oOo
PART FOUR:
RIDING FOR A FALL
oOo
This was an aberration. Lunacy. Madness.
Is it too late to run?
I know I'm trapped in here, in the cave, at least for now. I understand.
But the need rushes through my veins along with blood. I'm hungry to run, to chase nothing but freedom. To feel the relentless heat, and harsh wind, and abrasive sand on my skin again. The stable and solid rock under my feet feels constraining. I want slippery and shifting dirt under my feet, caked in a thin crusty layer on my clothes and under my nails.
This cleanliness, this calmness is outlandish to me now. It feels too vulnerable.
The long and the short of it is, I'm mad.
But that woman is even crazier than I.
She left me dazed on the cave floor, looking at the rocky ceiling, trying to gather my bearings after the insanity that transpired between the two of us. At least we both had the presence of mind only to use our hands. What was that, anyway?
I still tremble with last remnants of the excitement and shock when she dresses and starts her climb. My clothes are still wet, like hers, so I linger on the cave floor nude and confused for the time being. What a funny picture that must be.
The woman climbs with expertise and agility. Clearly, she has done this before. Now I can see in all their glory the muscles in her back and thighs, bulging with exertion; deceptively lean on the first glance, for their obvious strength.
She winds her way up to the hole, and I hope the edge won't crumble. It seems like the gap we fell into is mostly solid rock. Perhaps someone covered it to preserve water, and we unwittingly marched into what is someone's well. Maybe it was a naturally thin cave wall, and we were the first beings heavy enough to shatter it. The truth is, even if her bike is relatively light, with all the gear and her bodyweight it's easily over two hundred kilos.
I hold my breath for a moment, as she nears the end of her journey. It's amazing how strong she is, hanging on near flat rock anchored solely on her fingertips. I exhale only when she manages to fling her arm up into the surface and slowly pulls back into the sun-drenched landscape.
It's time for me to dress.
oOo
It's already dark by the time we manage to pull everything up. By some miracle, the rope didn't snap when she used the Reaver to get her bike out.
We camp by the gap, huddled close to the machines. No fire.
The woman doesn't talk much, and I try not to look at her too often. It's as if the episode in the cave didn't happen at all. As if we were still only two wanderers sharing the road we travel and nothing else.
Of course, that's the smart way to approach it. The reasonable way. We should be as far apart, as we can.
I crane my head up to look at the stars. Should have mapped this spot already. But I can't bring myself to leave her alone, not now. Tomorrow, perhaps, in the morning. I'll probably wake before her.
But I need the stars to measure the angle...
She straightens suddenly, motioning for me to stay in my spot. Bathroom break. Now it's the best time to get out my treasured piece of cloth, and pierce my flesh, and mark this spot for future use. The bus and the truck are good road signs. The mountain range we're scaling has some unique formations too. It would be easy to find later on.
The truth is - I don't want to leave a trace of this. Not on my map, not in my head.
But she's already here, lodged comfortably between Jesse and Sprog, between The Valkyries and Furiosa. Smiling so sweetly, enticingly, reaching out to me with a hand glistening with water...
An abundance of water all around me...
A fucking siren, that's what she is. Not a measly mermaid of fairytales and children's stories, but a mythical being preying on weak men.
Such as I.
When she comes back, I pretend to be asleep.
oOo
There's a storm brewing.
The air crackles with electricity and were both on edge. Not like it's going to rain. But clouds are gathering in a thick blanket on the horizon, mounting one above the other, rising in a never-ending crescent of perspiration. It will dissipate before droplets could ever reach the earth. If not, chances are the rain will be short and sparse, falling on a small patch of land in an acidic curtain.
What I wouldn't give to feel warm drops of rain falling down on my skin.
But I know it won't ever happen. The few short hours in the cave were the only respite I'll get in the foreseeable future from the heat and cold of the desert. This is a rare occurrence here, and I know wishing for rain won't do me any good.
Still, I long for it.
The woman is silent beside me, as one of my ghosts. Its unsettling, how calm she is, how collected. As if it never happened. Her lips were never pressed to mine. Her hands didn't caress ropes of scars on my back. Her breath didn't stutter when I pushed my fingers deep between her folds.
