2000 miles to Wasteland

 

The sun relentlessly scorched the barren desert wasteland. The radioactive dust swirled and raged, preventing any life from flourishing. Only the strong and mobile survive. The relics of the old world lay in waste, standing guard against the weight of time, the press of rust, staring into oblivion. In the distance, a low roar followed by a roostertail of dust. The ancient machine loped along, spewing the burnt souls of prehistoric creatures, leaving blue smoke and white dust in its wake. The Malaise-era V8 moaned and spat as it clamoured for whatever scraps of horsepower it could muster. Decades of neglect, millions of miles of brutal terrain, ordinance from enemy vehicles and the march of wear and tear had taken its toll on the contraption, yet, like a zombie, the car presses on.

Like the chariot that he wrangles, the driver was equally rusted and hollow. Time had smashed him equally as hard as the car. Tired, vacant eyes stared out at the tan and blue abyss hidden behind polarized military goggles. The cracked iPod Nano, hooked up to the tape adapter, was pushing out some Flock of Seaguls, which could barely be heard over the drone of the rusted out exhaust, the squeaks and clangs of the suspension tirelessly working itself like a powerlifter on steroids and the roar of the off-road tires jouncing over the cracked and crumbling highway and the ticking from the Geiger counter affixed to the dash, reading faint amounts of radioactivity. The last remaining working speaker crackled as it screamed to the world, its cry falling into the dust like a late fall’s acid-rain.

The road called. The big event was going to commence in three days. It was imperative that he be there since work was kind of slow. The man call Kreuz was one of the last genuine Helldrivers left for hire. Being a Helldriver meant being a Jack of all Trades of the road. Everything from parcel and personnel delivery to scouting, recon and armed convoy escort services. Most Helldrivers have been killed or have taken the easy way out, joining the gangs of Road Pirates, Marauders and Raiders to terrorize the wastes. Very few have held true to the Helldrivers Creed, “Live, Drive, Survive.” To Kreuz, speed means freedom of the soul, Mobility is life and the road always beckons. The big event, the event where all the tribes cease or suspend their feuds, rivalries and wars and for four days, come together as one. One group of Mankind to celebrate one more year amongst the living, amongst the roadworthy. A time to open up trade, forgive and forget, to celebrate and mourn, to live and love, to drink and dance, and for Kreuz, to make money.

I-40 is the only real remaining path from the ruins of Chicago to the deserts of the New Republic of California. All other roads are impassable around harvest time. He laughed “Harvest what? Dirt? Pfft, ‘Harvest time.’” There lays about 2000 miles of perile and doom between his front bumper and the potential wealth of the Big Event. He grows anxious to see his fellow Helldrivers and to crash vessels and words together. The din of conversation and music and the glow of the fires dancing in the sky against the deep purple star-strewn sky drowned out the pinging and knocking from the 351M engine. The BRAKE indicator blazed brightly as it has done so for decades. But, this time, the OIL indicator sparked to life. Kreuz snapped out of his euphoria and reined the Cougar to a grinding halt. Time to top off the fluids. Three, five gallon cans of gas, filled with the lifeblood of his previous conquest, (a hacked up Nevada State Police car full of raiders) sloshed into the gas tank. He checked the oil in the dusty motor, bone dry. He was on his last 3 jugs of used oil… and then there were two. He leaned on the dented, checkerstrewn fender and wiped the sweat off his neck. He uncapped the years old soda bottle and took a swig of the warm water and bared his teeth at the bitter taste of radiation. Its everywhere, in low doses, but its everywhere. It permeates all things much like the sand. It is all around us like a poisonous God, punishing the survivors for the sins of the incinerated.

 

Just then, the sanctity of the absence of sound was shattered by another low roar. Kreuz could barely pick out the sound of an engine. He leaned over the drivers side door sill and produced a set of binoculars. He pondered for a second the origin of the looking glass, but quickly leveled them to identify the sound. Cresting a hill a couple miles back was a bright gleam if metal. Kreuz focused the glasses and spoke. “Ah, a fine specimen you are.” He could identify the high RPM whine and the frog-like roofline as an old Mazda rotary. IT blew passed a charred, overturned box truck as it barreled towards him. He cracked open the 357 Magnum and checked the 2 remaining rounds. Yep, still there, he thought to himself. He racked the 12 gauge and made sure that he still had the four shells left.

The Cougar’s springs squeaked as the driver’s door slammed shut. The motor turned sluggishly due to the excessive heat but roared to life. The mud tires kicked up plumes of dust as the Mercury screamed back onto the highway, tires protesting in vain. He adjusted the mirror as the the Mazda crested into view, the passenger wearing a gas mask and holding a crossbow, was leaning out the window and slapping the roof of the little Japanese car. Kreuz smiled as the speedometer waivered around 85. The Mazda approached from the passenger side, the bowman adjusting his aim. Kreuz laughed and cranked the steering wheel to the right, sending the 2 ton Cougar into the side of the lightweight RX7. The Bowman fired an arrow into the sky as he tumbled out of the passenger window and disappearing into the distance. The Driver of the Mazda downshifted and sped up the the passenger window of the Cougar. Kreuz glanced over and slammed on the brakes as the driver fired an uzi into the Cougar. Plastic and glass shards flew about the cockpit of the Mercury as the bullets collided with the metalwork. The tires cried in agony as the locked up, grinding into the hot asphault. Kreuz stopped the accelerator and the Cougar downshifted through detent and revved wildly, trying to find a gear. The Mazda swerved wildly between the two lanes as the driver slowed down. The Cougar caught second gear and lurched forward, sending the front bumper right into the tailpanel of the Mazda. Crimson and amber exploded from the taillights as the sedan muscled the Mazda into a spin. Kreuz glanced over to see the driver of the Mazda freeze hopelessly  as the car spun numerous times before flipping into the wasteland in a spectacular shower of sand and parts.

The Cougar slid sideways to a halt, blocking the two-laned highway. Kreuz swung the door open, shotgun hanging lazily towards the ground. He sauntered over and peered into the passenger compartment of the steaming, ticking wreck. The kid was wearing a black t-shirt, aviator sunglasses and camouflage pants. His face was bloody and he was panting. Kreuz leveled the shotgun and before the kid could mount a protest, the 12 gauge sung its deadly song. The interior was painted in gore. Kreuz ran back to his car and brought back anything that could catch the precious liquids, soaking into the desert sands. Hubcaps, drain pans, cups and helmets caught the essential lifebloods of the rotary. This was life, now. After all that was valuable has been relinquished from the Mazda, Kreuz set off again. It was going to be a long drive. He must hurry if he wants to take advantage of the safety and security of the Great 40 Migration, a caravan of Event goers who, like in the Event itself, put aside their differences and help each other out to achieve their common goal, make it alive. The Cougar roaded away into the distance, leaving the smoldering wreck in its wake.