The sun rose hazily above some big rigs following in the distance. The rigs frowned as always.
Pitchcat was staring out from under the tarp when there was a thump on the back tray. A pole was banging on it, reaching over from the truck alongside.
It was Wheelhorse's boys. Even their Imperator, Wheelhorse himself, was hovering within earshot, while cleaning plant matter and broken containers from the rear tray of his truck.
Jawbone called back "Just ignore them! They can find out when it happens."
Pitchcat was thinking about the Gastown fuel tankers.
"Why don't they have escorts?"
"I guess they're off following Immortan Joe's flares. Like we all are."
Everyone competed for any chance of approval. Their ferocity increased wildly with the status of the particular higher-up. At the top, Immortan Joe could wave an arm, and thousands would drive off a cliff for the one chance they might survive, be richly rewarded by Him, and never have to starve again.
Two days ago, he had sent up some distress flares.
Every war party, in each army, had abandoned its station at his call. Now they all gradually drove together, amassing in his wake.
As for their own war party, they would do a little security work on the side.
"You should eat something." Jawbone gave Pitchcat a container of dried fruit, then disappeared behind the partition.
He came back out.
"And your rations for the operation."
He threw something at him.
It was a little, peeling leather bag. Inside were three rocks.
"I'll see you after."
Pitchcat crept out to the back tray and lunged for the pole. He tied the bag on and the boys fell over laughing.
The day's work had begun.
Cinder was in the driver's cab.
Pitchcat stood on the ladder, peeking out through the hatch.
He looked out at the Wretched truck that had been stalking the Gastown tankers.
The Wretched were just desperate people who lived under Immortan Joe's rule but didn't belong to a war party. They had even less food than the war parties.
These ones had a long flatbed truck crowded with many people. Anything that came close they could surge onto and take over. Its cab was heavily armoured.
There were also two Gastown work trucks that the Wretched had commandeered.
The Imperators on their trucks were signalling to each other, and sending motorcycles back and forth to the Gastown tankers.
And they all rolled along together through the desert.
As Jawbone had instructed him, Pitchcat went down to the belly, and stood where the Imperator had indicated. It was close to Pitchcat's bed roll. Directly under the gunner's turret, where he could hear any thumps on the roof from the gunner, which meant that he would have to come up and fix the pipes.
An hour passed.
Pitchcat still stood in the belly, his ear craned up to the ceiling, staring at a page in the Immortan's signal book.
There was a single, soft, almost imaginary thump on the roof directly above him. He dashed to the ladder, sprung open the hatch and jumped up onto the roof.
Peering into the turret, he saw their gunner, slumped in a puddle of guzzoline, his head on the floor.
"Oh my god!" he cried out.
His hands started to shake.
Pitchcat quickly stripped the cladding off the turret. He stood for a few minutes, waving a panel of cladding up and down inside.
Finally, he entered and, using a blanket, sopped off as much guzzoline as he could from the gunner's head and chest. He got another one and did it again. Then he lifted the gunner's shoulders and dragged him to the back of the truck, away from the turret.
The gunner opened his eyes and rolled them, dazed. Pitchcat left him in recovery position, mopped up the guzzoline, then climbed into the open turret.
The wind whipped around him.
A small boy Pitchcat's age stood on the big rig next to them. He was signalling to Pitchcat.
He was the big rig's Imperator.
On every truck, motorcycle, rig and tanker, faces were gaping at Pitchcat.
Pitchcat froze completely.
He had no idea what to do.
The Imperator on the rig repeated the sequence. He could make out "Shoot".
They were coming closer to the Wretched flatbed.
And the flatbed was coming closer to the tankers.
Pitchcat almost jumped down to bring Cinder up.
Stupid. Trucks don't drive themselves.
What do I do? he thought.
The Imperator spoke to someone else in the tray. They signalled behind them and a motorcycle dashed off in the direction of the fuel tankers.
Pitchcat stood and stared like an idiot.
The tankers began to change their formation and flames buzzed out from their exhaust pipes as they tried to accelerate away from the flatbed.
There was a gulf in his stomach.
Suddenly, a flash of movement on one of the tankers caught his attention.
Pitchcat looked out and saw a Gastowner was hailing him in plant signs. He instinctively signed "awaiting orders".
The Gastowner explained the plan, and Pitchcat signed back "I will perform".
The Gastowner climbed down. A big skull and wheel banner soared noisily out from the tanker. Noisemakers clacked and buzzed from the other tankers.
It was back on.
Cinder accelerated, and soon they were nearing the side of the flatbed.
Men with hooks and rifles jumped down and started running alongside the truck as it bumped along. The rest of the Wretched surged to the near side of the trailer.
