Carnage! Love & Lust in the Wasteland
Chapter I: The Crossroads (Part 1)
Two factions, both alike in manpower In the barren waste where we lay our scene Ancient greed has made the land dead and sour Fumes and toxins destroying all once green Gas-powered carnage and blood in the dust With adrenaline fueled hopes and dreams A time of exhaust, octane, steel, and rust Televised warfare, violence extreme. Through fear and death, true love comes to the waste Bullet-riddled, flesh searing, caustic lust For both, the threat of exile is embraced The fuel of desire, all built to combust The race begins, polished chrome and hot lead, Start your engines, try not to end up dead...
The Crossroads was one of the last independent truck stops in North America: a sprawling complex dedicated to cheap booze, loud music, easy drugs, and easier sex. It was the sort of haunt that welcomed all creeds and codes, providing they left their feuds at the door, and was usually frequented by members of any of the unhinged wasteland gangs, soldiers of beefier factions with the legitimacy of incorporation, or by those who tried to balance a measure of control between the two, but tonight…
Sammy clenched as Gregor came, the big lug spasming against her sweat-kissed back. He made stupid, endearing grunts, smashing his hips into her with a few final thrusts before collapsing backward into the bed of the truck, breathing hard. Sammy stayed bent over the cab, relishing in the beauty of the moment, before straightening and shimmying her skirt back down over her hips. She zipped her vest back over her tits, a savage grin on her flushed face. Tonight, the Crossroads’ lot was packed full of Scavengers from as far as the French block and all the way through to the Rockies. One big happy family gathered in a show of support for their chief and his new bride.
Hellish contraptions were jammed together in the sprawling lot beneath a haze of oily exhaust and greasy smoke, blurring the setting sun to a violet hue. Cars and trucks of all shapes and sizes competed for the tallest, the broadest, the heaviest, while the bikes and ATVs sang their screeching songs between the overhauled roar of the beasts, rattling engines promising sweet anarchy in the night to come. Dashboard stereos blared a hundred different albums; punk rock, heavy metal, psychobilly, and even a screeching bagpipe or two to drive off any silence from the waning day. Liquor fueled the hearts of her brethren like good leaded gasoline, the pistons of burning loins evident as Sammy noticed a few other vehicles rocking. She sighed, falling back onto Gregor. The big man caught her, grunting like she’d disturbed a sleeping animal.
“I love a wedding,” she said, tangling her fingers into his chest hair. Gregor’s paw settled on her back, stroking almost the entire width of it with one hand.
“We should get back,” he rumbled, though he made no move.
“We could,” Sammy purred, “or…” Her hand untangled, traipsing down his chest, over his stiff beer belly, grabbing his cock with one smooth jerk. He flinched, but his body responded and he rumbled a laugh as she climbed atop him, but frowned, catching the flash off a headlight out in the wastes.
“Oi,” Gregor said. “Don’t be a tease. Get on or I’m heading in for a beer.”
“Shut up,” she hissed back, eyes narrowed into the shadowed landscape. Night was swallowing the wastes and the stadium lights were clouding her view.
“Sammy—”
“Hand me the binoculars,” she said, scrambling off him and snapping her fingers. Gregor grumbled, fishing them out of the lockbox and passing them over. She peered out into the darkening landscape. A half-dozen cars were parked on a dune about a quarter mile away. Sammy looked hard and saw the mounted plate on the front, a pink lotus flower stylized with serrated petals on a field of black. “Shit,” she hissed, tossing the binoculars and casting about for her keys. “Shit!”
“What is it?” Gregor sat up, frowning at her as he pulled a shirt on.
“Dynasty,” she said. He sat a little straighter.
“Shit.”
Otis kissed his fist, the dice sweaty in his palm. He gave them a jangle, the bones clacking pleasantly as he tossed them onto the cloth laid out on the hood of his cruiser. They tumbled, edge over corner, and four pips coming up on the first, four on the second moments after. Otis whooped, clapping his hands together. “Not the hardest eight I’ve ever laid down, but I’ll take it!” he said, the others groaning or scoffing. He reached for the scanner on the credit vault, the small device that held their collective bets in digitized currency, and a hunting knife slammed through the hood of his cruiser with a squeal of metal-on-metal, razor edge inches from his forearm.
