Chapter 13
Before my teammates can respond, Vates raises the pickaxe above his head. A loud siren pierces the air, crying out from the War Rig. The birds scream and caw along with it; the horrible noise nearly drowns out the engines. Then the siren fades for a brief moment, and the drums fill the space with two short beats.
Bang bang!
The siren howls again, even louder. This time, it's joined by new sounds. Rising from behind the drums in the truck beds are men playing instruments hooked up to amplifiers. Doofs. Like the drummers, they also have long, white hair. Two of the instruments are guitars - one with axe blades attached to the body, and the other with an ammo belt in place of a strap. The third Doof's instrument looks like a giant guitar; it stands nearly as tall as the man himself, and he plays it by pushing and pulling some kind of rod across the strings. The final man's fingers dance across long strings set in curved, open frame. Together, the stringed instruments cry out as the siren quiets. Once again, the drums pound.
Bang bang!
The cycle of sounds, this War song, repeats as the Rig lurches towards forward. Chuckles opens fire on Vates as the colossal machine hurtles towards him, but the bullets bounce uselessly off the man's metal shield. At the last second, Chuckles speeds to the right on his bike, narrowly avoiding being smashed by the plow.
Bang bang!
The train creates a wall, splitting the three of us as it picks up speed. Chuckles on one side, Three and I are on the other. I work the gas and brakes at the same time, twisting the wheel to turn the car around as fast as I can. Beside me, Three does the same. Behind, the trucks with drums and strings race to catch up. Ahead, I see Vates blocking another volley of gunshots coming from the far side of Rig. Sparks fly across his shield as the bullets collide with the metal. Then they stop. Chuckles's magazine must be empty. Without hesitation, Vates hurls himself off the side of the vehicle. He swings his pickaxe high in the air before vanishing from my view. Madman. But whether Vates survives the jump or not, the two trucks on that side of the Rig will be more than enough to take out Chuckles. I need to get over there now.
Bang bang!
The birds keep pace with the train, becoming more erratic by the second. Pulsing as one giant, feathery mass to each beat of the drums. A heartbeat to the fight - one that matches the pounding in my chest. My blood feels hot and cold at the same time, and my eyes dart everywhere. This is no skirmish with some Mozzies. The small War Parties I've faced in the past are nothing compared to this. The greatest Road War any of us have ever seen.
I ease off the gas just a little. I can't sit back and wait to be rammed by one of the trucks, but I need the Rig to pass me so I can get to the other side. Three charges ahead in his vehicle, cutting in front of me and racing along the length of the Rig. Five men leap from the trailer, attempting to land on Three's truck. Two of them meet the barbed wire face first, getting sliced and entangled before falling off the speeding vehicle.
Bang bang!
The other three men manage to stick the landing, hanging on with one arm each. With their free hands, they beat against the sides and roof of the vehicle. Three leans out the window with his shotgun and shoots one of them in the head, sending him tumbling off the truck. The Cyclops's vehicle holds course as Three fights the assailants, never losing speed or swerving to the side. He's good.
As the trailer flies past me, two men leap from the side, aiming for my car. They tumble across the roof of my ride, but the barbed wire isn't enough to keep them away. They both cling to the passenger side, smashing at my vehicle with hammers. I snarl at them as I toss aside the rifle in favor of my pistol. In the passenger seat, the dog barks and claws at the chicken wire, trying to get at the attackers. Before I can do anything about them, one of the drum trucks finally catches up to me.
Bang bang!
The vehicle pulls up alongside my car, blasting my ear with drum and guitar. A man in a leather jacket hangs from the open passenger door, swinging a large, iron ball on the end of a chain towards me. I swerve away, but it's too late. The hunk of metal collides hard with the chicken wire in my driver window. The mesh is forced from the doorframe, flying into my arm and bouncing onto the floor. I lean away, and the chain goes taught before the iron ball can smash into my head. It falls back toward the man, who prepares to strike again. Before he gets the chance, I stretch my arm out the now open window, aiming my pistol at the man's head. I shoot, hitting him right in the face. He falls from the truck without a sound.