From behind them, the Imperator signalled "shoot" and Pitchcat opened the throttle. The gun danced around and shot out a quarter-power flame. The men jumped back on the tray.
Cinder slowly approached the front of the rig. Then she accelerated to overtake. Fire burst from the little truck's twin exhaust pipes.
Pitchcat lurched to the rear and the gun jerked up.
He grabbed the handle again and kept its nozzle pointed toward the cab as Cinder slowly angled in, getting Jawbone's truck in a straight line ahead of the giant flatbed.
Then Cinder held a constant distance in front of the cab. Pitchcat kept the trigger up. The cab of the flatbed was well out of range of his quarter-power flame.
They kept driving. The flatbed was accelerating toward the tankers and Cinder matched the speed.
There was no signal.
They got closer to the fuel tankers.
Soon, it seemed, the tankers would be threatened by a swarm of people from the flatbed.
Some figures on the tankers laid down and started to set up their long guns.
Finally the Imperator signed "shoot everything, no stopping".
Pitchcat turned the wheel to the max, then pumped the lever. The flame flew out at full power. The gun whirred, deafeningly loud. At the same instant, there were shots from the tankers and a spray of little flecks appeared on the narrow strip of windscreen.
Fire poured onto everything.
After a while, the truck started to sway. Pitchcat struggled to keep the flame on the windshield.
Finally, the driver jumped out, his grey hair smoking, and leapt onto the flatbed where some women rolled a blanket on him. Driverless, the truck slowed.
Pitchcat looked around. Everyone was cheering, signing "no stopping".
It had been a success.
The shots had dislodged the bulletproof windscreen enough to let some of the burning guzzoline in. They needed to come at exactly the same time as the flame, or the driver would have pulled the cladding on the windscreen up.
The flamethrower continued to roar.
Some Gastowners on the fuel trucks started a cricket chant. It made Pitchcat's heart leap.
He moved the flame around and wildly shouted out the words. He stretched his free arm up into the air above his head, slowly rocking down and back up. Rapturously pushing the sky down onto the burning cab.
As the flatbed stopped, so did everyone else, including all of the Gastowners' big fuel tankers.
Pitchcat kept the deluge going.
With his hand still on the lever, he turned back.
The big rig's little Imperator kept signalling "no stopping", jumping up and down on the deck of his truck for emphasis.
On a tanker, he saw Jawbone and his driver holding some long guns over their heads, barrels to the sky. They and the other snipers rocked back and forth in unison to the chant, and the waving arms of the Gastowners.
Burning guzzoline kept pouring out onto the cab. The bonnet had started to blacken.
Pitchcat was leaping about in the turret when a fuel tank exploded.
The whole crowd erupted into cheers as bits of burning metal soared and rained down.
Finally, the gas tank ran out and he let go of the lever.
It felt like the best day of his life.
Jawbone had found Pitchcat in the belly and asked him many questions about what happened in the turret.
They had spoken for an hour.
As Jawbone moved to go, Pitchcat stopped him.
"You can get it right?"
"No problem. Make a big list of everything you might possibly need, and I'll make sure it's taken to a vote at the next council meeting." He waved his arm and stepped away.
Pitchcat stood up.
"Jawbone. You have to get it right now. That guzzoline was bad. We're afraid to put the cladding back on. The gunner almost died. We can't use your tank. I can't even clean the gun with that stuff."
"OK. I'll get it done." the boy Imperator turned again and stumbled slowly off to his bench.
Pitchcat heard a subtle creak as Jawbone sat down behind the screen. The truck hit a rough patch, the driver changed gears, and things quietly vibrated. When the noise had died down, a voice floated through the partition.
"You're a good tech Pitch."
Pitchcat went up to see the gunner.
An hour later, he came back down and saw an enormous tank of guzzoline.
It was twice his height.
It took up his whole space, blocked off most of the way through the truck, and all of the daylight. His bedroll was neatly made up on top. He would barely fit between the tank and the ceiling. Two big pipes curled out the window.
As he moved over to it, he realized that the truck was listing slightly.
He hadn't even seen the flatbed.
Jawbone had drizzled some of the guzzoline on his pillow. Pitchcat could immediately tell that it was incredibly high quality guzzoline. He had never smelt anything like it.
He cursed, threw out his pillow, pulled the needlenose pliers from the pillowcase, and went around the tank.
Then, suspiciously, he came back.
Pitchcat climbed up to his bedroll.
It looked funny.
He ripped the cover off and stared. The piece of cladding he had used to hit the turnips at Wheelhorse and his boys was stuffed in his bedroll. The edges had been skillfully shaped, and leather wound around the narrow part.
It was now a perfect cricket bat.
The chair behind the partition creaked.
