I own nothing.
Save Her
Where are you, Max?
The voice floats through his brain. A dusty, wheezing breeze.
Maaaax?
Where are you?
Blood and big rigs and lifeless blue eyes flash against his eyelids.
Come on, Max
Go away
Why?
Why didn't you save us?
Why won't you save her?
His eyes snap open. A fading orange sky hangs above him. He blinks sand from his vision as he watches light give way to dark and tries to take stock of the world.
Everything is fire. The sticky tang of evaporated sweat clings to his skin beneath sand and fabric. The grit makes him wonder how long it would take for the desert to swallow him if he stayed like this. Days? Weeks?
He shifts. Groans. If there's a part of him that isn't battered and bruised, he'd never be able to tell. The back of his shirt has to have been shredded to scraps and he hopes his jacket hasn't fared worse.
Come on, Max
He grunts, rolls onto his side and wants the empty, painless black to return. But the little girl's question echoes in his ears.
Why won't you save her?
He shoves his hands under aching weight and pushes. Something twinges, deep and biting in his left shoulder. He vaguely recalls pulling a knife from it hours back. Right before the world went mad. And he remembers why he's on the ground, covered in sweat and sand, battered more than he's been in ages. It kicks blessed adrenaline into his system.
It had been broad daylight when he'd been cut from the truck. Now the sun drowns itself beneath the horizon and he needs to move. His eyes track the grooves of tires beneath him toward the horizon. None of the rusted monsters are in sight, but in the distance he sees a familiar, unmoving blob.
He gathers his feet and howls. Something shifts inside his leg. He looks down.
Metal is pierced through the calf muscle beneath his bad kneecap.
He pounds a fist into the sand. Three times. Then he can do nothing but steel himself with familiar, grim detachment. The arrow is spiked at the end, hooked into his flesh like greedy teeth. It'll have to come out the right way or he'll never be able to walk. But he can't spare the time and he can't risk bleeding himself dry.
He pulls a knife from his boot, cuts the cord still dangling from the arrow's looped end, thank hells it wasn't a chain, and gathers it from the ground. His breath hitches as he wraps it around both ends of bloodied metal. It's the best he can do, so he catches his breath and pushes himself to his feet.
Every step is a gamble of whether or not the leg will hold him, but he hobbles as fast as he dares. It takes far longer than he likes to reach the ruined buggy.
It's turned over on its side. Banged and dented.
Must have rolled.
He pulls himself around until he can see inside the cab. There's no sign of the girl apart from spatters of red on the seat. Blood, thick and congealed. The interior of the car is battered to hell and he hopes she was thrown free before it started to roll. He's been hoping a lot of things lately. Damn Furiosa. Damn the wives and damn the Many Mothers.
The sand under his feet shows signs of a scuffle. A dark, muddy mixture melts into the ground not far away. It's bloody enough he knows someone is dead, but there's no body.
What now?
The girl, if she's alive, is long gone.
His vehicle is far behind him.
The metal in his leg is already sending unnatural heat through his blood.
Why won't you save her?
He closes his eyes but the little girl with the skull face shows herself anyway.
Consumed in fire.
Why won't you save her, Max?
Her voice mixes with something deeper. Something beyond the grasp of his addled mind.
Daylight dies as the night begins to swirl cool air around him. It sinks beneath the sand on his skin and cools lingering embers of pain.
He breathes and opens his eyes to see the glow of burning flames in the distance.
It could be anyone. But in this wasteland, the list of anyone is short and includes a girl he now owes his life to. He turns back to the buggy and leans into the cab. His hand fumbles over lifeless metal, lands on a handgun that's stuck under the front seat. A minor miracle. The clip is empty save one round, but there's still an extra clip in his jacket so he holsters the pistol at his side.
Everything else that was housed inside the car is now splayed over silent sand. He finds a canvas bag full of guns - rifles, a shotgun even - most empty of ammo but useful enough. Stuck in the sand is what must be the girl's crazy, needle bladed staff. He grabs the solid end of the thing and whips the metal downward. It extends with a loud SCHINK.
At least he'll have something to put his weight on.
He picks up a full canteen of water, a pleasant surprise, but what throws his mind the most are the books.
There's at least a dozen, scattered among the meager possessions the girl kept with her. Their pages are faded and torn, but they're books nonetheless. She might have kept them for kindling, but why so many?
He picks up one with a grease stained cover. A rub of his thumb unveils faded letters. Hamlet.
He shouldn't take it, there's no value in its pages for him, but he hums and tucks the book into his jacket before he turns, eyes the glowing fire in the distance, and starts his long walk.
AHHHHG. I really wanted to give you guys the full rescue mission for this chapter but the damn thing is being a massive ass. I'll sit down an have a chat with everyone in my head so we can get back with the program and hopefully get you the good stuff soon. As always, your comments and thoughts are welcomed and appreciated.