The driver glares at me and twists his wheel, attempting to ram his vehicle into mine. I slam on the brakes. The truck careens to the side in front of me, narrowly missing my front bumper. In the bed, the drummer and doof continue to play, completely unfazed by the battle. I push against the steering wheel, keeping myself from flying forward as the car instantly loses speed. The men hanging onto the side of my vehicle aren't nearly as prepared. They lose their grip, hurtling forward into the dust. The dog also jolts forward, letting out an alarmed yelp before his snout collides with the dashboard.
"Sorry 'bout that," I mumble as the animal gets back up and shakes himself off. Then he goes back to barking out the window.
Bang bang!
The rest of the trailer speeds past my suddenly slowed car, giving me the opening I need. I hit the gas and swerve to the left, cutting behind the Rig and emerging on the other side. I veer away from the trailer on this side, wanting to avoid any more jumpers. The men hanging from the metal box hoot and holler at me, but I ignore them. Several begin climbing to the other side, no doubt hoping to have an easier time getting at the Three. I'm sure the Cyclops can handle himself.
I leave the trailer behind, catching up to the main part of the Rig. It's picked up some serious speed now, and I have to press the gas almost to the floor just to match its pace. The two trucks on this side lie ahead, keeping up with the front of the terrifying Engine of War. Chuckles's motorcycle is nowhere in sight.
Bang bang!
"Shit," I breathe as I look up.
There, dangling from the chains that clutter the sides of the Rig, are Chuckles and Vates. I press the gas further, speeding toward them. As I near the scene, I see the Road Warrior from Eden struggling to insert another magazine into his handgun, hanging onto a chain with one arm and both legs. Beside him, the zealot lashes out with the pickaxe. His shield is gone. Chuckles displays impressive athleticism, swinging his body and ducking his head to avoid the heavy strike. The weapon buries itself deep into the hull of the Rig, forcing Vates to spend a moment ripping it free.
That moment is all Chuckles needs. He slides the magazine into his gun and flashes a quick smile. Real joy cuts through his exhausted frown. Just as Vates pulls the pickaxe free and swings forward, Chuckles extends his right arm outward to fire at the maniac.
Bang bang!
I don't actually hear it over the blaring music, but I can almost feel the sickening tear of skin and crunch of bone as Vates's pickaxe pierces the former Blackthumb's forearm, pinning it to the side of the Rig. Blood sprays outward, splattering onto the metal and the two men. Chuckles opens his mouth, letting out a scream that is completely lost in the chaos. His fingers go limp, and the handgun plummets into the churning sand.
"Shit, I repeat, panicking. My gas pedal is on the floor, but the War Rig has picked up so much speed that I'm only barely faster than it now. Can't catch up in time. "Shit, shit, shit!"
I watch helplessly as Vates clenches his free arm tighter around the chain, lifting his body upwards with his knees pulled in close to his chest. He swings forward again, extending his legs together to deliver a powerful kick directly into the young Road Warrior's screaming face. Chuckles loses his grip on the chain and begins to fall. The weight of his body pulls against the pickaxe embedded in his right forearm, completely snapping the bones and ripping the skin in half. My stomach twists violently as the man whose fate determines mine plummets toward the enormous wheels.
Bang bang!
At the last second, Chuckles stops, barely managing to catch himself on the metal ledge serving as a tireguard. His cap flies from his head, tumbling down to be crushed by the wheels. The former Blackthumb hangs on for his life with his one good hand, trying desperately to pull himself up as his other arm gushes red. One of the chrome trucks pulls in close to the Rig, and for a moment I think they'll try to knock Chuckles loose, but they just keep pace with the machine. Above, Vates pries the pickaxe from the hull again, and the severed half of Chuckle's arm falls away. The madman braces his legs against the Rig and propels himself forward, soaring through the air and landing on the hood of the truck. The man in the passenger seat opens the door and offers the leader his shield again. Vates puts it on his arm as be balances easily on the hood. Then he looks up, locking eyes directly with me. His mouth moves, forming words I can't possibly hear over the noise.
