The caravan rumbled down the remnants of Highway 15, kicking up a screen of dust in its wake. Thick pieces of scrap metal seemed to be slapped randomly on to the sides of vehicles, in the vain hope of stopping a stray bullet from piercing it's hide and entering the gas tank.
Or your head, for that matter.
The vehicles were of various brands and types; all long gone now, relics of a different world. SUVs, Trucks, Vans, the caravan was a dozen strong, a veritable land armada. If it weren't for the state of their rigs, they might actually seem like a proper convoy.
Instead, the group looked to be a ragtag bunch of nobodies, with not much going for them but the burning petrol in their worn out, rusty automobiles.
But they were alive, which was more than some countless millions, likely billions, of people could say. Because they were dead, and dead people don't do much talking about how pissed they are at getting toasted in a nuclear holocaust.
Arthur laughed at the thought, earning a few odd looks from his comrades. Arthur ignored them. It wasn't like they were excluded from the nut job club. In fact, they were probably much crazier than him by a long shot, or so Arthur figured.
Arthur crossed his arms and slouched in the uncomfortable seating of the beat up old van. He blew a strand of oily hair out of his face. Damn he needed a shower.
Arthur sniffed, wrinkling his nose. Some of the others needed one too.
It was hot, which didn't help. The van reeked of sweat, but the air was dry. That was a desert for you, Arthur thought, wiping his greasy face on the sleeve of his jacket.
Arthur really wanted a shower.
Arthur wondered sometimes about what showers had been like in the Old World, before the Decline. Anything would be better than a rusty bucket filled with soapy water...
Arthur's drifting thoughts of the past were quickly interrupted. A crack, the van lurching upwards for a moment before crashing back down with a thunderous bang. There was the tinkling of shattered glass. The contents of the van were thrown around the cramped interior. Arthur's seat belt strained to keep him from flying away as his body involuntarily lunged forwards, and he couldn't shake the feeling of just hanging there, suspended. He felt like a hand was trying to pull him from his seat, or maybe it was dragging him downwards?
It took Arthur a second to shake off his shock and realize that down wasn't below him anymore.
It felt like he was hanging there, because he was hanging there. His dingy seatbelt cradled him as he puzzled over this new situation. The van, it seemed, was inclined at a steep angle. Why that was, Arthur had not a damn clue.
"The fuck... kind of pothole... was that?" Carver spluttered between raspy breaths, from the other side of the van. Arthur just shrugged, still slightly dazed.
Carver was something of the group samurai. Or butcher. The guy was obsessed with sharp edges. It didn't matter on what: knives, swords, anything that could split some skulls. It was practically his fetish to watch someone's flesh part between his arsenal of lethal tools. He wasn't the only guy with those specific 'tastes' in the group, but he made a point of being the best of them.
"Not a damn pothole," coughed Xavias, next to Arthur. "We aren't tilted the right way," As if to prove his point, he spat, the spittle travelling downwards, or in this case sideways, to hit the van's back doors with a dull splat. Xavias, always thinking one step ahead, reasoned, "Driver must have lost control somehow, steered right onto the guardrail."
Suddenly, Arthur felt something heavy rush past his head. Arthur, and the rest of the van's passengers watched as a body fell and slammed into the van door below with a loud crunch. The door shuddered with the weight of the man, and Arthur could have sworn he heard the reinforced glass fracture.
There was a split second of silence before the van erupted into noise.
Arthur's body kicked into overdrive, adrenaline began to pump through his veins. Trying to understand the stressful situation, Arthur's brain started breaking down the following events into comprehensible chunks:
A voice called down from above, the passenger seat, the side Arthur was on.
"Shit, Clay! You alrig—"
The voice was cut short as another crack rang out, more audible than the last now that the noise of the road had subsided. The report of a rifle, no doubt about it now. A spatter of blood dribbled down to mix with the already sizeable pool gathering around the fallen van driver, Clay.
The van exploded into motion. Indecipherable shouting blocked out all other noise, save for the bouts of periodic gunfire. Someone across from Arthur fumbled with their seatbelt. Xavias' shout roared above all else for just a moment.
"Don't!"
It was already too late. The man threw his seatbelt off of him, barely having time to react as he spun through the air. He landed hard on his ass with a sick squelch. The door buckled for just a moment, and the van shook on its perch. The group quieted just for a moment as the van rocked back and forth, teetering precariously.
"Nobody. Fucking. Move," Xavias whispered, just barely audible as gunfire and shouting from outside reminded them of the danger they were all in. It was like he thought his breath would bring the van over the brink.