“Yer a cheat,” said the cruiser stabber. Otis drew himself to full height, the gathering falling still around them, and maintained a level eye with the man for the space of a few heartbeats, sizing one another up. He was a large brute, a Buccaneer by the telltale topknot that pulled the skin of his weathered face tight as a drum. Or perhaps he was just unfortunately ugly like that.
“You stabbed my car,” Otis replied coolly, hand twitching toward the inside of his coat as Topknot wrenched his knife from the hood.
“You switched the dice,” Topknot growled. “No one rolls three eights in a row, pig. No one.” He moved toward the credit vault.
Otis was quick on the draw, producing the .44 semi-automatic now pressed into Topknot’s temple. The Buccaneer froze, eyes wide with momentary shock before narrowing.
“You don’t have the belly,” Topknot snarled low.
“Walk away,” Otis advised.
Topknot’s jaw set into an ugly snarl, the knife twitching.
Otis squeezed the trigger before the blade came up, bloody brain matter splattering onto his windshield, flecks peppering the crowd as they reeled back in alarm. The body crumpled and Otis produced a handkerchief, wiping spatters of gore from his cheeks and coat lapels. The onlookers whispered behind their hands, the crowd thinning while others clutched for weapons of their own.
“Fuckin’ Peacekeepers, right?” Otis chuckled to the crowd, holstering his gun while being careful to let the light reflect on his badge, the polished brass shield unmistakable. They made an island of his cruiser as Otis swept up the credit vault, pocketing it, and climbed into the driver’s seat. A wall of hateful leers followed him as he backed out the cruiser before anyone else decided they had balls of steel. He chuckled as he put the cruiser into gear, idling down the chaotic laneway toward the bar.
It was the night to remember, a night to let loose, and the Scavengers had taken full advantage of the opportunity to rabblerouse, the whole thing snowballing with every passing hour. Crowds drew crowds, booze drew crowds, and blood drew crowds, with none in short supply. And where people gathered, there would always be officers to keep the peace. Tonight, Otis was one of the unfortunate sods on duty.
The cruiser crunched through the winding gravel amongst the war machines, cars and trucks and everything in between jacked up on the biggest tires they could salvage, revving engines far too overpowered for their rattling frames. With revels and debauchery at every turn, a dozen different gangs were present to make their noise, but none were louder than the Scavengers themselves. Otis had never seen so many in one place before! Their emblem, the three-pronged wrench, was splattered every which way he looked, painted in any shade of neon they could find. The punks had adorned their best leathers and combat boots, gunfire echoing over the excessive revving, and there were still more pouring in over the dunes.
A crew of Buccaneers leered at him as he passed, each thumbing weapons of their own, their siegecraft-style vehicles rumbling menacingly behind them, each with a snapping crossbones flag in various states of bullet-torn. A few Firebugs loomed with them, skin shiny with burns and branded with their flaming beetle emblem. Moonshiners too, though Otis had never thought them too friendly with Scavengers or Buccaneers, relaxed by their rusted pickups in folding chairs, sipping jars of yellowed shine. They ignored Otis, hurling insults and worse at what few Freaks had come to join the festivities— Or rather, at their shining line of combat-ready muscle cars. Heedless of creed or code, it was a gathering of tough-as-nails folk from all walks of the wastes, all of ‘em nastier than the grimiest hangover shit, but he still saw the whispers behind the hands and the uncomfortable shifting that came with his presence. He smirked behind bulletproof windows, meeting eyes and grinning at unheard challenges as he trundled past. It might’ve been a murderous menagerie, all of them likely to have violent records in NexGen’s files, but any locals knew better than to fuck with Unit 66.