Bang bang!
Suddenly, I hear a loud crash above my head. A moment later, there's the growl of a power saw and the screech of grinding of metal. My metal. Anger floods my body, mixing with the terror. The dog howls and whips his head around frantically as sparks fly in through the windows. One of the men must have jumped at me from the Rig while I was so focused on Chuckles and Vates. I look again to the former Blackthumb. He's managed to swing one foot onto the ledge, but I know he won't last long. He's leaking life worse than a shot up fuel tank. I'll be the same way soon if I don't deal with the man on my roof.
I pick up the rifle and wedge it in the space below the steering wheel to keep the gas down. Once the pedal is jammed, I holster the pistol and take out my knife. I've done this a couple times before, but never in this extreme of circumstances. Behind the scarf, I take a deep breath through my nose. Then I reach my free hand out the window and grab the edge of my car's roof, hoisting myself up to sit in the window. I keep the wheel steady with one foot and move my empty hand to grip the side mirror, bracing myself.
Bang bang!
The man with the saw is perched on top of my car, almost directly in front of me. He looks over at me and sneers. I snarl back and slash at him with the knife. My foot shifts slightly on the wheel during the movement, making the car swerve and throwing off my attack. The leather-clad man ducks, easily avoiding the blade. I level out the vehicle and strike again, this time careful to keep my leg steady. The knife slices across the side of the man's face and down his neck. Blood sprays out, joining the sparks that dance in the wind. He cries out and falls backward, disappearing over the other side of my car and taking the saw with him.
I glance down at the roof of my ride. It now sports a deep gash directly over the driver seat. The man's blood is everywhere, too, clinging to the top of the speeding vehicle. The blood doesn't bother me; it means someone paid for fucking up my car. Some of the birds swoop low, flying alongside my vehicle, spasming and cawing along with the drumbeat. I sheathe my knife and glare at them before sliding into the car.
Bang bang!
Back inside, the dog is staring at me like I'm a maniac. He's not too far off. That was one of the most dangerous things I've ever done, and the adrenaline rush is like nothing I've felt before. I dislodge the rifle and toss it back into the passenger seat. Then my foot stomps on the gas pedal, and I go speeding towards Chuckles again.
The mass of smoke is far behind us now. The smell of the burning corpses finally starts to fade, replaced with guzzolene, blood, and machinery. My vision completely filled with sand, exhaust, feathers, and metal. My good ear hurts from the screeching birds, blaring sirens, heavy music, powerful engines, and the screaming of men on the other side of the train. Filthy black smoke sputters out of all of Vates's unhealthy vehicles, and I can taste burnt oil. The battle is completely overwhelming all of my senses.
Bang bang!
To make matters worse, I see Vates standing triumphantly atop the truck that is slowing down to meet me. He's in complete control of the situation, immune to the chaos all around him. His calm in the face of War is something all Road Warrior strive to achieve. Seeing it face to face is terrifying. I race forward, trying to get to Chuckles before Vates reaches me. It's no use. The truck swerves to the side just as it nears my car, colliding with the front corner at an angle. The nearby birds flee, squawking in fear. I lurch sideways, wrestling to keep control of the wheel. In one fluid motion, Vates steps onto the hood of my car. He briefly struggles to stand on the unstable vehicle, but he regains his balance as soon as I steady the wheel.
The truck manages to maintain course, now speeding alongside me. I see the passenger lean out of the open door. He wields a large lance, the base of which is chained to the side of the cab. He lifts the weapon above his head, preparing to pierce my vehicle and tether it to the truck. I raise my pistol and fire out the window. The bullet strikes the man's arm, throwing his aim off and he lunges with the lance. It plunges into the sand, barely missing front tire.
Bang bang!
