Against all odds, the spectacular and frankly miraculous assets of the rabbit-eared woman were not, at that particular moment, pulverized into a pink mist or flattened into a grisly patina on the treads of a Sherman tank.
With approximately ten seconds to spare before several tons of American-made, rust-coated steel reduced Jaunysmoke to a memory, Michael's scooter slewed to a dusty halt beside her. He planted one foot on the gritty earth, using his momentum and a desperate wrench of the handlebars to spin the groaning machine around. "Get on!" he yelled, the words ripped from his throat, his left arm outstretched like a hero's in some cheap, post-apocalyptic romance vid.
His sudden, utterly inexplicable appearance reignited the guttering flame of survival in her eyes. She didn't pause to question why this mark, this walking wallet she'd clobbered and robbed, was now her unlikely savior. Survival instinct overrode curiosity. She grabbed his hand, hauled herself up with a grunt of pain from her ankle, and scrambled onto the narrow pillion seat behind him.
No sooner had her weight settled than Michael twisted the throttle to its limit. The engine, already burdened by two riders, protested with a metallic shriek that spoke of imminent internal catastrophe. Yet, it responded, lurching forward just as the tank's shadow fell over them, close enough that Michael could smell the hot, oily stench of its exhaust and the pungent reek of ancient grease.
In his twenty-six years, Michael had been chased by many things: the mad dog from the village well, the determined girl from his secondary school chemistry class who'd mistaken his politeness for passion, and more recently, a gang of murderous wastelanders. But being pursued by a tank was a uniquely terrifying first. A cold, clinical part of his brain, the part that had calculated the odds minutes before, now screamed in protest. The math was wrong. His petrol-powered scooter, his trusty steel steed, was not, as he'd blithely assumed, outpacing the antique war machine. If anything, the lumbering Sherman was gaining.
The evidence was irrefutable. The armored trike, powered by pure terror and formidable quadriceps, had pulled away. His scooter was being reeled in. The twenty-meter lead had shrunk to ten, then less. The long, menacing snout of the 76mm gun tube now seemed to point directly at the space between his shoulder blades, a cold, metallic promise of obliteration. At this range, even a conscripted farm boy from the 1940s couldn't miss. Their fate wouldn't be heroic; it would be absurdly, messily terminal. Executed by tank cannon, he thought with a hysterical edge. What a way to go.
The reason for his scooter's pathetic performance dawned on him with sickening clarity. The past weeks of abuse—hauling slop buckets, dragging scrap metal, serving as a pack mule for an ogre's fast-food addiction—had pushed the recently serviced engine back to the brink of death. It was gasping its last, valiant breaths under the combined strain.
Yet, even wrapped in this cocoon of imminent, metallic death, Michael's traitorous senses registered something else. The scooter's design could technically accommodate two grown men, but with Jaunysmoke pressed against his back, the definition of 'accommodate' took on a new, profoundly distracting dimension. He was forced to lean forward, not just from the acceleration, but from the sheer, undeniable physics of her presence.
Furthermore, the 'road' was a fiction. What looked like flat, hard-packed earth from a distance was a treacherous landscape of rodent holes, cracks, and hidden stones. The scooter bucked and juddered like a spooked horse, each jolt transmitting through the frame and into their tightly pressed bodies. The resulting, rhythmic friction created a sensation that was, under any other circumstances, wildly inappropriate. A strange, warmth spread through him, a dizzying cocktail of fear and something else entirely. He felt oddly lightheaded. In a detached, surreal way, this high-speed chase towards a violent end didn't seem entirely… unpleasant.
Jaunysmoke, however, was clearly not on the same wavelength. Her voice, sharp with panic and inches from his ear, shattered the bizarre reverie. "Faster! You have to go faster, you idiot, unless you want to be spread across this valley like jam!"
"It's carrying too much weight!" he shouted back over his shoulder, the wind stealing his words. "This is it!"
Then it happened.
WHUMP.
The world upended. One moment he was clinging to the shuddering handlebars; the next, he was airborne, then tumbling across the hard, unforgiving ground in a cloud of his own dust and despair. He hadn't crashed. He'd been unloaded.
A split-second before the ejection, a surprisingly strong hand had fisted in the collar of his jacket. A voice, quick and breathless, hissed near his ear: "Trust me! He wants mefirst. You'll be safer on your own!" Then came the sensation of flight, followed by the brutal physics of landing.
Dazed, coughing dust, Michael pushed himself up onto his elbows in time to see his scooter, now bearing only one rider, leap forward as if freed from an anchor. Freed from him. The weight reduction granted it a fresh, if modest, burst of speed—maybe fifteen kilometers per hour more. It was enough. The gap between fleeing scooter and pursuing tank began to stabilize, then slowly, incrementally, widen.
He lay there in the dirt, watching his only means of mechanical escape vanish into the shimmering heat haze with the woman who had just used him as disposable ballast. The betrayal was so clean, so pragmatic, it left him numb. She hadn't even looked back.