Was it all in my head?
The storm is rising before us in a pillar of dust.
Without a word, we stop at the nearest outcrop. The bikes make up one wall of the shelter, while the rock provides two other. It should be fine.
I'm forced to revisit that statement when it's time for us to settle. The woman (What is her name? How do I call her?) folds herself close to me. It's reasonable. Logical. Practical.
I can't forget the way she writhed on top of me, or licked her lips, or kissed my skin.
The sand is abrasive, grains frantically dancing on the wind, and soon my only thoughts are of survival.
She drenched our scarfs in water, and I gave her some of my vaseline to protect her nose. That's it. It's all we have until the dust storm passes. That and our bodies, huddled close, touching hip to hip.
It descends like a curtain dropped suddenly and without care. The churning mass of air and sand roars over us, slamming rocks and debris like a bully with a vengeance. But the wasteland doesn't need any reason to try to kill us. It's always that - a magnificent view and a moment of beauty paired up to distract anyone stupid enough to get themselves killed.
Stupid fucker that I am, I marvel at the brilliance of hues beyond the sand raging all around. I wonder if the woman can see the incredible play of colour from behind her goggles.
oOo
By the third day after, I'm almost back to my old self.
This patch of the wasteland is completely flat. Rough gravel paves a good road in all direction, so we use the last of the fuel to power through. I should know better. Instead of stupidly cutting through in the shortest but most dangerous route I should have taken the big arching path to the south.
I'm too anxious to get rid of the woman and get my peace, and my ghosts, back. I'm hot and irritated. Hungry. Tired.
Just another day in the wasteland.
It's the last thought that I recollect clearly before the adrenaline rush. And then, we fall into a trap. Granted, it was one set carefully, and with much consideration. A hard one to cuts through the hum of the Reavers' engine. I turn back and see three vehicles behind. Scavengers. Closing in on us, fast.
There is nowhere to run.
I turn to the woman, see that she noticed too, and lock my eyes on her goggles. She nods. It's getting harder and harder not to grin. I'm elated with the prospect of what's about to happen.
She cackles beside me when we slow our bikes.
The gun is already in her hand, and I aim the one I grasp besides her. The shots are slow, considered, accurate. I take the vehicle on the left, while she dispatches the one on the right. The drivers are down. She gets the person behind the wheel in the middle car when they are just before us. I blow up one of the front tires, making the vehicle swerve and crash into his fellow on the left.
The woman turns and follows the third car with the muzzle of her gun. I see the target. Stupid fuckers mounted an additional tank in plain view.
It erupts into a brilliant bonnet of red, black and yellow. An animalistic scream pierces my ears.
Two cars left still.
Looming shadow of the passing cloud spills before me when I shuffle close to the wrecked cars. The sun sets, and its orange rays reflect off of the cumulus, bathing everything in a grotesque hue.
Each and every day of my life feels surreal. Each and every moment is like watching a stranger, a deranged man, acting in a way that would make me gasp and scream.
It's my new norm now. It's what's expected, what's needed. I relish ridding the wasteland of the scavenger scum polluting it. There is nothing civilised in my pleasure at blowing the brains out of a useless piece of shit. I used to mourn every death, once upon a time. Not anymore. Not for a long while. Only survival matters now.
There is no doubt in my mind I'd be dead or on my way to death if I didn't shoot first. The experience of the wasteland taught me to know in an instant who was a threat and who could be an asset, one way or the other.
The woman strips the bodies with me, rummaging through the junk in the cars to get anything of value. Ammo, guzzoline, food, water, trinkets. There's a lot of it between us two.
We drive away when it's dark, intent on getting as far away as possible in the least amount of time. When the flames of the still burning car shrink into a little twinkling light we'll get down to rest. For now, the gravel jumps in long curving tails from under the back wheels of the Reaver and the woman's bike. A symphony of noises. The night air is so deliciously damp and cold on the skin of my face. The stinging from constant sunburn subsides, and I get back into my head for a little while. My old, unbroken self, gets back the reins and just enjoys the night ride through the desert.
oOo
I wake up with a start.