The people who had set up an ambush must have seen the van rock, or maybe the doors give for a moment, because a swarm of bullets suddenly ripped into the side of the van, a chorus of rapid fire and the metallic smell of blood mixing with the tang of gunpowder creeping into the air. Some bullets managed to punch through the van's shell and zipped about in the interior of the van.
Just as he had gotten to his knees, a bullet zipped past the man at the bottom of the van. Then a flash of blood, and thick red rivers running down his neck. The man swayed.
"Shit," muttered Carver.
Everyone else watched in silence as the man toppled to the side. The van shifted, a great creaking noise filling the air as the chassis groaned from the strain.
Then a feeling of weightlessness. Just for a moment. Or two.
And back down onto the ground with a thunderous crashing noise, the screeching and crumpling of metal as the van sighed. Arthur felt sick for a moment as he was pushed back into his seat. His head spun for a few seconds. Coming to, he realized that he was now lying on his back, and the ground had returned below him.
He ran his hand over the seatbelt, searching for the release button. He could still hear the metal skeleton of the van screeching in stress, though it was almost lost over the exchange of bullets.
The unarmored and vulnerable underbelly of the van was now exposed, and bullets would be able to punch through it easily. Arthur needed to move before the people with guns realized that.
Arthur found the release button and was out of his seat in an instant, scrambling to his feet.
Others in the van were stirring now. Arthur looked up in time to see Carver dropping from above.
Arthur caught him, not wanting to make any more noise than was needed, or god forbid get the van rolling again.
Carver scowled at Arthur, "Don't make this weird..."
Arthur rolled his eyes, changed his mind, and dropped Carver the last few inches to the van's 'floor'.
Xavias landed softly behind Arthur, "What are we gonna do here guys?" His voice was low, but not quite a whisper. Knowing Xavias he already had a plan, but was waiting to see if anyone else had something potentially better.
The last five living occupants all exchanged glances. Carver broke away and began collecting his scattered knives, muttering to himself in agitation.
Xavias sighed as he watched Carver. "Why couldn't we have been in the weapons truck? I wouldn't mind a big gun right now. This kisses ass." Xavias fiddled with the cougher in its holster, as though displeased by its presence.
Arthur wasn't listening any more, eyes scanning the van for anything useful. It was mostly goods that they would have been trading when they got to Vegas. They were damn close too, Arthur could sense it. These were some ballsy bandits.
Or desperate, perhaps.
Arthur snarled and couldn't help but think to himself, Everyone is desperate, but these guys are just being assholes about it.
Arthur suddenly felt anger build up inside his chest. He clenched and unclenched his fists for a moment, just standing there.
Carver had finally had enough.
"Man, screw this shit! I'm not sitting around and waiting for them to kill us."
Carver began moving for the back door, but Xavias put a hand on his shoulder to hold him back a moment. Carver shot him a dirty look, shrugging the hand off his shoulder, but stopped to hear what Xavias had to say.
Xavias didn't apologize, his face blank and his tone flat. He simply pointed upwards. "Thinkin' we should head out this way. The door slides away, so I doubt the ass lickers outside would see it open..."
Arthur cut him off, "They would see us crawling out from the door, err, the roof? Whatever, the point is, we'd be exposed for too long."
Xavias shook his head, "It just the same if we take the back door. Everything is all topsy turvy, remember? The top door there," Xavias gestured, "would fall down on us as we ran out. The other option is that we crawl out, but that would be mighty slow. Either way it's a lot of attention on us. Not everyone would get out alive, 'fraid to say."
"Unless..." Carver interjected, all eyes turning to him, "someone stayed behind to keep it open."
The occupants of the van were quiet as the thunderous beat of the firefight outside continued. Arthur sighed.
"Alright, I'll do it."
"Konrad," said Carver, using Arthur's callsign— and last name, "This isn't the time to be a hero."
"You going to step up or something?"
"Wh- That's not... well..."
"Yeah, that's what I thought," Konrad grumbled, walking over to the doors. "Now, the second I throw open these doors, you all haul ass. I'll catch up to you. Everyone got that?"
Heads bobbed throughout the van.
Xavias spoke up then, "Do it as the sound of gunfire picks up again."
Konrad wrinkled his brow, "Why's 'at?"
"One less gun pointed at us. And you."
Konrad shivered a little at being excluded from the group. The group of the living.
Still, Xavias had a point. He usually did.
Rapid bursts of fire kicked up again, and Xavias gave Konrad the thumbs up.
Konrad kicked out the bottom door and heaved open the upper door, straining to keep the heavy door from falling back down and clocking someone. Konrad tried to stay backed into the van, but it was difficult to do that and keep the door from falling.
