Chapter 12
The static cuts out, leaving only the sounds of fire, engines, and birds. The black beasts near the cliffs return to roost, looking down at us with glossy, unblinking eyes.
"What the hell was that?" I demand to know.
"It sounds like our friend knows of me," Three responds. His voice is bland, but he holds his shotgun with a white-knuckled grip. "He must have had scouts who saw my truck and recognized me."
"Do you know who this guy is, Three?" Chuckles asks, gulping audibly as he stares up at the birds.
"Not a clue. Road Warriors aren't the type of people to have living enemies. Conflicts are ended early between us." Three pauses, eyeing the smoke. "I would guess a rookie Road Warrior who wants to prove himself by killing me. He doesn't seem too fazed by the fact I have two others with me, though."
"Arrogant," Chuckles scoffs.
"Or good," Three solemnly replies.
I can feel the eyes of the birds watching us from the ledges. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Back in the car, the dog whines softly.
"What now?" I ask, trying to keep calm. The last thing we need right now is for one of us to lose it. "He's ready for us over there, and we can't see a damn thing."
Before anyone can answer, the wind picks up, and a horrid smell suddenly washes over us. It's one I easily recognize: burning flesh. I suppress a gag and pull my scarf up over my mouth and nose. The stench sends the birds into a frenzy. They squawk like bloodlusted raiders and dive from the cliffs, flocking to our vehicles. Inside my car, the dog goes into a howling fit. I rush over and swat at the birds, trying to scare them off. Chuckles swings at the flying monsters with his bat, cursing. Three opens fire on a cluster near his truck, shredding the beasts with several small metallic coins. The rest of the birds panic, flying up high to circle us overhead.
"Trying to intimidate us," Three growls, noticeably agitated. He pumps his shotgun and ejects the shell. "Anyone who needs to rely on scare tactics can't be much of a fighter. He is trying to scare us off."
"I say we go throw that bastard onto the pyre he's trying to intimidate us with," Chuckles suggests, making a disgusted face at the stench.
The sharp static pierces the air once more, making me flinch. Again, a voice speaks through the distortion.
"And the pagans will be… thrown into a fiery furnace… where there will be… weeping and the gnashing of beaks."
The voice goes silent, but the static continues to fill the air. Then, after an uncomfortably long pause,
"Come and see."
The crackling stops again. Three glares toward the smoke. Chuckles brushes blood and feathers from his shoulders, his frown replaced with a look of genuine anger.
"Let's go see what this little shit wants us to see," the former Blackthumb snarls. "Then kill him and all his fucking birds."
"Couldn't agree more," I say, my voice deadly calm now. I'm ready to kill this guy, whoever he is. His damn birds touched my car and spooked my dog. He's gotta go. I turn to Three. "Let's gut this fan of yours, yeah?"
"Age before beauty," Three replies, attempting what I think is supposed to be a smile. Makes him look like he's in pain.
We return to our vehicles with renewed vigor. This guy likes a show, that's for sure. That's probably why we haven't been ambushed: he wants to face Three head-on. Makes him very stupid or very powerful. Maybe both. Either way, he'll get more than what he bargained for with us. We're a team, after all. Three said it himself.
A new sound joins the already chaotic mix. A rhythmic thumping, but not of pistons driving or rifles firing. Drums. The birds above us stop circling and head toward the smoke, flapping their wings to the beat of the drum. We follow them through the twisting passes between cliffs. With every passing moment, the pounding gets louder and closer. My dog desperately whimpers and paws at the wheel, as if asking me to turn around. I ignore him and focus on the smoke. The source should be in view any moment now.
A small valley opens up, framed by natural rock walls. Here, we begin to see the true nature of the people we're dealing with. Dismembered human body parts litter the ground: hands, arms, legs, feet, fingers. Some of the carnage is burnt. Everything is being feasted upon by more of horrible birds. I didn't know so many of the creatures could even exist. I swallow nervously as I watch them tear greedily into the sinew. They make no sound.
The drumming continues slowly, methodically.