Was she telling the truth?The question circled in his stunned mind like a vulture.
As if in answer, the Sherman tank rumbled past his prone form, its squealing tracks grinding the earth mere meters away. It ignored him completely, its single-minded fury fixed on the retreating speck of the scooter. Jaunysmoke's cold calculus had been correct. He was beneath Andrew's notice.
The confirmation brought no relief, only a hollow, weary ache. He'd gambled on gratitude, on alliance, on… something. He'd received a masterclass in wasteland survival ethics. With a sigh that came from the very bottom of his depleted soul, he climbed to his feet, brushed the worst of the grit from his clothes, and began the long, trudging walk back towards the hill where he'd left Zach. In this unforgiving world, only the simple, hunger-driven loyalty of a monster felt like a safe bet now. He would collect his ogre, maybe find a bicycle, shoulder his pathetic sack of trade goods, and head north. Five days' walk, Zach had said. To a new town, a fresh start, far from Cinder Town and its beautiful, treacherous inhabitants.
He had managed perhaps two hundred meters of this grim resolution when the sound of rapid footsteps pounding the earth behind him made his blood freeze. He turned.
Mayor Andrew was sprinting towards him, his lion-like face a mask of fury, a long, wickedly sharp cavalry saber gleaming in his hand. The tank must have finally given up the chase or broken down. Having lost the primary prize, the thwarted warlord had apparently decided the consolation prize would do.
Of course, Michael thought with a burst of bitter clarity. Why trade when you can just take? Why negotiate when you can eliminate?His entire philosophy of cautious commerce seemed laughably naive. He turned and ran, his legs pumping with the adrenaline of pure terror, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. He just wanted a simple transaction! Was that so much to ask?
They say cheerful young men have all the luck. As Andrew's relentless footsteps drew terrifyingly close, an angel descended. Or, more accurately, a seven-foot-tall, heavily-armed engine of destruction named Zach came thundering over the rise, his single eye blazing with protective fury.
What followed was not a duel; it was an execution by blunt-force trauma.
This is not to say Andrew was weak. Far from it. As he closed in, a faint, golden aura—the same 'battle-qi' Michael had glimpsed on the walls—flickered around him. He moved with blinding speed, the saber becoming a silvery blur of lethal intent. To Michael's eyes, the attacks were too fast to follow, mere flashes of light aimed at Zach's vital points.
But Zach was no longer a naked beast. The manhole cover shield deflected slashes meant for his arm. The van-door breastplate turned what would have been a gutting thrust into a spark-showering screech of metal on metal. Zach bellowed, more in annoyance than pain, as a dozen deep cuts opened on his thighs and shoulders. They bled freely, but they didn't slow him.
Andrew's mistake was one of overconfidence and underestimation. He saw a slow, lumbering brute. He didn't see the cunning, or the sheer, physics-defying power. Seizing an opening, Zach swung the truck axle. It wasn't a finessed blow; it was the equivalent of being hit by a speeding compact car.
The impact connected with Andrew's shoulder. There was a sound like a green branch snapping. The saber flew from the mayor's hand. The golden aura snuffed out like a candle in a gale. Andrew staggered, his face a cartoonish mask of shock and agony. He was still trying to comprehend this reversal when the backswing caught him across the temple.
It was over. Andrew dropped, a broken doll in the dust.
Silence rushed back in, broken only by Zach's heavy breathing and the distant, forlorn cry of some carrion bird. Michael stood frozen, staring at the corpse of the man who had, moments ago, been the uncontested ruler of this tiny, miserable corner of the world.
The gears in his mind, slowed by shock and betrayal, began to turn again, grinding through the new arithmetic.
The attackers were routed and scattered. The defenders were decimated, a handful of wounded survivors cowering behind their shattered walls. The leader was dead at the feet of hisenforcer.
A slow, incredulous smile spread across Michael's face, wiping away the residue of self-pity. Screw the five-day walk. Screw the north.
He was, by the brutal, transitive property of violence that governed this place, now the strongest force in the immediate vicinity. He didn't need to trade his toilet paper and candy. The town, what was left of it, was his for the taking. Andrew's hoard, the well, the bar… all of it.
A strange, hard light entered his eyes. His tender, sensitive heart, so recently bruised by a pretty face and a ruthless survival instinct, demanded compensation. Only the private treasures of a dead warlord would suffice to soothe its ache.
"Zach," he said, his voice calm, almost cheerful. "Bring that. It's proof of work." He pointed to Andrew's body.
He then walked over and picked up the discarded M16, slinging its familiar, deadly weight across his back. The empty magazine was a problem for later. The symbolism was what mattered.
Turning his back on the vast, empty wilderness and the fantasy of a clean start, Michael Gao, accidental conqueror, began his purposeful walk towards the smoking, vulnerable husk of Cinder Town. Yes. This would do nicely.