His comrades quickly filed out of the van, Xavias going first, Carver going last, next to Konrad of course.
Just as the man before Carver got out, Konrad began to hear a strange thumping noise, almost like someone was pounding their fists against the van's metal hide...
Carver scrambled to get clear of the van as bullets began to penetrate through the van and ricochet around the interior.
Konrad could feel the rounds zip by all around him. Konrad tried to lie down, to reduce his profile, and likelihood of getting hit. He let the door swing closed, knowing he would catch a bullet if he tried his luck.
Unfortunately, on his way down, a bullet found its way into his shoulder anyways.
Konrad crumpled the rest of the way to the floor. His shoulder felt like someone had taken a branding iron to it. Multiple times. Pain wracked his body, and his mind, for only a few seconds, though those first seconds seemed to last hours to Konrad.
When Konrad finally regained his senses, he could still hear gunfire all around him, closer now than before. Konrad tried sitting up slowly, but he subconsciously put pressure on his wounded shoulder and fell back to the ground, pain igniting his nerves.
Konrad gritted his teeth, slamming the hand from his good against the van in frustration and pain. He crawled forward unsteadily, making slow progress with one arm out of commission.
Finally, Konrad poked his head out of the vans rear door, supporting himself on one elbow.
Konrad saw pillars of smoke climbing into the sky. Gunfire from nearby— too close for comfort— sent his ears ringing. There was a rank smell in the air that stung Konrad's nostrils. He wrinkled his nose. It smelled almost like gasoline, that awful rotten egg stench filling his nostrils. It took a moment for Konrad to register this.
"Shit shit shit—"
Konrad kicked out with his legs, propelling himself away from the van. He was almost clear of the doors, just his lower legs remained...
The van went up in a ball of flame in seconds.
Konrad let out a pained scream. The heat felt like it was engulfing him. Konrad tucked his legs away from the fire and began rolling himself away from the van.
The heat from the flames magnified the desert heat, but Konrad was clear. He was also breathless, and his shoulder was agitated by all the abrupt movement.
Konrad refused to see the severity of his shoulder, but he did spare a glance at his legs. His pants were burned away from the flames up to his knees. Parts of the skin underneath were black.
Konrads heart skipped a beat and he swiped at his legs with his good hand. The residue left on his legs brushed aside. Konrad sighed, or maybe he coughed. Probably both.
His legs would be fine. A bit singed maybe, but he would have to work with it for now.
Konrad sat up and got his legs around to stand up. It was awkward with one hand, and his legs ached, but he managed to get shakily to his feet. He leaned against a derelict car, fumbling for the gun—coughers as they tended to be called now— at his side. He knew how to do it easily with just one hand, all in one smooth motion. It became a little trickier to pull of when you're feeling disoriented and your mind is clouded with pain. But it was something you had to have practice if you wanted to keep your body lead free.
But what did he know? He had a bullet somewhere in his right shoulder. He felt damn lucky to be left handed.
Konrad flipped off the safety and chambered a round by catching the slide on the belt loop of his now ragged and burnt jeans. The model of the pistol didn't matter to him, nor did the caliber. As long as it could make someone bleed, it was good enough for him.
Guns had become exceedingly rare after the Decline, which made plenty of sense when Konrad got to thinking about it. Many of the cities were reduced to ash and rubble, some of the only things remaining being the huge monoliths— skyscrapers in days past— that seemed to stretch on ominously into the sky, looming over empty graveyards and lonely streets. Many factories where firearms were produced were in those cities. Furthermore, the people who knew just how guns, and the ammunition for those guns, got made were now mostly dead, save for a handful of skilled craftsman. So, that means guns ran a high price on the market, and everyone wants one.
Of course, since the general populace of brigands and crazies knows very little about guns, firearms quickly fall into disrepair. It earned many rifles the nickname "Spitters," and "Coughers," for pistols.
Konrad tried to take care of his own pistol, but he was no gun enthusiast, and he had no idea how to properly care for the thing. He just hoped it wouldn't give out on him now.
Hope was also in pretty short supply these days, though. Maybe he would rely on lady luck today.
Konrad eased himself into a crouch, peering through the tinted front window of an SUV. The glass had splintering cracks winding through its surface, and it made it hard to see through. Konrad peeked around one side, scanning his surroundings.
Konrad saw his group from the van taking cover behind a nearby truck. Xavias seemed to be looking out for Konrad and spotted him almost instantly, waving him over.
Konrad gave Xavias a thumbs up, but didn't move to meet him just yet. Konrad leaned a little farther out, revealing most of his torso and craning his neck to see more of the scene.