The birds' silence is broken when two of them on a boulder begin fighting for bits of a human finger. The pair is loud and flashy, spreading their glossy black wings to make themselves look bigger. They scream in each other's faces to show ferocity. They hop and stomp on the rock like a child throwing a tantrum. At last, one backs down, leaving the other to his meal. As we pass by, the beasts stop their feasting to stare at is. It may be a trick of the light, but they appear to be making eye contact with me. I look away, trying to keep my breathing steady.
The beat speeds up.
At the edge of the valley, one last warning lies before us: an executed burn victim with its arms outstretched. The corpse is held in place on a ten-foot metal cross by screws driven through the hands and feet. Blackened debris is piled up at the base of the pole, helping to hold it up. The flesh is burnt charcoal black with bits of red meat exposed. The head is thrown back, and the charred mouth is agape in a permanent scream of agony. Hanging from the screw through both feet is a long banner with words I can't read. My stomach twists.
The drumming grows incredibly loud as we pass through the final row of cliffs at the end of the valley.
Rounding the corner, the land opens up into flat, featureless sand. At long last, we see the source of the smoke. Four more executed individuals are hung up in the same position as the first, but these are still in the processes of burning. Black smoke rises from their corpses, fueling the dark cloud in the sky. Several twisted vehicles are piled up and also alight, adding the smell of burning oil and rubber to the already sickening stench. Nearby, a shallow mass grave lies open, revealing a dozen dead bodies being picked apart by birds. We drive between the carnage, temporarily blinded by smoke. I cough and wipe stinging tears from my eyes, holding back the bile attempting to boil up from my gut. My heart beats in my ear almost as loudly as the drums.
We emerge through the smoke. To our right, a mass of metal comes into view. I slam on my brakes and turn sharply to the side, skidding to a stop with my hood facing the threat. Three and Chuckles pull up on either side of me. Before us sit five trucks, each painted a glistening chrome. Most of the metal has the texture of rust and is heavily scratched or dented, but all the imperfections have simply been painted over. Behind the windshield, each truck has a driver and a passenger. All of them are dressed in brown leather jackets and have long hair arranged in thick braids. They stare back at us, snarling with scarred faces. The engines of their shiny vehicles growl and sputter under the hoods, but I can barely hear them over the sound of drums coming from the truck beds. There men with long, white hair pound on large drums with mallets. They beat their instruments in perfect unison, creating a frantic, booming heartbeat for the War Party.
But none of that compares to the truly massive Engine of War parked between the trucks. The machine was once a diesel locomotive, but it's been converted into a massive land vehicle with wheels large enough to crush my car. Above the wheels, the body is long and rounded, like a gigantic bullet. The entire Rig has been painted a deep, dark black that seems to completely absorb all light that touches. Long, thick chains hang from the sides like metal curtains, nearly touching the tire guards above the terrifying wheels. On the hood of the vehicle, a few exposed V8 engines gleam proudly in the sun from. Below them, a small car has been chained to the front of the Rig to serve as a plow. That has also been painted black - even the bar of lights across the top and the large spotlight attached to the side.
Hitched up behind the War Machine is a large, black semi trailer with holes all over it. The kind once used to haul animals, I think. At least fifteen men are crawling across the sides of the trailer, preventing me from seeing through the holes. These men have the same braids as the truckers, but their clothes vary from stained rags to thick coats.
Then I see him. Standing on top of the War Rig is the unmistakable leader. He is tall and muscular, draped in a brown coat that stretches down below his knees. The garment has a tall collar covered in fur that moves in the wind. The man's deep, blue eyes are noticeable even from where we are - as is his sharp, angular facial structure. His black hair is shaved in the back and long and unkempt in the front. On his shoulder sits one of the birds - a large one whose black feathers match the deep black of the Rig. The leader holds a pickaxe in one hand, in the other a large, metal shield.
The drumming stops.
I feel my stomach curl in on itself at the sight of it all - the birds, the corpses, the Rig, drummers, the man. The sweat on my hands turns cold against the steering wheel. Even faced with Anuket, a Goddess with incredible power, I didn't feel like this. In the pit of my stomach, in my heart, in my head - it's fear.