"It's okay, you're safe," she says carefully from her spot by the bike. Her tone aims for confident and calm but misses its mark by a hair. "It's alright now."
I squint and frown at her all at the same time, trying to understand what woke me up in the first place. She's still on her bedroll and doesn't appear to have moved. No one seems to be near. The night is still dark and quiet.
"You screamed," she explains at length. "I threw a rock at you, to snap you out of that dream."
It registers after a second. My forehead does have an unfamiliar throbbing sting, a little to the side...
"You threw a rock at me?"
"Well, what else could I do and not alert anyone in the nearest vicinity that we're here?" she hisses.
I only grunt to that and turn more comfortably on my side. Facing her openly, measuring her words. It's true, I have to admit, if I did as much as talk in my sleep that could be dangerous. To be honest, I'm surprised it took this long to surface at all.
"I think I recognised some of the markings on those cars," she says.
Now, this is unexpected. A change of subject to spare me some of the discomfort? How merciful.
"I heard of a scavengers tribe like that once. We may be a little too far south from my home, but we're getting there."
"Good," I say because it is. Right? That's what we're teamed up for. To get her home, get me the pay, and part ways.
"Your shoulder seems almost healed now," she throws the comment like a lifeline to get me out of my head.
That's right, I barely registered the pain from it anymore. The constant tingling of the sunburnt skin is more irritating than this. I can use it almost as I would before the fall.
I roll to my back and look towards the sky. Stars are visible, but there are a few patches of clouds here and there. Deceiving people into thinking there could be rain or respite.
Not in this life.
Not out in the wasteland.
She sighs and I wait until she breathes evenly before I close my eyes again.
oOo
I can feel the end of our journey is near. Don't know how, but it's one of those things that you don't question. Like Sprog's warnings, or Furiosa's sarcastic sideways glance. Million information compressed into a tenth of a second.
It's not far now.
I can't wait until I am alone again.
I dread being left only with my ghosts again.
I fear wanting to stay on the road with another human being.
None of that is showing on my face, but I blurt some nonsense in my sleep again. I'm sure of it because in the mornings she looks at me differently when she thinks I don't notice.
Softly, pitifully.
There's no place for that in the wastelands.
This night we have fire and can roast some lizards. The woman cleans her bike, then eats in silence in a routine that seems too familiar by now. I take care of the Reaver, but I'm distracted, thoughts running through my head in short bursts, spilling all at once, bouncing one off the other too fast to leave a coherent sentence for me to hang on to.
My skin crawls with unease. During the day the sweat, along with caked on sand irritates me, itches in places I can't reach. Then, there's the wind at nights. Strong and cold gusts of air fall down on our camp in regular intervals, like waves eating at the shore.
Sometimes I wish for silence.
The wasteland is never truly silent. There's always a rush of sounds. Of blood in my ears, or of gale on my skin, or of sand underneath the tyres. Hurry up and die, or hurry up and live. I never know which is it in the end.
If only I could understand all those whispers. Sometimes they talk all at once, even if I feel like all the world has muted and closed its ears.
A rustle attracts my attention. It's the woman. She sits up, shifts to her knees and stands. Then proceeds to angrily take off her clothes. Scarf and goggles land softly on her bedroll, then the belt thuds heavily. She sneers like the canvas jacket did something to displease her, as apparently did her light linen shirt. It's so much different from the way she disrobed back in the cave. Now it's as if the clothes burned her, ate at her skin, melted into her hair.
She has to sit down to unlace and yank off her shoes, and she does it frantically almost. Never even a whimper escapes her lips during all this commotion. Her wrappings off her legs, she stands up and finally, a sound leaves her lips.
She sighs, then turns towards me.
Why is she coming here?
The question never reaches my lips.
The woman falls to her knees beside my bedroll.
"That itch," she mumbles, "I can't get rid of it."
I'm halfway up when she reaches me, so now we're nearly face to face. I shift to my knees as well and grab her by the arms, to maintain the distance between us.
