Carnage! Love & Lust in the Wasteland
Chapter IV: Making History (Part Two)
Otis climbed into the truck that he’d thought he would never drive again, a one ton Dodge pickup sitting high, the plow blade on the front polished and painted fresh, the tip of the harpoon lethally sharp where it sat on its swivel in the bed, the outriggers standing at the rear corners ready to lower and grip the ground. A shotgun waited in the cab, the cluster springing to life as he turned the auxiliary power on, systems checking themselves and running precursory diagnostics. He took a few shallow breaths as he gripped the wheel, the echoes of old Carnage in his mind. How many times had he sat in this seat, working these controls? He never thought he would again but here he was. The Menace was ready to make his return.
He turned the key, the engine grumbling to life as though he’d just shut it off after his final match, each diesel stroke humming like a tuning fork. Twenty years in storage, routine maintenance by the Peacekeepers, and the truck ran like he had parked it yesterday. He felt the vibrations in his heart, in his soul. They were one, him and this truck. Together, they were the Menace. He felt a grin spreading and he realized it was the first time he’d felt whole in years.
Let’s just see how long I can stay alive, he thought, grunting out a small cough and throwing it into gear, rumbling toward the rollup doors.
Outside, the buzz of thousands of voices filled the arena. The opening parade had begun, the fanfare blaring over the speakers, the announcer currently giving the rundown of the Buccaneer team while Otis waited. He was parked in the garage adjacent to Hawk and Mass, ready to make a surprise grand entrance when their team was called to take the Victory Lap to show off their warmachines. His heart was in his throat, his mouth crisp and dry. He flicked through the inputs on his dash, bringing up the live feed of the opening ceremonies and lit a cigarette to stave off the pre-game jitters.
It wasn’t just the sponsors that mattered in Carnage. They provided credits, weapons, and warm bodies, but the true lynchpin of the game was boons secured from benefactors behind closed doors. The wealthy would do anything to hedge their bets and there was nothing in rules about providing a team with grander weapons, extra ammo, or specialist visits to garages. These were the little edges that won games. And to attract the best of the best, one had to make a splash. Otis was ready to jump feet first into that pool.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer cried, booming voice hammering above the music. “It is my pleasure to announce the first team of its kind to grace the Carnage Circuits. For the first time in history, a moment to be here for, please welcome the Scavengers!”
A chorus of boos and hisses followed the announcement and the rumbling of Scav engines tore past Otis’ door.
“From the west coast on the shores of Vancouver, driving the Baja Bug with wheel spikes, roof spikes, bumper spikes, and spikes anywhere else you can think of, put your hands together for Gregor Dmitry!”
Tough, small, maneuverable, Otis thought. The Baja flicked onto his dash screen, looking like a hellish mockery of an old VW Beetle. The thing was decorated in nasty spikes and clearly weighted to roll back onto its wheels if knocked about. He also noted the headlights had been knocked out, replaced by what appeared to be shotgun barrels. Otis knew Gregor in passing; a bit of a half-wit, but an idiot behind the wheel was almost more dangerous than someone with skill.
“A local gal from the Hawkins Junkyard, piloting a self-manufactured sandrail, boasting handheld treats and sidearms galore, please welcome Sammy Serrano!”
Sammy, Otis considered, could be a problem. Her file of violent offenses was thicker than her sandrail’s tires. The video feed flashed over Sammy herself, grinning maniacally at the wheel of the welded together monstrosity, greasy blonde hair streaming behind her.
“And the leader of the Scavenger pack, in a vintage Ranchero with .50 cal accompaniment and her bag of tricks in the backseat, please welcome the wife of the fearsome Scavenger Chief himself: Rosalina Hawkins!”
Otis was familiar with Elvis’ Ranchero and had to give the girl driving it some grudging respect. Whatever she had done to get Elvis to agree to part with his sweet baby was probably more pleasurable than Otis had ever experienced. Rosa blew kisses to the crowd as she whipped the old wagon around the track, the very picture of a Carnage darling in every way. The ruthless and beautiful often gained popularity quickly on the circuits and could easily become a fan favourite after a single match, even if they were Scavengers.