He could now see two figures standing down the road a ways, back from where the convoy was coming from. They were coming this way, and both had automatic rifles, spitters, up and ready, sweeping them from side to side. Konrad could see they didn't wear the customary navy blue armband of his group. They also hadn't seen Konrad yet, and he hoped to keep it that way.
For now, at least.
It looked like a man and a woman, but from the numerous gunshots surrounding Konrad, these two obviously weren't the only ones around. Konrad actually couldn't even fathom two people taking down the caravan. If they did, it would be some real commando shit, and even at that they would have to be packing some serious ordinance
Konrad shivered in the arid heat.
Leaning back around the car to Xavias, Konrad waved to Xavias to get his attention. Xavias perked up, turning his head slightly and saying something to the group a little down the way.
Konrad waited for him to be done. He pointed at the cougher in his hand, then held up two fingers, pointing them then down the road in the direction of the two armed raiders.
Xavias scrunched up his face for a moment, looking confused, but he must of caught on because he nodded and turned to face the group by the truck. After a few seconds he saw them all start producing coughers from their layers of clothes. Despite the blistering heat, many from the group chose to wear layered or thick clothing, like Konrad. True, overheating was a potential problem, but the crew had a lot of water reserves for the trek to Vegas. And the coats were a welcome protection for some of the nastier beasts that called the desert wastes their home.
They were the smart ones, those in layers.
Konrad pulled up his bandana to avoid breathing in the dust and sand that was starting to kick up. He adjusted it briefly and then slowly peeked around the car once again...
A bullet drew sparks against the car, inches from Konrad's head. He jerked back, stumbling away from the edge of the car, bringing his cougher to bear. A second bullet smashed through the front window, sending glass spraying everywhere. From the gunshot it sounded almost like someone was behind—
Konrad dove to the ground, spinning as he did. He landed hard on his bad shoulder as a round rocketed by just above him, thudding into the car with a screech of metal. Konrad was caught breathless for a moment, pain shooting through his arm in an excruciating stinging sensation. His vision was blurry, for a moment, but he didn't dare wipe his eyes.
A head popped around the smoldering van.
Konrad squeezed the trigger tightly, knowing the sights weren't lined up correctly. His cougher kicked and the bullet rocketed through the air. It was funny how many people would still run and hide when bullets started flying, even when they had the upper hand.
The blurry face was no exception. It was gone as fast as it had appeared. Konrad readjusted, pistol tight against his body, lined to shoot. He curled his body in, not wanting the person near the van shooting his feet from cover.
Slowly moving into a crouched position, cougher still trained on the van, Konrad watched as a spitter's barrel slowly poked out from the van.
Amateurs.
Konrad wasted no time, not even waiting for anything else to come into view. He sat down again and put a bullet underneath the van's hull.
The person crumpled, a bullet in their foot. Konrad quickly followed up by putting a round in their exposed torso. The person, Konrad could tell it was a man now, stopped writhing on the ground.
Wheeling around and back on his feet. Konrad leveled his cougher and peered now through the truck's window. Konrad could see the metal maw of the rifle begin to peek around the window...
Shots rang out from ahead, the muzzle turned away, towards the gunfire.
Konrad stepped out and put two consecutive rounds into the raider's side.
The man fell like a sack full of scrap, coughing blood as he went. Konrad skittered forward, snatching the man's spitter from his hands and pocketed his pistol.
It was awkward holding the rifle in one hand, but the superior firepower outweighed the risk, at least in his humble opinion. A bigger gun meant more power on the field of battle. Konrad just hoped there was a round in the chamber.
Sliding along the truck, Konrad saw the women from before splayed lifelessly on the ground, blood gushing freely from her neck. Her rifle sat in her limp hands.
Cutter came around the corner with a sick grin on his face.
Konrad gave him an exhausted look.
Cutter's grin just got wider.
The rest of the van crew came into view. Xavier stooped to pick up the spitter.
Cutter extended his hands palm up. Konrad looked at him quizzically.
"The spitter, 'Rad."
"I thought you were more 'up close and personal.'"
"Usually," The crazy bald headed man said with a shrug. "But I'm no idiot either. These people have guns, so I want one." Cutter eyed Konrad's arm, "Plus, you're in no condition to handle a two handed beaut' such as this."
Konrad gave him the rifle and gestured to the corpse. "Well you seemed to take her without a problem."
"Yeah, well... She walked right past us. Makes it real easy to sneak up behind and just, pop," Cutter made a little jabbing motion with his hand.
Konrad rolled his eyes at the manically smiling Cutter.