I don't know how long I walked for. Time didn't feel like time in the usual sense, it felt like how much pain I was in. The longer I dragged on, the more noticeable the hole in my face became. From what I could remember, I'm a tough guy. Bits and pieces of my memory told me that I'm not exactly some pansy anyone could walk over. But this was different. This wasn't a physical thing, a person, a rival, an opponent. This pain was worse than all of that.
Every heartbeat, every step, was utter agony. The booming of the blood in my head was all I could hear over the dead wind and the identical sand. I realized sometime through this hellish march that with every heartbeat, small spurts of blood were leaking from various places on my face and head. The feeling of impending doom was sealed. I was going to die.
I was going to die in pain, scared, and alone, in the middle of the desert with no memory of who I was, shrapnel sticking out of my head and blood welling out of my face. After what I guessed was a day, this was the only thought I had. The sun rose, the sun fell, the sun rose, and the sun fell again. The last time the sun rose, I was pretty sure this was it. I couldn't feel my legs. I couldn't feel anything at all. Not the bits of steel in my forehead, not the holes in my face. Not the fists that killed three people earlier.
But I kept walking. Slowly, stiffly, and by the end I probably looked like a corpse dragging itself from a grave. But I didn't stop. Not once. Dunno why. Just wouldn't let the desert win. Wouldn't let a dead man drag me down with his World Before bullshit tech. So I kept walking, and soon enough, I forget the feelings of impending doom.
I forgot them, because I went over the top of a particularly large dune and stopped dead in my tracks. I stopped dead in my tracks, because I heard something, and I saw something. I heard someone screaming, and screaming loud, at that. Pained, in agony, suffering very badly, by the sound of it. The sound registered in my brain before I realized what I was seeing.
Before me, in the little valley between two huge dunes, was a little encampment. Something in the back of my head told me I'd seen hundreds like it. It was ramshackle. Piecemeal, built from scraps. A few cars, the back of a truck, and some other bits and pieces from automobiles, planes, boats, what have you. Stacked together into walls, a little hole cut into the front end as a door. Something like a house, almost.
In front of this curious little building, I saw two cars. Well, not cars in the conventional sense, my brain told me. They were barbaric vehicles. Looked like they used to be buggies, off-roading kind of things, all light, no real roof, no windows, corroded to hell and armored up in vital places. Spikes, crude, sharp, awful things, were studded all over the cars. They looked like porcupines. Like animals, not cars. Brutal little killers. They gave me a bad feeling.
Their engines were running, and they were parked facing the house. Now, this told me something. My instincts, those feelings I'd been getting back there in my head, told me that this meant the owners of these cars weren't the owners of the house. They'd pulled up, fast and hard, judging by the tracks behind them, and the drivers had exited before turning the engines off. Speed was key here. Someone was raiding the house.
The screaming was coming from inside the little building, and something told me it wasn't the drivers screaming. A cursory glance into my past life, and I, for some reason, doubted that I was a charitable, helpful guy. But the facts were facts, and the fact was that should these guys finish up here and get back in their cars, I was dead meat. Two sets of eyes on flat land, nowhere to hide? Not a chance. No way in hell. Only "safe" way outta this? Take them out first, or at least see what the ruckus was about.
So, I walked-if you could call it walking-forward, the numbness in my extremities telling me this may not be the best idea. I passed by the war-cars, the rust and dried blood on their hulls giving me chills, their engines lightly growling, and made my way to the door. The screaming was getting louder. A man, definitely, but there were other voices. Couldn't make them out, too far. A few steps closer, and I saw the front door. It was big, sturdy. World Before steel, no doubt. Had to be an antique.
It was also smashed in. Bolts and rivets littered the floor around the fallen object. One of the guys from the car was either big, or carrying something capable of that. Neither was a good sign. I steadied my breath. The screaming kept on going. Someone was being done over real bad. It had quieted down a bit since I arrived, but it didn't sound anywhere near stopping.
One breath, in, out.
More screaming.
Another in, another out.
More screaming.
I did something other than stumble for the first time in days as I charged forward, my boot clanging on the door and sending me rocketing into the little building. I had my arms at my sides, hands relaxed, my feet skidding to a stop on the floor as I careened into the room. Wasn't a pretty sight waiting for me.
It was a dimly lit room. Not very big, but not small either. Not much light from the sun got in through the holes here and there in the roof. Little columns of steel dotted the place, keeping the roof up. On the wall opposite the door, a few benches held what looked like tools. The whole place smelled of rust. The years-old rusty smell that gets clogged up in your nose real good.
There was a man, tied to a support column in the center of the room, and there were two men standing next to him. The guy nearest to the one on the column had a knife in his hand. The other had something held behind his back. I saw the glimmer of metal. The one on the column didn't look so good. In fact, he looked like he was dying. Big slices up and down on his torso. Deep, but not too deep. Not for killing. For causing pain. His face was covered in sweat, and there was blood dripping from his mouth. He didn't even react to me entering.
Same couldn't be said for the other two. The one with the knife jumped back a full foot, putting him right next to his buddy. His buddy who, as it turned out, was the one who smashed the door. This fact revealed itself to me as a three-foot wrench slid from his off-hand into his right. Something told me I should've taken my chances with the cars.
Wasn't sure where I wanted things to go when I started this one, that's why it took so long.
Next one will be combat-heavy, obviously.
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