Otis took a long drag on his smoke and clicked the display off. The jumbotrons would be showing their information cards, giving details on munitions and drivers both, as well as their vehicle’s point values for scoring. But that didn’t matter. He could get all that later on. His heart thumped in his chest and he thumbed the bottle off his pills, quickly dry swallowing one. Wouldn’t do to have an episode on their own debut run.
“And now, Carnage fans,” the announcer boomed, “as though the day has not been historic enough, I am simply aflutter to announce this next team.” Otis steadied himself, lighting another smoke off the butt of his old one and jamming the garage door opener to let the evening sun pour in. He revved the truck, the angry growl of an old beast sensing the end and at its most lethal. “Please welcome our Peacekeeper sponsored team! In the Crown Vic cruiser – oof, that one has seen better days! – outfitted with dual machine guns for peppering those in front of him, and a special surprise in the trunk for those who dare challenge his rust bucket’s speed, please welcome yet another local Scavenger: Sid ‘the Hawk’ Hawkins!”
There were more jeering calls, and laughter in the extreme, as Hawk rumbled out. Otis watched him gun it, the cruiser streaking around the track in a rusty blur trailed by a comet’s tail of bluish exhaust.
“A local shop owner and undoubtedly the biggest balls on the track, driving a monster of a monster truck that spews fouler things than Scavs themselves, please welcome Ben ‘Mass’ Massimino!”
Mass rumbled out in his monster truck, a beauty of a thing painted bright yellow and carrying a bed full of sludge barrels, and the crowd applauded. A monster truck was always a welcome thing. Otis took a deep breath, bracing for the moment coming.
“And now for the moment you didn’t know you were waiting for,” the announcer said seriously, the music dimming. “A veteran of more than thirty Carnage matches, the MVP of the 2921 Tokyo Circuit, and five-time Grand Champion of the Truckasaurus Bi-Annual Spectacular, the one, the only, Otis ‘the Menace’ Grange!”
Otis could barely hear his truck as he rumbled out onto the tarmac, the crowd in hysterics as he rolled onto the Victory Lap. He glanced at the screens, seeing archive footage of his previous matches, the truck he was driving now a battered mess compared to the angry vehicle roaring down the track. He laughed, gunning the engine and letting the crowd drink in his glory days. His picture flashed onto the screen and doused his fire a touch. His grizzled old mug seemed all the more feeble next to the fresh, youthful faces of the other drivers in the PTQ.
But he was the Menace, he reminded himself. These tracks were his.
Otis completed his lap, stopping at the entrance to their garage, Hawk and Mass gawking at him from within. He jammed a few buttons and the auxiliary camera mounted on the harpoon flickered to life on his display. He took hold of the joystick, usually only used if his gunner had been lost, and rotated the harpoon to fire into the garage. With a hiss of released pressure, the harpoon sailed into the shadows and embedded itself in the back wall. Otis flicked the winch on and the truck towed itself inside to thunderous applause.
“Sweet holy fuck, Otis!” Hawk was saying as he climbed out of the cab. Otis was all smiles as he embraced the boy.
“I told you I had it sorted,” he scoffed, ruffling the boy’s limp mohawk.
“Maybe we should paint Hawk’s vehicle,” Mass said, looking at the mishmash of warmachines. Hawk’s cruiser was like a sore thumb amongst them.
“Later,” Otis said, traipsing back to the mouth of the garage. He glanced up at the screens, each showing a different member of their team and the point values of their vehicles.
The scoring system in Carnage was simple: each team was issued one hundred points that the adjudicators that was split up between their vehicles based on durability, size, munitions, and appearance. Mass’ monster truck was taking up a whopping thirty-five points, while Hawk’s shitbox registered at a mere fifteen. Otis sighed looking at his own name, a heavy target of fifty points painted on his back.