On the hood, Vates raises his shield arm and rams it harshly down onto my windshield. Cracks explode across the glass, obscuring much of my vision. He raises the pickaxe for a final swing, one which will shatter the windshield completely. Before he can bring the weapon down, I twist the steering wheel to the side, swerving away from the truck. Vates loses his balance momentarily, and his swing hits nothing but air. As he teeters on the hood, I let the force of the turn pull me toward the window. I reach my arm out and aim my pistol at the zealot on the hood. Even while struggling to keep his balance, Vates's reflexes are insanely fast. He raises the shield as I fire, and the bullet ricochets off harmlessly.
As the car continues to swerve, the madman swings his axe down over the side of the vehicle. The weapon pierces the front tire, popping it instantly. The car lurches in the other direction as the deflated tire loses speed. The remaining wheels barely keep their grip on the loose sand.
I pull my arm inside and drop the pistol into my lap again. My foot leaves the pedal; I know braking or hitting the gas harder will only make things worse. I grip the steering wheel with both hands, forcing it to stay straight with all my strength. To my relief, the tires straighten out. I do my best to keep the wheel steady as I hit the gas again.
Bang bang!
To my shock and horror, Vates is somehow still on the hood. He doesn't seem affected by any of this; he's like a machine. I glare out at him through my cracked windshield. Have to get him off my car before he fucks it up even more. I can feel the calm beginning to creep in between my galloping heartbeats - that cold, dangerous serenity I felt in my nightmare. Have to get him off my car. Now. Nothing else matters.
I stomp hard on the brake. The wheels skid through the sand, kicking up dirt and rock. Vates is launched forward as the car suddenly slows beneath him. He loses his grip on the shield, which goes flying away through the dust. He reacts instantly. The tip of the pickaxe slams down into the hood of the car, saving Vates from being completely tossed from the vehicle as it violently comes to a stop.
Bang bang!
The War Party races by, leaving the two of us behind. As I reach for my pistol, Vates pulls himself up and lunges forward, leaving his pickaxe embedded in the hood. He dives through the damaged windshield, sending shattered glass flying everywhere. The zealot lands between the front seats. His legs stretch over the dashboard, and his feet rest on the hood. The arm that gripped the pickaxe is visibly dislocated, twisting awkwardly beneath the heavy coat. With lightning fast speed and seeming immunity to pain, Vates reaches over with his good arm to snatch handgun from my lap. He ejects the magazine and the shell in the chamber before tossing the weapon away through the broken windshield behind him.
We lock eyes again. His sharp, determined gaze pierces into my skull. Now that I see his face up close, I realize he's a good deal older than I am. Somewhere between my age and Three's, I think. His face is slim and angular, and he's bleeding in a few places from minor glass cuts. His jaw lacks any hint of stubble, and there are faint frown lines at the corners of his mouth. The long patch of hair sprouting from the front of his scalp is drenched in sweat.
I hesitate, confused. Why didn't he just shoot me? Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of the birds land on the handle on the pickaxe. It's larger than the others I've seen. The animal perches on the weapon, rotating its head and watching us curiously.
In my moment of doubt and distraction, Vates scrambles up, again moving incredibly fast. He pulls his legs inside the car and tackles me in the confined space. I grapple, trying to push him back. But even with a dislocated shoulder, he's stronger than I am. He pins me against the inside of the door, and I exhale sharply as back collides with the metal. The madman holds my arms down, preventing me from reaching for my knife. He looks into my eyes triumphantly. I know he sees fear staring back at him.
I hear a snarl, and for a second I think it's coming from Vates. Then I see the dog's head appear over the zealot's shoulder. His lips are pulled back to reveal sharp, yellow teeth. He leaps forward, his mouth opening wide as he descends upon my assailant. The beast's sharp teeth sink into Vates's neck, and he gasps in pain, finally breaking eye contact with me. The dog clamps his jaw tight and shakes his head violently, tearing into the flesh. Vates grits his teeth against what must be extreme pain. He lets go of me and delivers powerful strikes into the dog's side with his elbow. The animal relents, backing down from the assault and whimpering. Vates bashes him sharply on the head, knocking the hound unconscious.