More than three decades past my time on the Carnage Circuit and still they whisper about Otis ‘the Menace’ Grange, piling the fear onto Officer Otis Grange of the Peacekeepers. And why not? He still had strength in his back, still had the eagle eye that had ripped through the circuits leaving a trail of bloody oil in his wake. Those were the days, he thought. And a nasty reputation was something useful in this world. Give it your best shot, you scum-sucking—
Otis clutched his chest, slamming the brakes as a wave of angina rolled over him, shortening his breath and forcing him to veer the cruiser into a nook between two lifted trucks. He dug his fingers into his ribs, teeth gritted and eyes shut while he rifled in his pockets for the pills. He thumbed the cap off the bottle, dumped a few into his mouth, and dry swallowed. After a few moments, the angina subsided and he took a few deep breaths to steady himself.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he said to no one, shifting a bit before a coughing fit overtook him.
Otis wheezed, eyes tearing up as he tried to suck in air between the wracking coughs. He took his handkerchief out again, pressing it to his mouth to muffle the noise, lest it attract the wrong sort of attention. Slowly, the fit subsided and he pulled the cloth from his lips, hauling in painful lungs of air. He leaned back in his rigid seat, glancing down at the blood-peppered fabric in his hand. Not all of it was Topknot’s.
“Fuck sakes,” Otis grumbled, shoving the handkerchief away again.
The radio on his dash crackled, making him start. “Grange? You out there? Over.” Otis frowned, taking another couple breaths before he grabbed the mouthpiece, stretching out the coiled cord.
“Teague, that you? I’m out in the lot at Crossroads.” The radio had been mostly silent that night. NexGen’s orders had been for the Peacekeeping Ministry to maintain a perimeter in an attempt to contain what they could while leaving the scum to their own. He brought to mind the image of the calling officer, Rufus Teague, some twenty years his junior. Handsome young buck with a nub of black goatee on his drawn face.
“You alright, sir? Sound out of breath,” Teague said.
Otis frowned at the radio, backing his cruiser onto the main drag again and rumbling on. “Just a bad pull on a cigarette, son. Nothing to trouble yourself over. Whatcha need?”
“Order came down to try and get someone closer to the bar itself,” Teague said. “Since you’re already in there, Captain wanted me to check if you could… Well, you know.”
“En route already. I’ll make sure they don’t burn the place down,” Otis grunted, gaze passing over a pair of men who had a woman strung, swapping spit back and forth with both men.
“10-4,” Teague replied. “Stay safe out there, Menace.”
Otis hung up the radio again, pulling a cigarette case from his inner pocket. He lit it as Crossroads came into view, the throng of the crowd becoming too thick to pass easily. He flicked a switch on his dash, the cherries atop his car whirling into life. A chorus of jeers and boos met the spinning lights, but the crowd began to part as the revolving red lights flashed over ‘Peacekeeping Ministry: Unit 66’. Reputation or not, Otis kept his windows rolled up, ashing in the little tray as the car filled with trickles of smoke.
The Scavengers were, as a whole, degenerate scum. They openly defied the NexGen Conglomerate Administration, paying homage to no recognized community or affiliate, often at odds with the Peacekeeping Ministry, and shirked the meagre attempts at society that tried to hold together what was left of this godforsaken world. As though their incessant rebellion of the system was anything more than the insistence that starving freedom was better than well fed servitude. They were men that believed in liberty still, a dream that had died with the last shred of democracy, and Otis could not fault them for that. It was just that their freedom came with a definitive flavour of violence against everything in their path, and they had the firepower to stand against anyone who might say ‘Boo’ about it. Every Peacekeeper in the area had a story about a run-in with the Scavs, Otis included, but where his comrades despised the Scavengers and going anywhere near them, Otis harboured a begrudging appreciation for the detail. He had old friends amongst the scum, much as he wouldn’t admit it, and their insanity reminded him of his days on the Carnage Circuit more than peacekeeping ever would.
