Many described the end of the world as an outbreak of mistrust among people – supposedly in the event of great and strategic devastation the first thing people lost sight of was their sense of virtue. This is why Thomas agreed to let Charlie come with them on the condition that July stayed with Biscuit in the back seat with his pistol at the ready while Charlie sat in the passenger seat.
They had taken a gamble stealing a new Jeep from Bastille Point without knowing for sure what condition it was in, however after almost a day without errors, it was safe to assume this new vehicle would carry them at least to Red-Rock Pass. July began to hope that his prosthetic leg would carry him just as far as he rubbed his aching thigh.
For the first few hours Charlie didn’t say a word, preferring to deflect any of Tom’s attempts at conversation. She astounded to two travellers, an unfamiliar presence in their all too familiar world, shrouded in mystery that begged to be unravelled, yet July suspected he knew her type and was smart enough to not bother.
The justifications Charlie made for her silence made sense enough. “The less you know the better, for all of us,” she told Tom. It was a common thought in the wasteland; you have to trust someone to be betrayed.
There was no stronger bond between wasteland strangers than a common enemy. The road was now stripped bare of most vehicles, signs appeared every now and then with warnings painted in red or black: often ‘Raider Territory’ or ‘Turn Back’ or ‘Christians Piss Off!’
“Should stop the Templars following us,” Tom mentioned.
“Doubt it.”
The grizzly sight was strangely amusing – a life in the wasteland dulls one’s senses of the macabre. July stared across some way at the dried remains of a man upon a bench whose blackened skull gazed towards the sky, his features contorted by agony. July smiled gloomily and uttered: “And beyond time I stand. Abandon all hope ye who enter here.”
A dark cloud loomed over the next settlement they approached, inflicting a tightness in their chests – at least for July and Thomas – that urged them to slow down and keep their distance. The downside to driving a car through the wasteland is the amount of dust one kicks up in the process, a trail that hungry Raiders often look out for. Though still far away, a great deal of commotion could now be seen, as threatening figures gathered in the distant battered street.
“Stop the car,” said Charlie.
“What?” Tom interjected, but brought the car to a gradual stop.
July leaned forward. “What’s going on?”
Charlie opened her door. “We need to see who it is.” She went to the back of the jeep and ruffled through her bag, taking out a case that contained the scope for her Barret M82. She held it to her eye for a long time, her expression growing dim as she scanned the distant streets. July used the scope next.
Through the lens was a scene July recognised, but never before had he faced its harsh reality; half a dozen raiders bearing an assortment of firearms from AK-47s to hunting rifles were rounding up prisoners, forcing them to line up facing the container of an overturned truck, their trembling hands placed on their heads. The raiders took their time, several sitting around having a smoke, some beating a prisoner with their guns, others looting the clothes from the freshly executed. July’s hands tightened around the scope.
“See the woman on the other side of the road?” Charley whispered. “She’s sitting on a crate.”
July nodded. The lens trailed to the left and settled on the lonely figure. The woman appeared short but lethal, as if she embodied the chaos and treachery of the wasteland itself, a born killer gazing at her reflection in the bloodstained steel of her machete. Scars raked her tan skin, a deep jagged line ran down her lean belly, another curved from her back beneath her ribs, another gouged from the edge of her mouth and marked the right side of her face. The side and back of her head were shaved and faded orange locks fell down over her left eye. Beneath the scars, she had a firm jaw, pointed chin, slightly bent nose, and merciless eyes. A tattoo of the Raider Skull marked her upper thigh and an assortment of flowers were tattooed on her upper arm.
“Leah Mackenzie,” Charlie went on. “Mitch Buster’s right hand. Supposedly she’s going to take over when Buster kicks it. Damn Raider’s treat her like a queen. Very smart, very dangerous. We should keep moving.”
Through the lens, they saw Leah stand up and point her machete at her men, she uttered some words and they raised their weapons to the line of weeping prisoners. July turned away. He knew what happened next.
“C’mon,” said Tom, returning to the driver’s seat. “Before someone sees us.”
They didn’t stop until long into the night.
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