your review!
Farbeyondthegrave: I'm flattered! I'm also glad you liked Chapter 3, and I hope Chapter 4 was just as good.
Annybelle: Oh, definitely. They cannot make progress without backtracking a bit, it seems. Contradicting, but that's how they cope. I suppose we should take pride that they have not killed each other yet; but, then again, they still have thirty-two days of travel. We'll see how it goes.
Zae: Thank you, that is extremely kind of you to say! Let's see if I can keep the surprises coming, haha.
Laura: I'm glad! Max is one of those characters you really have to sit back and think about, since the movie only shows you so much. (Not that I'm complaining. I absolutely loved Max's portrayal in Fury Road.) As for Asher pushing Max's buttons: Nah, I love it, too. Asher is one of those people who leaps before she looks, and does not care about the consequences until they catch up to her. It is an...interesting personality to write. Max hates it, though. That does not change.
Amazing: Thank you so much! Here is the next update, and I hope you enjoyed it!