Trying to intimidate us, Three's voice echoes in my head. Trying to scare us off.
I grit my teeth behind the scarf, determined to stay calm. Beside me, the dog whines and lowers his head, staring up with wide eyes at the man standing above it all. The dog doesn't move, even when my fingers accidentally brush against his leg. On my left, Three has his shotgun aimed out his window at the man, ready to fire. On my right, Chuckles grips his handgun tightly, ready to draw at a moment's notice. The man with blue eyes does not flinch or raise his shield. None of his men budge or make a sound.
"And I heard, as it were, the noise of thunder," the leader shouts down at us, no longer needing the machine to make himself heard. His voice is deep, but it lacks Three's roughness. It's more like Anuket's - sharp, powerful, completely confident. "One of the four beasts saying, 'Come and see.' And I saw, and behold! He went out conquering, and to conquer."
He's like a bird himself, this man. His eyes are piercing and his voice is loud. He perches on top of his machine, ready to take flight and swoop down on us at any moment. And I hate him, just like I hate the birds.
"Who the hell are you?" Chuckles yells back.
"My name is Vates," the man replies. There is some anger in his voice now, along with something else. He almost sounds sad.
"That supposed to mean something, freak?" Three shouts up at him, unimpressed.
"I would hope so, Three. I am an apprentice of one of your previous business partners. Did you not recognize the Holy text or crucifixion?"
"What's he talkin' about, Three?" Chuckles asks. There is a slight tremble in his voice.
"Bishop?" the Cyclops calls up after a moment.
"The student is not above the teacher, but everyone who is fully trained should be like their teacher," Vates replies, not giving a straight answer.
Three does not respond. Chuckles stays silent, but his eyes grow wide. I furrow my brows, confused. Trace mentioned something about a Bishop, I think. So did Chuckles. Someone who used to work for Anuket, but not anymore. If he has anything to do with the Three and the Goddess, he's probably just as skilled as the Cyclops. But all this carnage? Holy text? Must have gone insane. Any student of his would have to be just as crazy.
"My acolytes are ready for this, Three. This will be the greatest Road War any of us have ever seen. The outcome…" Vates pauses. "Not important. If we succeed in defeating Three the Cyclops and an instrument of God, we will have brought great honor to ourselves, our faith, and our family. If we fail, well, there is no shame in falling to two mighty Road Warriors. We shall ride eternal."
It sounds like a call to War, but his men don't cheer or even make the sign of the V8. They just sit there, waiting. Suddenly, the man called Vates makes eye contact directly with me. His blue eyes pierce right into my head, like he's trying to read my thoughts. I level my gaze at him through the windshield, refusing to look away even as my heart pounds in my chest.
"I have seen you," Vates proclaims. "My God has given me visions of a blonde warrior traveling with a great monster, carried on a red stallion. You are destined to destroy me, if you are the true agent of fate I believe you to be."
I narrow my eyes. He wants to fight me? I've only been here for a couple days, and all I've done is almost die to some Mozzies. No way he could have heard of me. I glance over at the dog, who is panting in the heat and continuing to stare up at Vates. Doesn't look like any great monster to me. Agent of fate? Instrument of God? Bullshit. This man is mad if he thinks some higher power sent him visions of me, but there's no point in telling him that. I'm here to fight, not to talk.
The War Rig roars to life, shaking the ground and scattering the birds, including the one on Vates's shoulder. I feel the vibrations of the terrifying machine in my chest. The drumming starts back up, working its way into my blood, syncing with my heartbeat. I struggle to keep my breathing steady. How are we supposed to take down something like this?
"Three, Agent, Blackthumb," Vates calls through the loudspeaker, his voice soaring above the chaos. "Any words before we begin?"
I take a deep breath and look out my window.
"Think we've heard enough!" I shout to Chuckles and Three over the noise. "Let's go, yeah?"
Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has been checking out this story. Special thanks this week to Funnyman141 for the follow. Next week: War. Stay tuned.