I have no idea what is she talking about. The answer is clear.
"Your problem, not mine. Deal with it."
"I am."
The words left her tongue at the same moment when she twisted her palms to grab my biceps. Just that, just a touch of hands on my body, through the leather of the jacket and fabric of my shirt, and I am almost leaning into her.
I let her guide my palms, again.
Delicately, and without insisting, her right-hand slides down to my elbow, pushing my whole arm towards her. I loosen the grip on her flesh, and she smiles softly, tracing the length of my forearm as far as she can reach. When my skin touches her bare back, she closes her eyes and touches her forehead to mine.
"Scratch," she whispers.
And I do. I rake my nails down her spine, relishing the curve of it, as she moans lowly and presses even closer. On the way up I press on her muscles, delicately, just enough to feel the bones of her ribcage under the skin. Then it's back to scoring down her spine, and across her shoulder blades, over her clavicles and underneath her breasts.
Her hands twist the fabric at my chest, grabbing the sweatshirt for support and grounding her into the moment.
I'm too hot and too cold, all at the same time. Her skin is cool to the touch but runs hot and red where my nails left a trail of raised welts. The marks look like a tattoo.
I grab her by the buttocks, filling my palms with the softness there. The plumpness speaks of wealth and safety. But obviously, she has a taste for danger. There's recklessness in the way she presses herself even closer to my body, a helpless resignation to the whim, the itch, that made her come here.
She exhales loudly when I press her insistently to my abdomen, the hardness unmistakeable and bold.
My forehead still touches hers when I feel the rough skin of her knuckles under my shirt. I close my eyes, focusing only on the weight of soft flesh in my hands, and sharp nails tracing a sure path down my stomach.
It's far too easy to fall. I know exactly what she intends to do.
I was like her, once. The perfect predator, the perfect prey. The wasteland blurs lines between the two.
The buckle comes undone almost without a sound and the leather of my pants parts with minimal resistance. There's not much in her way.
Vaguely, I'm aware of the too tight grasp I have on her, because she hisses, at the same time I do. But I do for an entirely different reason. The cold night air is almost soothing on my exposed skin. I open my eyes to watch the need build inside her eyes.
She slicks her lips with one fast lick of her tongue, glistening under the starlight. I can't gauge her mood at the moment, all of my thoughts focused below the waist, on her hand holding my cock.
I don't flinch, don't jerk away. Only bite my bottom lip and gulp down a moan.
Nothing in the wasteland had the right to be this gentle and survive.
Her left hand grips at my shoulder and she presses impossibly close, stomach to stomach, lifting her right knee momentarily. Her foot is on tiptoes when she angles her hips just so, and I slide inside her tight heat. Then she lowers her knee back down and we're close, so close together, even my breath isn't entirely my own.
I didn't remember a woman being this hot. Captivatingly sweet and wet. Tight and soft at the same time.
Both her hands are at the back of my neck now, holding tight. She whimpers and squeezes the muscles in her thighs, and - oh god - it's the best torture. I barely can move, but there's no real need to, not yet. A slight tip of my hips is enough to push my cock deeper inside, to wrangle a satisfied sigh out of her mouth, and straight into mine.
Contrary to what I want to pretend before myself, there is no dizziness clouding my reason. My head is absolutely clear. I can feel, see, and remember everything in razor-sharp detail.
How her nostrils flare at every intake of her shortened breath.
How she knits her eyebrows in concentration, squeezing me with her internal muscles.
How her wetness leaks out, tickling the fine hair at the top of my thighs.
The grasp on my shoulders turns desperate. She strains for the release, but doesn't hurry. If anything, she seems more thorough, more intent on getting each and every movement exactly right.
It does feel perfect.
The pleasure is almost agonising. Although she does most of the work, I'm not idle. Every upstroke is mine, with my hands on her hips, my pelvis grinding insistently up and up. Each backstroke is hers, with her muscles tensing, grabbing, pulling...
I can't breathe anymore, the mingling of air and moans between us suddenly too much. I grab her hair with one palm, press my head to her shoulder and now that I can gulp the cold desert air, now I begin to move in earnest.