The Carnage Circuit – NexGen’s televised games of vehicular manslaughter – was another reason the crowd was extra rowdy tonight. The wedding was one thing, but the Scavs would no doubt be atwitter with the idea of the games on the horizon. A local Pro Tour Qualifier was being held, amateur teams competing for a spot in the big leagues. Fame, fortune, and slaughter: Carnage held the promise of all three in its white-knuckled grip. The Scavs were fanatical watchers of the games, even if they had a long standing boycott of actually joining the games. Otis had once heard the current chief, Elvis Hawkins, refer to the games as ‘NexGen’s first step in controlling not only the lives of the world’s people, but their deaths too’. Otis figured maybe he had a point, but knew some of the younger Scavs occasionally brought forth the idea of competing, only to be shot down. Or sometimes just shot, when it went beyond an idea. Not that any of these animals would stand a chance anyways. The Dynasty Munitions Syndicate dominated the circuits currently, and would for the foreseeable future. Scavengers or not.
Otis rumbled to a halt and killed the cruiser’s engine as he reached the bar.
“Move it or lose it, pig!”
Otis flinched as a bottle smashed against his open door, a pack of dirt bikes ripping around his car, spitting up rooster tails of dust and rocks, a figure he had the misfortune of knowing at the lead: Sammy Serrano. That crazy bitch had her blood up about something, judging by the hollers and hoots that followed her into the Scav-packed bar. And if Otis had thought the parking lot was a place of lawless debauchery, Crossroads itself was utter chaos.
The three-story building was lit up brighter than a burning oil barrel, smoke and all. People dashed along the upper balconies, crying their little shrieks of pleasure, hurling insults or threats. A few even had others bent over the rail, thrusting with no abandon, unbothered by the shotguns and pistols barking amongst the uproarious commotion of revving engines and thundering heavy metal music. Glass shattered as he approached, a pair of brawlers coming through the main floor windows in an all out slugfest. He was drawn away from it as someone screamed, a young man tipped over one of the upper balconies and crunching to a silent heap on the pavement a few yards from him. Everywhere he looked, he saw a mosaic of dyed mohawks, liberty spikes, and flopped over crests, sides of heads shaved down to reveal three-pronged wrenches tattooed on scalps, where others wore them on their arms, necks, backs, and faces. Scavengers, one and all. Otis shook his head. Once the night was partied out, once the next generation of Scav bastards had been pumped into poisoned wombs, once the smokes and drinks were naught except butts, bottles, and bootprints stomped into the ground at dawn, it was going to be one hell of a cleanup. And not one of the bastards would raise a finger to help. He sighed, heading in to pay his respects to the happy couple.
Crossroads’ huge taproom was carved out from the old munitions warehouse that served as the base of the ramshackle structure. Mismatched tables had been overturned amongst the sea of bodies, others occupied by filth from all over the wasteland dealing cards, tossing dice, wrestling arms, and playing knife games, all lost in a thick haze of eye-stinging smoke. A heavy metal band was screeching in the corner, laying out a bad cover of an old Motörhead song. A huge oval at the center made up the bar itself, sparkling bottles of moonshine interspersed with Jack, Jim, and Jameson. When the world had gone to shit and NexGen had risen up to take control they had at least maintained the good sense to keep booze flowing from the places in the world that hadn’t been reduced to a smoking pile of radioactive ash.
And thank the powers that be for that, Otis thought. Keep them drunk and bloody so they keep participating in the damned games and forget that the rock they’re living on is dying, if not dead already. For them, at least.
He spotted a thick gaggle gathered near the table closest the bar and he meandered over.
“Elvis!” Otis called, pushing through the crowd and reaching the center of attention. “Oi, Elvis!”
