Injured from the engagement with the horde, Audrey limped to a stop as the trails of the remaining Dog Soldiers fled back toward their home in the north, avoiding both the truck and the lone rider whom had watched them depart from the saddle of the black Enforcer.
Far behind the crew from Sanctuary, something stirred inside the twisted remains of the Scorpion Trike, a bloodied hand trembling in shock as it unsuccessfully reached out to a pistol on the ground. Then a voice wailed, bitter with pain like a starving dog overwhelmed with the scent of a meal it could not taste, taken away by the flies and lesser vermin before its eyes.
Blue Tattoo panted on his side with broken ribs, growling at the noise of the Corolla manifesting out of the smoke and debris until it's rolling front tire settled metres away, cutting off his view of the open skyline with the sedan's undercarriage. The treble whir of a cycle engine came not long after.
Doors creaked open, clapped shut, then the short midday shadows of many boots circled the dented roll cage.
"Elvis above! He's still breathin'..."
The irritating squeak of Socky's voice enraged him, howling again as his body shook.
The Nomad's gloved hand picked up the .38 revolver that had been teasing his reach outside the cage.
"Iiiyaaagh, you dogmeat son of a bitch! You're all dead! Not a single last one of ya will be left with your skin on when Hercules comes lookin' for ya!" The marauder chief squinted up with his swollen purple face. "And you! Lion! He's gunna hang ya by the scrotum for a punchin' bag until ya beg him with all your tears for the rubber necklace!" Blue snapped his teeth to emphasize the threat.
Rocking the hammer back with his leather thumb, the Nomad directed the .38's barrel toward the marauder's head.
"Go on!" Blue Tattoo hissed. "Pull the trigga!"
'You're the last officer I got left De Bono; you're the last bronze...' a voice of authority resounded within the sea of memories inside the Nomad's mind '..."Maintain Right", that's our motto; don't forget that when you're out there on the roads.'
"Waste of a good bullet." Releasing the cocked hammer back into place, the Nomad lowered his hand.
"What'll we do about 'im?" Tiny asked.
"Nothin'; He'll be dead by sundown. Collect anything useful from the other wrecks, then we get out of here before his mates come back."
* * *
"Thankyou." Carrion nodded once after the rider of the Enforcer had parked beside the truck, returning with the others from the scavenge.
"Water." He answered brusquely. "I need water."
Giving him a cold glance, Carrion opened the driver's side door and actuated the latch to release the chair seat, lifting the cushion away to retrieve the hidden water jugs.
"What did you find out there?" She asked those that had returned, measuring a cupful to pay the Nomad for his efforts as she spoke.
"Arrows, some bows, jumper cables..." Tiny scratched the back of his head. "Could'a dragged back some heavier panels an' tyres but this one" –he pointed at the Nomad-" said it wasn't safe to hang about any longer."
"He's right!" Came the Irishman's voice from under the truck. "Thar's bigger sharks than Bluey out here."
"What's the damage to Audrey? How soon can we leave?" The trucker called back after passing over the cup of water.
"A replaced the tyre, but yur strut an' ball joint are all bent outta shape on account of dis brace. A straight'end what a could wit' the jack, but it ain't pretty. Why 'ave you got tha't brace fitted anyways?"
"We had to follow some old tracks out of the city to get here, bent it on the way over a bridge crossing. Listen, we really need to get her operational, we got a long way to go."
"Go where?"
"The end of the Trans-Con 2. Meetin' some friends at the far end."
The Irishman crab-walked out from under the belly of the truck, looking at Carrion with an incredulous expression.
"You're madder than he is." He motioned toward Socky in the background. "You got any idea what's on tha't freeway woman?"
"Hercules, and someone named Zeus according to Socky." Carrion looked down at the grease-easy.
"What yew don't know is that nobody survives a run on the Gauntlet, the ol' Trans-Con. Hercules leads a lunatic army called the 'Skin Pirates', an' that's what they'll do; skin yew for their racing leathars."
"We should go back, back home." Liu shivered at the description of the Skin Pirates.
"There's no goin' back without... the help we need from El Dorado." Turning her gaze back over her shoulder to the girl seated on the Corolla bonnet, Carrion caught herself from mentioning the bunker's treasure aloud with the three Wastelanders now in their company.
"El Dorado? Never 'eard of such a place near tha Gauntlet. You sure you've not been led astray by rumour?" Irish dusted himself, now back on his feet.
"It's there, the man who sent us out to find it is staking the lives of a hundred souls that it's at the end of the Trans-Con, this 'Gauntlet' as you call it."
"Yew serious 'bout gettin' there, trucker?"
Carrion's lips were straight with conviction as she nodded.
"The state that this Audrey o' yours is in, you ain't gonna make it, that's the brutal truth of it." Irish replied.
"Hold it! Hold it! Ladies and gentlemen, what about the Scabeaters?! They'se hate Zeus and the Pirates more than any folk!" Socky stepped into the conversation. "Chocky 'ere reckons they'd help us."
The puppet's face shrugged on his left hand.
"Scabeaters? Who are they?" Weary asked from the truck cabin, where he had been straightening arrows recovered from the scavenge.
"Thar a motley of survivors shacked up near the Gauntlet, Zeus keeps 'em thar under tha shadow of Mt Olympus for some God forsaken reason. Socky's right though; the Scabs 'ave been collecting scrap from the black-top for years now, and they hate the Skin Pirates with a passion. They might 'ave what a need to get this beast of yours purring again."
Carrion searched with her good eye the heatwaves of the horizon, confirming the reality that no other aid was immediately available to deliver them from the wrath of the Dog Soldiers or their allies, the Skin Pirates.
"How far away are they?" She asked.
"Couple of clicks Nor-West sista, make it by nightfall if we ain't disturbed again." Socky advised.
"What do you think, Weary?" She turned toward the open door of the cabin.
"What other options have we got? If this is it, we better get movin'." He slid the final arrow into a makeshift quiver, set in the cavity of the passenger door's missing trim.
"Alright, Socky you climb aboard with us and point the way. What about you, stranger?" She asked the Nomad.
"For some water, I'll ride with you."
"You're a stray dog... but you can bite. Deal." She spat in her palm, as did the Nomad, clapping their hands together in a firm grip.
The crew of hopefuls finished stowing away any loose gear back into the Corolla and truck, and before Irish had stooped into the Corolla interior his movement was checked by the hand of the Nomad.
"Shamrock... Blue sends his regards."
He placed the .38 pistol on the console above the glovebox.
"Ay'll have to thank tha man when a' go tumblin' into hell." Laughing, he opened the chamber, three shell rims winking at him with a bronze sheen in the sunlight.
"Don't go falling too soon; Theliving still need you."