The woman sinks her nails in the leather of my jacket and holds fast.
I'm tensed into a stone, rigid muscles focused only on one task.
This is what freedom should feel like. Not the constant fear and exhaustion, but this, pure pleasure and elation.
Her mouth is at my ear, whispering spells and demands. I go faster when she tells me to. I go deeper, although I don't think it's possible. I go harder, throwing my head back, feeling first her lips at my craned neck, then her teeth, and finally her climax.
She's almost spilling through my hands when she's done, but she tries to hold on. I ram my cock up ruthlessly, chest heaving in the futile effort to give me enough oxygen to calm down that frantic heartbeat. It grows into a stampede, and blinds me with a white rush of the finish.
Tranquillity does come soon after that, under the guise of a feather-light kiss.
I don't even know, when exactly I fall back onto my bedroll, and then - asleep.
oOo
On the next day, it all seems like a dream.
Wordlessly as always, we gather all our supplies in the morning, clean up the campsite and set on our way. Just like any other day.
My mind wanders, trapped in between last night and the brightness of the day. What will happen when we stop to sleep this time? Will she come to me again? Will I mark the spot on my map? Will Sprog hop out of her hiding behind my eyelids, and remind me all of the things I thought long forgotten?
Fuck.
I'm distracted, barely seeing what's before me. The landscape is monotone, and I let it blur in the corners of my vision. We ride as much as possible, to get the last leg of the journey as fast, as possible.
Like a blind dog, I walk straight into a trap. Again.
We're surrounded before I can even register that there are guns - a lot of guns - pointed at my face. My gloves creak weakly when I tighten the hold on the handles of the Reaver. Just a second ago this was an uninhabited, empty plain. The group literally appeared out of thin air.
I would fight, but what is there to do? Where could we run?
"You're trespassing."
The voice, low and growling, comes from behind us. I angle my head a bit - not too much - to hear better. Too many opponents, too many variables. I just need to wait it out, long enough to see an opening.
"Trespassers are dealt with swiftly here," the voice continues, clearly mocking.
What would they want? Bikes? Weapons? Blood?
"How exactly, pray tell?" The question rings out clearly from my left. Fighting the urge to snap my head I try to hide my rising panic.
"Shut up," I hiss at the woman through clenched teeth. What is this madness? Why would she say that?
"Who asked that," the male voice rasps.
My companion stupidly revealed her cards, and all I can do now is calculate. Women are a precious commodity. She is marked, and clearly, they know she has more value beyond the obvious.
If the guy closest to me looks away, I could try getting behind him and maybe shoot his pal with...
Before I finish my thought I see the woman taking off the wrapping from her palm. In a steady and confident gesture, she raises her arm, elegantly showing the tattoo to all of the people around us.
"No, but I insist. Do tell, what happens to trespassers here? And while you're at it, I'd like to know which of my brothers you report to."
What? Brothers?
I'm not the only one astonished by her words. The men and women murmur and look towards that mysterious figure behind our backs.
"Impossible!" he yells. But it's weak and comes out pathetic. Most of the guns are lowered, although still directed towards us.
The woman finally turns towards him, unimpeded by anyone. She makes a show out of looking the yeller up and down.
"Ah, weak chin, red hair, iron knuckles... You have to be Paddy Knuckles."
"You've heard about me," he says triumphantly, preening before his men.
"Sure I did," she replies, amiably at first glance.
I'm sure she smiled while saying that. I'm also pretty certain that smile did not bode well for poor Paddy. Her back is straightened in a way I saw once before. When she prepared to kill those scavengers. It's like glee radiating off of her frame. Still contained, but barely.
Not for the first time, I wonder if I am the mad one here, or if it's she.
"I heard that you're a crafty one."
"I sure am."
"That means I don't have to spell out the deal here, do I?"
Silence.
Some of the people sniggered after a few seconds. I would huff a chuckle too - if I wouldn't know how dangerous was the game she played. Was her leverage really big enough to humiliate the guy in front of his men?