Otis had known Elvis Hawkins since they were boys, but oh how the years could take a toll on some people. He had once been a strapping athletic brute, a bit stringy but muscled and scarred from a thousand scrapes. A man that feared nothing and no one, lusting after only fast cars and faster women. Tastes that hadn’t changed much, judging by the young woman he was bandying on his knee, but the rest of him had gone to seed. His once-brown pompadour was replaced by a thinning back-combed crop of white, freshly shaved over his ear to show the Scavenger wrench. An eyepatch strapped to his head barely disguising the scar of the wound that had taken his left eye, and all the muscle that had once bulged like steel cables had turned to a swath of soft fat. It had been a few years since they’d spoken, but Otis mused that he looked less like his old friend and more like the beast that had eaten Elvis Hawkins. And was hungry for more.
“Otis Grange, you sonnuva-bitch!” Elvis slurred, offering a large hand but making no move to lift his flabby ass off his seat. The young woman whipped about, eyes narrowing as she took in Otis, flickering to the badge at his belt and the bulge of gun in its shoulder holster. “Rosa, this is the Menace himself! The bastard I was telling you about when we went to the games last week.”
Rosa had a feline look about her, tawny skin plump and smooth with youth, her shiny brown hair flopped over one side of her head to show the shaved patch of scalp, the skin blazing with a freshly inked Scav wrench. Hell, she could be his daughter, Otis thought to himself, an ambitious one, at that. Jumped high into the ranks with one smooth leap into a fat man’s lap… She straightened from her perch atop the Chief Scav’s knee and Otis was surprised at how tall she was; six feet easily, long legs seeming endless where they disappeared into the impossible short wedding dress she had on. She offered a pointed smile, extending a hand, and he took it. Calloused fingers, he noted. No stranger to getting her hands dirty, this one.
“A pleasure—” Rosa was cut off by a sudden outcry, drawing their attention.
The gang of dirt bikers, Sammy in the lead, were charging back out of the bar with weapons raised. Elvis looked over, only idly interested.
“Fuckin’ Serrano,” he muttered. “Got her panties in a twist about something.”
“If she’s wearing any,” Otis chuckled.
“Speaking of.” Elvis grabbed Rosa about the waist, pulling her back to him with a squealing giggle. She swatted at him, kicking her feet and Otis looked away as her nethers flashed the room for a hot moment.
“Just came to offer my congrats, you dirty old bastard,” Otis said to him, nodding to Rosa, “Take care of him, eh? He’s not as young as he once was.”
“He’s in good hands,” she laughed, pushing his grubby paws down from where they’d been crawling up her leg.
“You staying a spell, Menace?”
“All night. You lot have the Peacekeepers out in spades.”
“Good,” Elvis grinned. “We’re doing the toasts soon, Sid’s gonna be speaking. Boy’ll probably shit himself and that’ll be a sight, if nothing else.” Bride and groom laughed and Otis smiled politely. Otis hadn’t seen Sid, Elvis’ son, in some few years, but recalled the slight, shy boy who at the time had sported a blackened eye, courtesy of his father. He looked around the charged room and imagined the skinny little kid fumbling his words while speaking to so many hard bastards.
“I’m sure he’ll do fine,” Otis said.
Rosa snorted. “Sid’s an idiot.”
“Astute, love,” Elvis agreed. He lifted his boot and shoved a chair out from the table. “Fill a seat, Menace. Let me tell you how I met my blushing bride.”
Hawk flipped through his cards, not really paying attention to the game and focused on his father across the taproom. Rosa bounced on his knee as Otis Grange – Yes, that Otis Grange – filled a seat and they all began talking.
All sweet nothings, Hawk thought, gaze boring into his – he shuddered inwardly – stepmother. Because that’s what she has to offer: nothing. Nothing but sorrow. Sweet, sweet sorrow… His mind wandered back to the countless times they had shared nights of intense passion, knowing one another intimately and completely. He remembered the smell of dust in her hair, the sweet stink of her sweat after she’d collapsed atop him breathing hard, how her mouth tasted of sour wine. His loins ached for her, his heart feeling like it’d been backed over by every truck in the lot.