The terrifying zealot turns back to me as I scramble to unsheath my knife. Blood is pouring out of his neck, soaking into the fur collar of his coat, running down his torso, dripping onto me. Red everywhere. From the looks of it, my dog just gave the man a death sentence; he will succumb to blood loss shortly. I just need to survive long enough for him to die.
Harder said than done. He grabs my wrist, pulling my hand away from the knife. Then he crashes into me again, bracing his feet against the passenger seat to give him leverage. This time, he grabs my head, smashing the back of my skull into the windowsill. I grunt in pain, reaching up to push against his shoulders. My hands struggle to get a decent grip on his blood-soaked body. He lifts my head and brings it down on the sill again.
"Dies!" Vates shouts in a foreign language as my skull collides with metal.
Another bash.
"Irae!"
He repeats the two strange words as he drives my head into the sill again and again. It feels like my skull is going to split open at any moment. Hot blood runs down the side of my neck, and I'm not sure if it's his or mine. I can barely move in the cramped space, and I start to see black spots before my eyes. My stomach clenches up. Panic rushes through me as I realize I'm going to be killed. Next comes a stubborn rage. I can't let this freak end me, not when he's so close to death himself. No way. I have to outlive this. Not for any purpose - I just have to survive.
The calmness sets in. I let go of Vates's shoulders and reach behind my back. My head strikes the windowsill again, and I cry out in pain. Then my fingers find the handle, and I pull hard. The door flies open, propelled by the weight of two bodies. Vates and I tumble into the dirt. At last, I have room to move. We thrash around in the sand, each trying to pin the other down. The physical exertion makes the blood flow even faster from the gaping wound in the zealot's neck. The sand beneath us quickly becomes soaked in red.
I feel Vates's strength beginning to wane. No matter how skilled or powerful, no one can survive that much lost blood. I force my exhausted muscles to keep fighting. So close now. Finally, I manage to twist on top of the man, shoving his face into the dirt and holding his arms behind his back. He struggles to move, but there's not much life left in him. I brace one palm against his good arm and pull violently with my other hand. He merely grunts as the bone snaps.
"My visions… were not wrong," Vates struggles to say, twisting his mangled neck to lift his face out of the sand. He hacks up some blood. "Go forth… and bring order to the Wastes."
The dying madman coughs again, then again. It becomes a violent fit. He writhes underneath me, spitting even more red into the thirsty sand. The large bird leaves its pickaxe perch and lands on the ground in front of Vates's head, lightly tapping on his scalp with its beak. The coughing subsides.
"Max has been reincarnated and returned to us!" Vates manages to shout weakly.
The zealot's head collapses into the sand again. I hear his words, but they don't quite register. This isn't over yet. I reach into my jacket and take out the knife. It's still covered in fresh blood from the man with the saw. Underneath that, the dried blood of the old woman. Then the blood of the Mozzies. I lean forward, grabbing Vates's hair with one hand and pulling his head back. He sputters a little but doesn't fight me. The large bird hops backward but doesn't fly away - just watches me. I slip my other hand under Vates's chin, pressing the knife against his already blood-covered neck. Then I slide the blade quickly across his throat and release his hair. His head falls to the ground one last time.
I take my weight off his limp form, kneeling back in the sand and the dust and the blood. My breathing is heavy, and my heart pounds in my ear. My head feels like it's going to explode. I stare at the madman, almost expecting him to leap up and finish me off at any moment, but he never moves. His once determined face looks almost content now, and his blue eyes stare hollowly into the distance. The man called Vates is dead.
Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has been checking out this story. Special thanks this week to el mano for the follow. Don't be afraid to let me know any thoughts or constructive criticisms; unlike Jaw, I don't bite. For anyone curious, Vates's War song is loosely based on 'Feuer Frei!' by Rammstein. It is the edgiest song for the edgiest man. Next week: the aftermath. Stay tuned.