"Fine, let's do it this way since you like to play dumb." She sighs, practically radiating exasperation. "I'm taking over. Any complaints may be referred to Master Proton."
The name changed the atmosphere around us as if the air instantly thickened.
"I'm in no mood to chit-chat any longer. You know who gets rewarded here, and for what. And who gets punished." She cocked her head at Paddy. Despite the goggles, he must have seen something in her eyes. "Time to do your job."
I don't know what was it in the end, her confidence or whatever that tattoo signified, but to my amazement, the group puts away their weapons.
She gives a few orders, and I watch everything around me, adrift in the situation without a clear definition of a role. What am I now? A guest? A hostage?
What is she?
Somebody gives me a pitcher of guzzoline. I let the Reaver drink it all, then wait for everyone to take their vehicles out of hiding.
The woman looks at me, finally, for the first time since this surreal ordeal started. That tattooed palm reaches up to her scarf and she slides it down. Takes a big gulp out of a canteen, then hands it to me.
When I reach for it she doesn't let go. Makes sure I look right at her. She mouths at me two words. They make the skin on my back crawl and tighten at the same time.
Trust me, is what my mind interprets from the movement of her lips.
And then she straightens back up. Orders the oblivious crowd to go.
They escort us in silence. As a sign of good will, they ride in a big spear-shaped formation towards our destination, letting me and the woman tag as the very last, along with Paddy.
No one notices that I'm not all there. I feel like my soul shattered and I leave a breadcrumb-like trail of it behind me, piece by piece, hollowing out the closer we get to the woman's home.
What awaits me there?
Maybe I just got dizzy from the fumes.
I slow down and stop the Reaver. This is madness. Why would I go wherever they're leading me?
The woman notices first. She gives Paddy some kind of gesture, and they keep on riding, slower and constantly looking back, but away and away.
I'm not getting calmer just yet, but this helps.
She's by me in an instant.
"You need food. And water. And guzzoline."
"I can take care of myself."
"I know you can. You're my bodyguard." The goggles slide down with an impatient movement of her hand, along with the scarf. In the sharp sun, I can see that her hair has fiery strands. I never noticed that before.
Her eyebrows are matted with dust, lips chapped and dry. Still, she smiles and my stupid brain sees her for a split second like she was out in that cave, dripping with water. Enchanting, bewitching, alluring.
A fucking siren is what she is. Even when there's not a drop of moisture in sight.
"Let me take care of you."
I bite my lip, considering.
None of the questions running through my mind make it out of my mouth. Not even the one that stubbornly flashes in my head over and over again.
Like how you did in that cave? Like how you did last night?
I want to ask, but I'm too scared of her answer.
Shaking my head I frown and feign confidence that I've long lost.
"I only need pay for my work. Deal's a deal."
Her smile fades, but those eyes still carry some elusive charm. It's the colour. That must be it. The green.
"Deal's a deal," she echoes. "Come on, then."
And I go - stupid, stupid, stupid - like the idiot fucker that I am.
Where is Sprog, Angharad, Jesse? Why won't anybody talk me out of it?
Before I notice, we're there. To my defence, there's not much landscape-wise to see. A hill rising gently out of the desert. Rocky as anything besides it. But there is a gate, a massive maw of a gate, guarding an entrance to the belly of that hill.
The spearhead of the motorcade reaches it long before both of us, and as we arrive I can clearly see inside. There are people and bikes. Fire and water. Plants, growing freely, for all to touch.
She stops just before the entrance. There's a man there, weighted down with hardship and years. She leaves the bike on the road and sprints towards him.
I watch his joy and gauge her reaction. She's pleased but uneasy.
I wonder why, only until she turns towards me.
She waits for me to come.
Life is cheap in the wastelands.
But even if cheap - it still has some worth.
I just have to decide what mine is worth in this very moment.
The gate of the oasis beckons, as do the woman's lush green eyes.
Water. Shelter. Food.
The gravel creaks under my boots with each step. The finality of my decision thudding heavily with every nervous beat of my heart. Each step is measured and careful.
A misstep could have cost me my life.
oOo
THE END