“Bet’s to you, Hawk,” Porky said. Hawk stirred, coming back to the game, the snout-nosed Firebug twitching when Hawk eyed at him. He shuffled through his cards again: the Queens of Diamonds, Spades, and Clubs, and a couple of sevens. A full house would beat any of these bums. The subtle twitch in his eye told that Porky was holding jack shit, Mass had folded after the flop, and Cordelia was fiddling with the tassels on her shirt, worried that her cards weren’t good enough to win. Hawk sighed, looking at the queens again.
“I fold,” he said, dropping the cards down. Somehow without Hearts, it seemed like a loss either which way.
“I raise,” Cordelia said, checking her own cards again and tossing a few more chips in.
“Call,” Porky replied, examining his own cards. “How’s about we sweeten the pot? I’ll throw in my Hummer… for a hummer.” He bobbed his eyebrows at Cordelia, who sneered.
“You wish, asshole.”
“Deal me out,” Hawk said, rising. He pressed his wrist to the little scanner on the table and collected whatever credits he’d accumulated. “Need another drink.”
“Me too,” Mass said, shifting the entire table as he got up. Nearly seven feet tall, Ben Massimino was over four-hundred pounds muscle wrapped in a beer belly and a greasy wife beater. They left the table as Cordelia turned her cards in shrieking glee, Porky grinding his teeth as she transferred her winnings.
“How you holding up?” Mass asked as they cut a path to the bar. Hawk shrugged.
How to answer that question, my friend? His last night with Rosa had been the night she and Elvis had met. Hawk had laid with her on the bed of his father’s Ranchero, a beautiful beast, and gone out for a piss when Elvis had come in. He’d returned to find his old man balls deep in the woman he loved. He would never forget her eyes as they fell on him, her self-satisfied smirk as Elvis’ wide ass thrusted.
“Two beers,” Mass said as they reached the bar.
“And six shots of whiskey,” Hawk added. Mass looked down at him and Hawk looked back defiantly, his friend shrugging. They leaned against the scarred wood while their drinks were poured, Hawk taking in the sheer madness of the party. Mass scanned his wrist against the chip reader to pay for the drinks and Hawk turned, downing two of the shots immediately.
“Think you should maybe slow down?” Mass said, nursing his beer.
“Don’t think I will, Mass,” Hawk replied, throwing back a third shot. “My piece-of-shit father has married the only woman I will ever love and I think that calls for death by drowning. In whiskey, of course.” He shot the fourth.
“It’s just that you have that speech…”
“Ah yes,” Hawk nodded. “The opportunity to toast the man who wouldn’t piss in my mouth if my tongue was on fire. Maybe I’ll tell them about the time he shot my dog after finding it outside the junkyard to teach me the importance of keeping track of things that are precious to you.”
“Hawk…”
“Or perhaps I’ll lead with all the cigarette burns on my back from when I was learning to shoot.” He downed the fifth shot.
“Hawk, come on.”
“Or just recount the tale of how he unwittingly made a cum cocktail with his own son when he took the sloppy seconds he’s now calling his bride.” He raised the sixth shot and paused, looking up at Mass. “Or maybe I’ll just get hammered and pass the fuck out so I don’t have to make a weak attempt to say anything kind about a man who is too much of a bastard to waste a bullet on!” He took the shot, setting the glass down and feeling the fire in his belly swell. “Another round!”
“Lord, man,” said a voice. “Save some for the rest of us.”
Otis Grange had found his way over, smiling broadly. He’d shed his grey Peacekeeper’s coat, rolling up his shirtsleeves to reveal a prize garage of vehicles he had wrecked during his time on the circuits inked on his arms. They were just as faded as the Menace himself these days, balding and pudgy, deep lines carved into his weathered face.
“Otis!” Hawk trapped the man in an embrace, a pleasant warmth starting to fill him. “Join us for a drink?”
“Only if you’re buying, Sid.”
“It’s just Hawk these days,” Hawk said. He’d stopped going by Sid Hawkins a few years ago now. “How’s it, Menace?”
“Better if you don’t call me that,” Otis said. “Holy shit, boy, you’ve sprung up! It’s good to see you.”
“You too, man.” Hawk jutted his head backward. “This is Mass.”
