Her brown strips of cloth are on Volta's head, and only her goggles come out. Wrapped around and around. On her legs, on her arms. Under the poison dart at her belt. She's a Buzzard even if she's an Iskra. In his back, Nux can fell the copper coils, now in three bags stacked on top of each other. When she dropped him into the sidecar, the foot of his useless leg narrowly missed a case of grenades. Sharp-edged. If they don't explode, they spin and shread. The wind is already warm, burning the hull of her Ural sidecar motorcycle. Tumbled-engined, with a six hundred cylinder-capacity at least and thirty-six hp. So much modified, rebuilt, redesigned: you can only guess it if you know already. Chrome. He's sitting next to a Buzzard, he can barely believe it. Usually he's facing them.

— Stop being happy, glupyy.

He stops smiling and clears his throat. He knows this word means dumb, that's what Morsov used to call him.

— Nux.

— Whatever.

Maybe she hasn't even realized that this is his name. In her side-bags, she's organizing her tools. And her light bulbs. And the wineskin. She buckles the straps, she puts on her gloves. She doesn't want to talk any more, she just wants him to stay alive. She's given him water and those greasy butterflies. Not to be nice, just for the refill. She wants him to last until the finish line. He's just like the copper bag to her: material. But well. Before their departure, she let him pee so maybe she's caring a little. Unless she did it for her sidecar sit? That's okay. As long as she delivers him.

— Are you going to pass by the Storms?

The ones spinning around, always in the same place. Not the ones sweeping across the desert. The Iskras know them well. They use them. But she doesn't answer.

— Are you going along the mountains outer side?

The wind, on the dune, slides as if it were crawling on it.

— You're not going to get too close to Gastown, are you ?

— Shut the fuck up, Nux.

All of a sudden, she gives the Ural gas and its wheels spin, spin in the sand. Dust rises up as a cloud, pity his own goggles are lost somewhere under the War-rig. The Ural shows all it's capable of. It's a good bike, but it's at least 200 pounds, empty. They are two people and the copper weighs like a third one. The engine gives everything but they can't move. They just cough from Guzzolene and dust.

— Pizdetz.

She swears. A break, another try, but it's in vain. Pushing would work but his leg is useless. She stops. She's thinking. She looks at the sidecar. At him. At the copper coils. He's got it : she's considering throwing him away. Leaving him behind. She's...

— Right ahead!

At once, she turns the lenses of her goggles at what he just spotted. Through the falling dust. She forces her gaze, and he feels her tensing up. A shape stirs, blurred in the silica cloud. Then it becomes sharper and sharper. Lying down. Fluid. Armored. Reptilian. A shiver goes up the back of his neck.

That's the tail of a kimbersnake. Maybe drawn to the mass-grave of the vehicules pile-up.

After the radiation, the deadly vipers have crawled further south. A long, long time ago. They've gotten bigger and bigger, they fit to desert. They don't just eat the scarce birds anymore. The lizards. A man feeds them for several weeks. Four metres long. Ring-like muscles that can lift a Mack-R tow truck, Nux's seen that before. They hunt on the prowl. Smart, dangerous. Their tail is a decoy. Always. It dances, dances.

The head is in their backs, probably from the beginning.

— Your arm! Back in!

A sharp traction, and Volta lifts a lever on the side of the Ural. Suddenly, the entire body of the bike and the sidecar bristles with Buzzard spikes. A ball of tawny nails, as long as an arm, stuck on a K301 carb. Nux lets out a cry of joy. Glory be. And to think he might have missed that. Volta doesn't have time to yell at him for his absurd enthusiasm. She crushes the ignition and throttles, throttles again in a new haze of dust. They're too heavy. Way too much. Nux turns around : above them, the diamond-shaped head is rising. Wide. Even through the dust, he can see its eyes.

No thinking. The copper bag – the one on top – goes overboard, rolls over the spikes and crashes as the Ural tears off the dune. The wheel studs resist, they finally ramp up thanks to this providential lightening, and Volta turns to avoid the tail. The head attacked right where they stood before. Then the long, long body of the snake emerges, sand flowing over its moving scales like the waterfalls of the Citadel. Shiny. Red. They move forward but the kimbersnake is swooping down, so Nux grabs the next copper bag.

— No way !

Volta's voice is distorted by her scarf, but her elbow crushes him on the bag as she counter-brakes. Sharp. Right on the mark of the Immortan. She strikes a second time then gets her hand back and speed up. The motorcycle pulls away from the arc formed by the snake, which immediately changes strategy and now slides behind them. Quick venom, slow snake. They say that at the Citadel. This one's no sloth and Nux doesn't want to know about its poison. They're not moving fast themselves. Not fast enough. But Volta has other assets.

Again, she leans over the sidecar and grabs a grenade from the case, which she arms by locking the pin on a hook on her handlebars. She opens a tube. She throws the grenade in and closes it shut. At the back of the motorcycle, the object is spit out with tenfold inertia. The grenade goes off. Straight back. A brilliant device, but it doesn't allow you to aim. The sand explodes next to the snake's head which barely makes a gap. It's suing them, even faster. With no legs. Nux can't figure out how.

— Insane!, he gloats as he bends over.

Volta rides along the mountains and uses low outcrops to make the beast clash. On this more stable ground, the Ural rushes like a tornado. The kimbersnake is spitting like an out-of-date breech, but it doesn't give up. Nux's head dodelines. Always, always when he thinks too much. His loose shoulder – at least – is not on his directing side. He's got enough strength for a while. So he leans back towards the case and ignores his knee. His ribs. On the road, you never feel anything. Blood, at that speed, is pure octane and nothing else. He grabs a grenade and prepares to pull the pin out with his jaws.

— What are you doing ?

Between his bicuspids, the pin stays.

— You're driving. I can be the one lancing.

Five seconds. Even if he only sees her dark googles over her strips, he can feel her looking at him. The mountain goes by and by, and the kimbersnake crawls around the low peaks. Three seconds. Nux turns around and takes aim. One second. The grenade hurtles backwards and the sidecar jolts on a stone. Against the snake's parietal, the projectile explodes. The animal rolls to its side and curls up to get back on track. Some of its scales are lost and it's angrier than ever. Nux has swung into the sidecar, toward the two remaining copper bags. Another grenade is in his hand above the Buzzard spikes. He laughs, this time loud, with real exhilaration at the widely open fangs chasing them. With the dusty wind whipping his eardrums. Ignoring the lack of his goggles. If he could, he'd be standing.

— Seriously, do you still take this hellhole for a party?, throws Volta through the howls of the air they're splitting, while she heads northwestward towards the windy convections at the fringes of the Storm Dunes.

Nux takes the pin out of the grenade, sends it up the animal's nostrils. The projectile coughs, then start spinning. It slices, it shreds. Devilishly effective even if it's dull. Anyway, he's already got the next one ready. The kimbersnake is doubting, he can see it. It's doubting that he still wants to eat them. But the snake tries one last time. It gives all his tank bottom to shorten the distance again. Admirable, shiny and chrome. So is this hellhole a party?

— In the end every day is worth it!

Volta gazes at the horizon ahead as he takes the pin out again. Five seconds. She's veering towards a runway in the distance. Four seconds, she hesitates for the last time. Three seconds, she's turned around on her seat. Two seconds. One kick. One second. At the same time as the grenade flies, the second bag of copper falls in their wake. In the open mouth of the kimbersnake, the blast rumbles like V8s to the echoes of the Garages. The copper scatters out of the bag. Everywhere. A blend of coils and Metall.

Now the Ural's going. Going. To the Citadel?

In the belly, it's better a thousand moths.