Pitchcat said nothing. He slid across the tank, found a cap that opened, pulled out a hose from his work overalls, and siphoned off some of the guzzoline into a small container.
He went back up to clean out the gun.
Far down in the bowels of his plant in Gastown, Pitchcat had been taught the many ways of cleaning metal surfaces. Some were more difficult than others. All of the pipes and buildings were covered in tar. It was the task of the plant lifers to periodically try to remove it. Sometimes, Pitchcat would clean a whole section, and imagine what the plant would look like without the tar. In his mind's eye, it shone like the sun. But no-one saluted his work any more. Because nowadays, they saluted other things.
Columns of haze floated up from the far-off rigs. Their banners were still out and they streamed into the headwind.
Pitchcat was sitting on the cab of the cricket net Imperator's truck as it swayed, watching a boy and girl batting in the nets. From far across on the mesh, a metal death's-head sculpture watched them too.
The Wheelhorse boys climbed up to him.
"That was shine today."
"We went and bartered some stuff with the Wretched people. You should come back and help us go through what we got."
The other boy grinned. "Yeah. After you fix their truck back up."
Pitchcat snorted. The older boy sat down next to him.
"I know why Immortan Joe sent up the flares."
Pitchcat stared. "Why?"
"He's chasing a rig. He wants it back. And whoever's inside it."
Pitchcat thought of all the armies on the road.
"Everyone wants to be the one who gets it back for him."
The picture of Immortan Joe in the book was on his mind. He didn't look like he was going to reward anyone for anything.
The boy in the net was teaching the girl how to bat. He had been letting her swing for a while, but now he decided to show her how it was really done.
He strode down to the crease.
The girl lobbed the ball.
And Pitchcat thumped his fist down, again and again, on the top of the cab.
It was the universal signal to accelerate.
As the ball came down, the exhaust pipes lit up, and the rig leapt forward.
Mid-swing, the boy went over and landed on his face.
The acclaim was unanimous. The girl clapped and one of Wheelhorse's boys yelled down "Show us an attacking shot!"
The boy put his finger up.
Pitchcat's response was to unbolt a piece of cladding and fling it onto him. He threw it back at Pitchcat and it went off the side.
Later, the boys climbed off and went back to Wheelhorse's truck. They clambered down into the belly to visit the Imperator.
He was working on a new clay pot.
The smooth, fine clay was painstakingly stippled and bound by perfect lines.
He had a tiny brush and was slowly painting up its raised edges, superbly highlighting the delicate terraces and whorls that spread over its surface.
Similar pots of all sizes lined his shelves, held in by custom brackets.
Pitchcat was amazed. It looked like a lost city from a fantastic tale.
They went out the back and crossed onto the kitty.
The containers they had got from the Wretched were full of rotting stuff. They stood in the kitty, pouring it out. They sorted the good containers from the damaged ones.
Jawbone waved from the roof of his truck.
He signalled "shoot".
Pitcat picked up his cricket bat. The younger boy threw up a container and Pitchcat smashed it into the back of Wheelhorse's truck.
The boys snickered.
Jawbone signalled "shoot everything".
Pitchcat lifted up the whole crate of broken containers and hurled it at the truck.
It exploded. Bits of metal, mould and wet vegetation fanned out across the tray and the rear door.
The three boys were laughing and rolling around in the kitty.
Jawbone whooped and jumped up and down on his truck. He crudely signed Pitchcat, using the very sparse plant signs that he could still remember.
It was the salute "Hail superior / I respect your work."
Pitchcat worked his way over to Jawbone's truck and climbed onto the tray.
Pitchcat was hanging off a rib on Jawbone's truck, about to swing onto the tray, when he heard Cinder talking, repressed anger in her voice.
"I couldn't find the needle-nosed pliers today. They weren't in their spot. Where are they?"
Pitchcat stopped in his tracks, not wanting to go in but with nowhere else to go.
Jawbone answered quietly.
"They'll turn up."
"Things don't just "turn up". You never really care about anything. The truck is listing because of your stupid stunt."
"Lucinda..."
"No. Do you know they're taking our flame gun off tomorrow? The Elapid Imperator has been lecturing anyone who will listen about wasting resources."
"There's a vote tonight. It could go either way."
"Jawbone! Listen to yourself! We're just battle fodder to them and you know it. This one isn't going to fix itself."
There was silence.
"Have you told Pitchcat?"
"No, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't say anything either."
"And when they take the gun away tomorrow, what will you tell him then, Jawbone?"
"He's tough. He'll deal with it."
"That's not what I mean and you know it. He can't do anything else. There's people here. What will happen to him?"
"Cinder, don't worry about it. The vote will go down. I'm sure of it."
There was silence.
"I just think you're being a horrible friend."
"Is there anything else you want to talk about?"