“Ben Massimino,” Mass rumbled, offering a hand that enveloped Otis’ completely.
“What the hell have you been feeding this one? I thought y’all didn’t eat NexGen’s crops.” Otis said, neck craned to look up at Mass’ boulderish head. The next round of shots arrived and Hawk hoisted one.
“To love’s sweet sorrow!” he cried, throwing it back.
“To love’s sweet sorrows,” Otis chuckled, taking one of the shots for himself. Hawk frowned at Mass, who sighed and took one too. They clinked their shot glasses and threw them back as one, slamming them down as the more fuel was thrown onto the fire in Hawk’s heart.
“You know what?” Hawk said. “Let’s go pick a fight. This party is a fuckin’ dud.”
“Your speech, Hawk,” Mass put in.
“You want a speech?” Hawk yelled, taking another shot and lifting it. “To booze and bullets and metal and tits and eternal life!” He threw it back.
“You always were an odd one,” Otis snorted. Hawk rounded on him. His father had always mocked him mercilessly for his tender heart, for his kindness, and he thought for a moment Otis was as well. The Peacekeeper nodded gently, taking the last of the shots. “You and your old man have a falling out?”
“Me, him, Rosa.” Hawk sighed, the blaze in his belly fizzling out as her name left his lips. He slumped onto the bar, unable to keep it in and Otis frowned, then comprehension dawned on his weathered face.
“Oh dear,” Otis said. “Rosa… You and her used to go together, I take it?”
“My heart yearns for her, man! My loins burn. I was so in love with her, Otis. I am so in love with her.”
“Hawk, you’re shouting,” Mass said, trying to shield his friend from those who were starting to look around at them.
“And now I’m just out.” Hawk buried his head in his arms on the bar.
“Out of love?” Otis said, clapping him on the back. “Strapping young buck like you? I doubt that.”
“Out of love, out of luck, out of anything good in this godforsaken life.” He raised his head and signaled the bartender for more shots. “Take your pick, Otis. She tore my heart out and gave it to my old man as a wedding gift, leaving me empty as the desolate wastes. Alone as the buzzards picking over the dried flesh dangling off a wreck. Cold and dead on the insides as the idiots who enter the circuits.”
“Not all of us are dead inside,” Otis protested. “And I resent being called an idiot.”
“More whik-sey!” Hawk hollered.
“I think you’ve had enough,” Otis said, waving the bartender off. “Gimme a hand with him, big man. Let’s jump out for a smoke, it’ll clear his head.”
Hawk allowed Otis and Mass to drag him to his feet, leading him out the door. His head turned automatically to the bride and groom. Elvis and Rosa had risen, dancing to a grinding electronic set that had replaced the metal band.
Maybe I have had enough, Menace, Hawk thought. Enough of love, enough of life, and enough of the goddamned Scavengers…
“I’d like to reiterate that this is a terrible fucking idea,” Izzy said as they approached the entrance to Crossroads, eyes flickering about as though she had no faith in their disguises. Mei laughed and nudged her friend.
“We’ll be fine,” she said, tugging the hem of her white leather skirt down again. “We blend. Besides, it’d be an absolute shame to miss your sister’s wedding.” Izzy' clenched her jaw and Mei smiled sweetly, fully aware that Izzy’s relationship with her older sister wasn’t a good one by any means. But Mei had seen a chance for a good night out and had to take it. She’d been training hard, it was her birthday, and she deserved a night of illicit fun. And, enemies or not, there was no doubt that the Scavs could party. Hard.
Izzy stopped at the steps up to the door, straightened the flat cap wrestling against her mop of curls, the zipper of her motorcycle vest threatening to keep inching down as her breasts pressed against it, her jeans so tight that she’d needed Mei’s help to get into them. Mei, in turn, was wearing a tight black tube top with a cropped denim jacket. Her midriff was chilly, her feet stiff from the ankle boots she’d scrounged up, but they blended in amongst the scum. In fact, they were drawing more interested eyes than hostile ones.
