Freedom & Chrome || Book 1 ENGLISH

Welcome to the clan

The sun stood hot and high at the bright, faded sky. Crickets and cicadas chirped in the few rare bushes, hidden in the shadows. The wind blew up the dry, dusty sand and swirled it like little storms over the hills.

A tousled mop of black hair blew in the light breeze, the boy's right foot firmly planted on the washed-out ground. Gripping the steering wheel of his mountain bike tightly, the boy gazed down the hill. His goggles sat firmly over his big, ocean-blue eyes. The goggles would protect his eyes from flying dust and sand. He smiled all over his face, today was the day he would conquer the Wastelands. "For glory and honor!" he bellowed a war cry he had picked up in an old movie the previous day before pedaling and racing down the hill. The wheels of the rusty bicycle squealed protestingly with each turn, sand kicked up behind, leaving a fine cloud of dust behind him. The wheels rolled over pebbles and stones, small lizards scurrying to safety at the last second before the bike could hit them.

He cheered and laughed at the increasing speed and the warm air tugging at his clothes, blowing into his face and through his hair. Triumphantly, he stretched his legs away from himself and let the hill and gravity took over completely. Free as a bird, he closed his eyes and enjoyed everything around him. How the wind tugged at him, how the ground beneath him made the bike jerk and roll, how no one could give him tasks to do. Doing chores in the clan was lame, it wasn't fun at all to help set up the tents or sort the supplies. He much preferred being out here on his bike, feeling the hot desert sun on his skin. There was nothing but him and the desert in this one moment.

With a powerful jolt, the bike made a sudden leap forward as the rear wheel lost its contact to the ground and the front wheel hit a large rock sticking out of the ground. Startled, he wrenched his eyes open and tried to get his feet back on the pedals at the last moment, hoping to still regain control of the bike. But it was too late. His body flew over the steering wheel and landed ungently in the desert sand. Blinking, he remained lying on his back, his breathing heavy and staring up at the pale blue sky in bewilderment. His bike lay on its side next to him, the rear wheel still quietly squeaking. Adrenaline pulsed through his veins, causing him not to feel the deep cut above his eyebrow that crossed half his forehead. His knees and elbows were scratched and dirty from the small pebbles and sand that had driven into his skin on impact. After the initial shock wore off, he jumped back up on eager legs and clenched his little hands into fists triumphantly and began laughing mischievously. What a stunt!

"Again!" he cheered loudly, and was about to reach for his bent bike again when a panicked voice echoed over the hills.

"Vincent!" his mother shouted anxiously, she had to watch her son tumbling down the hill and crashing to the ground. He took off his goggles and showed his snow-white teeth as he grinned, with a small gap still visible in the center.

"Did you see me, mom? How fast i was?" he asked proudly, still excited and jittery.

"Yes, I did, and also how you fell to the ground. Look at you, your forehead is bleeding," she scolded worriedly, eyeing him up and down to get an idea of how badly he might be hurt.

"Really?" he asked in surprise. His dirty fingers gently stroked his head until he felt a burning sting at the touch. "Ouch."

"Come on, I'll take care of it," his mother said, taking him by the hand and gently pulling him along to their big tent. His mother got a bowl of fresh water, bandages and a clean towel from a kitchen, from one of the trailers, to clean his wounds. "Sit very still, it might sting a little," she warned, wetting the tip of the towel. Vincent sat on a comfortable, large seat cushion on the floor outside their tent, his hands clasped in his lap. He inhaled sharply as the wet towel hit his wound, but he remained brave and bore it with fluffed cheeks and narrowed eyes. His mother frowned in amusement and couldn't help but smile at her son. The cut was long and deep, but fortunately not so deep that they would have had to stitch it up. It would definitely turn into a scar, she was sure. But that was the way it was with kids, injuries were just part of the game. After his knees, palms and elbows were taken care of as well, she stood up and put the dirty towel in the bowl of used water. "And we're done," she smiled, rewarding her son with a kiss on his tousled black hair. A large white Band-Aid was now stuck across his forehead.