"My vote. You remember it, right?
"Yes. Your vote is also tonight. I'll put my own vote up. There's another 25 voting Imperators, so it may not happen."
Footsteps shuffled about. There was a sound as a crate slid.
More shuffling. Another crate slid.
Meanwhile, Jawbone was striding around in the belly of his truck.
Finally, he spoke.
"Remember when we put all this together?"
The shuffling stopped.
"Jawbone, I..." Cinder sighed.
Pitchcat's arms were hurting. The sun was setting.
Finally Pitchcat heard Cinder climbing up onto the roof. He had to wait for an eternity before someone he knew came past, and then he could finally get off from Jawbone's truck and go anywhere else.
It was dark when Pitchcat finally slumped into the belly.
Jawbone came out from his bench. He could tell that something was wrong.
Pitchcat was staring at the ceiling.
"Pitchcat. No cricket tonight. You have to come with me to the council meeting. Elapid wants to talk to you."
"If you say his name again, I'll smash your face I swear."
"Oh. You know about the vote."
"Jawbone!" Pitchcat jumped up. "Where the hell can I go?!" he hissed. "Where?!"
"Look, this'll blow over."
"No, Jaw."
"Elapid said..."
Pitchcat punched him in the eye.
The impact made Jawbone drop to one knee. He put his hand up and checked for blood.
"Alright then." he readied himself and rubbed a bruise on his neck. "I still owe you for that turnip."
In two minutes the place was destroyed. The floor was a foot deep with engine parts. Nothing was in its spot.
Cinder tramped in, walked right past them, and climbed up to the roof.
Jawbone started picking up the parts and stacking them as best he could. The crates they had been in were all broken.
Pitchcat said "Tell me what you saw."
"OK. But it's very important that you don't tell anyone." Jawbone took a breath.
"They say that Immortan Joe is chasing after the War Rig. It belongs to Imperator Furiosa. She drives it, repairs it, shoots from it, everything. None of the crew even sees the inside of the cab. Or the engine. Or the sniper's boxes. Have you heard of it?"
Pitchcat nodded.
"I told you I work some nights in a blackthumb shed in the Citadel, right?"
He nodded again.
"All the elite rigs go through there. There's a list of who is next up, and the Imperators have almost no control over it. Anyway..."
He was interrupted by a thump on the side of the truck.
"I have to go. I'll tell you later."
Pitchcat glared.
"Come on Pitchcat. The Buzzard line is coming up. I have to go get our orders."
Pitchcat shook his head slowly.
"Come on. I'll find you at the nets tomorrow night, and tell you the whole thing. Promise."
Pitchcat finally looked up. "Jaw. I'm not used to being out here."
"I promise I'll find you. Do you accept?"
Pitchcat smiled and shrugged.
Jawbone held up his palm, pinky finger extended.
"I'm not pinky-swearing Jaw!"
"OK." Jawbone went to climb out. He leaned down and put his pinky finger up again.
"But don't make me come over there!"
Later, up on the tank, Pitchcat couldn't sleep. He worried about Elapid's vendetta against him, the council meeting, and whether Jawbone could stop them. He feared the call to order that had interrupted Jawbone. Because he knew that somewhere, out there, the Buzzard armies were waiting.
Jawbone sat at the council meeting. Everyone had oiled their leathers and shined their shoulder-spikes. The Elapid Imperator was next to him, enjoying the sumptuous fare.
And tonight, the Gastowners had brought some greens.
They grew them in sophisticated, controlled environments, but the amount produced was exceedingly small.
The baby tomatoes rolled around on his plate as the flatbed swayed.
"Oh, Jawbone, before I forget. Send my best wishes to your uncle."
Elapid continued.
"You were very fortunate that I and the coucil voted yes to your blue sky proposal to independently recruit your own gas technician from Gastown. Many people I have a lot of respect for were against it. None of them would change their minds."
Jawbone was thinking about the upcoming flamethrower vote. He wondered whether, despite the rhetoric, Elapid would really act against Jawbone's wishes.
Elapid usually took Jawbone's advice, especially when dealing with Jawbone's affairs.
This appeared to be changing.
If that were true, it would cause a lot of problems.
Zmeya was talking loudly nearby. He had hugged Elapid tightly, stepped back beaming, touched his ear, then roughly pushed past Jawbone.
Jawbone was glad he didn't bring Pitchcat.
Zmeya was arguing with some Gastowners.
"No. The People Eater is the problem. He's what's holding Gastown back. We need leadership."
Jawbone looked down to his lap under the table.
He boredly opened the little satchel Zmeya used to keep valuables.
There was nothing in it and he kicked it under the table.
He looked up forlornly as, in the dim firelight, the voting machine went round.