“Let’s get this over with,” Izzy muttered.
“Oh, don’t be a wet blanket,” Mei smiled back, climbing the steps.
The door to the bar burst open as they came to it and the women leapt aside as a trio of men barged out, two supporting a third. One was a Peacekeeper, which made Mei’s guts lurch, but the other was the largest man she had ever seen, towering over the pair of them like a mountain of flesh. The third, a slim sun-darkened man, looked to have had a little too much to drink.
“‘Scuse us, ladies,” the Peacekeeper said. They passed and the women entered the bar, Mei’s smile blossoming as she took it all in.
The place was filthy, everything soaked in sweat, booze, ash, and old blood. Electronic music thumped out of the speakers as a grizzled band packed up instruments, their set over. The houselights were turned down and bright flashes of strobing colours twirled over the dance floor. Mei couldn’t help but squeal excitedly under her breath. Scavs were packed into every crevice, wild-eyed punks and wasted wastoids all there to revel and make trouble. Trouble that Mei wanted every part of. The beat was crawling into her veins. She wanted to dance, but first they needed a drink.
“How you doing, sweet thing?” said a tattooed old man as Mei and Izzy reached the bar, drawing hungry looks from a few passers on their way. Mei beamed, reveling in the attention, but Izzy looked like she had swallowed something particularly sour. Mei could almost have laughed at the fearless woman who could drive at break-neck speeds through narrow corridors and was proficient with every nasty trick in the Dynasty arsenal, but clammed up at the attention of a few wanton Scavengers.
“Fixing to be a lot better, baby,” Mei replied, looking to the bartender. “Can we get some vodka shots?”
“Charge it to the bride, Nelson.” Mei looked around and blinked at the woman who’d come up behind them.
She was tall, taller even than Izzy, but with an unmistakable familial resemblance. Same sharp smile, same never-ending legs, same arch of the brow, and their eyes were identical. Though, where Izzy’s were warm and excited, this woman’s were cold and dangerous.
“I didn’t expect to see you tonight, Isabelle,” Rosa said, throwing her arms around her sister. Izzy looked like she would rather hug the man slumped in his stool and drooling on the bar, but gave her sister a quick pat on the back nonetheless.
“Congrats on your…” Izzy trailed off, looking around the room. “Uh, marriage.”
“Granted, it doesn’t have the prestige of a Dynasty job, but it’ll do,” Rosa replied, then she looked at Mei. “Speaking of Dynasty…”
Mei forced a laugh. “What, I’m Asian so I must be Dynasty?”
“Of course not,” Rosa said, her smile forced. “I just assumed is all, given that my sister had thrown in with the ricers.”
Mei gnashed her teeth as Izzy cut in, Rosa’s eyes still glittering on her. “This is Mei. She works with me in the pits.” Rosa sniffed dismissively and focused on her sister again as though Mei wasn’t there.
“I’m glad you made it, Izz. Loosen up, have a drink, dance. I’ll introduce you to Elvis later.” She waved and trailed off, tassels at the hem of her garish wedding dress swaying with her hips.
“She seems lovely,” Mei commented. “We should introduce her to Dan. Maybe he can find a spot for her on his pit crew.”
“Shut up,” Izzy fired back, turning to the shots. She lifted hers and Mei snatched her own and they touched glasses, throwing them back. Mei reveled in the burn down her throat and ordered another round.
Their conversation ended as they began drinking. They had been pre-gaming at the compound, but Mei had sobered up somewhat with the excitement of coming to the Crossroads and she was eager to catch up to the room packed full of degenerates. In short order, her head was swimming and swaying in time to the heavy beats of the EDM. One last drink and she dragged Izzy toward the dance floor, throwing herself into the beat.
No chaperones, Mei thought, no guards, no tutors, and no fucking Dan.
This was going to be a night she would never forget, what she remembered of it anyways.
This is fantastic! The worldbuilding is great, characters are solid and the shifts in perspective are seamless.
Subscribed by another serial author.