“Fifteen points?” Hawk said, coming to stand next to him, Mass on his other side. “Fucking hell. I’m worse than Sammy’s sandrail.”
“Have you seen your car?” Otis said, chuckling at Hawk’s flat look. “All good, kid. Always a bonus to have a sleeper on the team. You’re low value so no one will be gunning for you first.”
The screens cleared and the music dimmed again. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer chimed. “Our last, but certainly not our least team, give it up for the royal family of Carnage: the Dynasty!”
Ever the fan favourites, the Dynasty brought a renewed roar to the crowd— though, Otis would argue that his was bigger. His breath caught as all four of the Dynasty drivers came out onto the track together to greet the hysterical fans. A sleek motorcycle led the way, trailed by a sinister little hatchback and an angry chuffing pickup, but it was the trailing TransAm that Otis knew to be a big fucking problem.
“Shit,” he grunted.
“On the outside track, driving a replica Audi hatchback whose trunk has more junk than its curvaceous driver: Isabella Villalobos!”
“Rosa’s kid sister,” Hawk said as a younger and less flashy version of Rosa lit up the screen. Hawk scoffed, frowning in obvious frustration. Izzy was worth twenty points.
“On the inside track, in an old Ford that’s more danger than Ranger, Officer Rufus Teague!”
“I know him,” Otis said. “Tried to get me to train him for a PTQ ten years ago, but spun out in the first round. The truck looks like shit but is running off enough torque to twist the frame in two. If pushed it could probably outpace the fancy Kawasaki at the front.” Teague was also worth twenty points.
“As though the Menace was not enough for you, in an unprecedented move, please welcome the reserve for the Dynasty team. Favourite of the Eurasian Minor Circuit, the Phoenix himself: Dan Sung!” As with Otis, Dan Sung’s short career began to replay on the screens. The boy was a vicious competitor, fearless and quick witted, and completely worth the thirty-five points assigned to him. The jumbotrons began to play footage of his recent run in the Eurasia Minor Circuit, including Sung running the last quarter mile of track in a glorious ball of flame. “Sung’s TransAm is outfitted with the latest in Dynasty munitions, a guided tracking system included for the state-of-the-art pocket missiles embedded in the body. Complete with caltrop dropper and a reinforced front end, bulletproof glass throughout, and nitrous reserves! Will he dazzle us with another fireworks display in this PTQ? We’ll have to wait and see, folks!”
“If the Phoenix isn’t leading the team,” Mass said, brow furrowed in thought, “then who is?”
“And the leader of the Dynasty troupe,” the announcer blared, “in her Carnage debut, the Queen of Speed herself, sister of the Phoenix – Lord, this family has wonderful genes for drivers! – on a brand-spanking-new Kawasaki S454… Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Mei Sung!”
Hawk groaned through the roar of the crowd, gawking at the image of the sweet-faced Mei Sung on the screen, the glowing twenty-five next to her name. Mei’s bike bucked and leapt ahead of her team on the rear wheel, the crowd eating up the spectacle and ready for the games to begin.
“You alright, kid?” Otis said, putting a hand on Hawk’s shoulder. He nodded.
“I guess we won’t be running off into the sunset together,” Hawk said. His shock fading as he shrugged. “Ah well, boys. At least I’m getting laid before we win this shit.”
“That’s the spirit,” Otis chuckled, clapping him on the back.
“Brackets will be drawn and announced tonight,” the announcer called as a crowd of fashionable folk began to hurry into their garage with racks on racks of clothing. “Teams, prepare your worst. Fans, stay tuned for the televised broadcast of the Press Gala…”
Otis sighed. He hated this part.
“Come on, kid. We’re due in wardrobe.”
“Right,” Hawk said, glancing at Mei Sung up on the big screens once more, expression forlorn. He blinked and turned back to Otis. “Wait. Wardrobe?”
We hope you have enjoyed the Opening Ceremonies, please stay tuned for Chapter V: Publicity