Utterly Mad

(Gonna update this on the weekend. Been busy.)

Yeah, Its really nice.

        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.

Which I'll implement. Semi-sparsely. Throughout the year. 'Cause I'm pretty busy these days. Just so ya know, I suppose.

Instinctually, what I did first was size up the situation. I was big, and tough, and I knew a whole lot about hurting people, but I myself was hurting real bad at that moment. I was losing blood, exhausted, malnourished, and thirsty. Not the best condition to be scrapping in. The two men in front of me looked like animals who learned to walk and talk. They were filthy, had raggedy beards and loose teeth, and were covered head to toe in rawhide and jingling scrap. Ruthless scavengers, through and through. They didn't look well-fed, in fact, they were a bit scrawny. But they looked mean, and they looked crazy.
 
        The one with the knife looked at me, looked at the entrance, and looked at me again. His blade swished back and forth with his head. It was about four inches of rusty steel, sharpened into a point. The grip looked to be made of tape.
 
        "Wha....the hell?! Who're you, dead man!?" He piped up, a voice akin to nails on a chalkboard, worsened by borderline insanity.
 
        I struggled for words. Coughed hard, once, twice, tasted blood in my mouth.
 
        "Concerned passerby. Heard a real ruckus. You boys sound like you're havin' some fun here." It came out as a rasp. Barely a whisper. No chance of intimidation.
 
        The one with the wrench slapped the instrument on his palm. Once, twice, thrice. It sounded like someone beating a piece of meat with a rock.
 
        "The time of our lives, dead man. What's it to you?" His voice was deeper. Gravelly. Too much sand inhalation, I'd wager.
       
        "Ain't nothing to me. Your business is your business, and we can keep it that way." I retorted. The man strapped to the column's eyes had closed halfway between our conversation. His chest wasn't moving.
 
        "You interrupted us, stranger. Nobody takes kindly to bein' so rudely intruded upon." The one with the knife had a fancy vocabulary, for a raider.
 
        Now, I could see where this was going, to say the least. I'd walked right into a situation where the only answer appeared to be either dying or killing everyone else. Something told me I'd been in this kind of situation before. I saw a hungry look in the eyes of the knife-wielder, and the one with the wrench was looking to his buddy. Seemingly, for some kind of 'go ahead.' From what I could remember, I knew how to handle this situation, somewhat.
 
        You get the first hit in. Always.
 
        Despite my injuries, I charged to the side. Put the column between me and the scavengers, and ran towards the shelves. They were surprised. I could hear a gasp, and the gravelly voice of the one with the wrench screech "GET 'IM!"
 
        The tool-benches lining the wall weren't well stocked. My hand blindly reached out, scrabbling for something, anything to fight with. I glanced behind me. Knife was circling around the column. Wrench was behind him, looking over his buddy's shoulder to glare at me. My hand clasped something in its grip, and Knife charged.
 
        He charged straight into the eight-inch screwdriver I'd pulled from the small assortment of tools. He had his knife out in front of him, but my arm was much longer, and the metal implement sunk right into his gut with an awful sound. He froze. Looked down. Looked surprised, that was for sure. I didn't waste any time. Lifted my boot up as high as I could, and kicked out, hard. Caught his waist, and sent him careening away from me, blood dripping from his pierced belly. The red liquid was running down my weapon, all over my gloves.
 
        Wrench seemed just as surprised as his buddy. But he seemed tougher, too. Knife hit the ground hard, yelping and hollering and trying to stop the bleeding, while Wrench grit his teeth and made a noise like a bull and came running right at me, the big piece of metal in his hands shining in the dim light.
 
        I didn't slow down. He came at me, I came at him, he swung that wrench hard, in a swiping motion meant to catch me in the ribs, and I went low enough to duck right underneath it. It hurt like hell, having to exert myself so fast in my condition, but it paid off. I wound up right behind Wrench. He was still recovering from the swing, still gaining his footing. Big weapons like that were no good against a spry guy with a bladed implement. Too slow. The screwdriver caught him in the lower back. Right where the spine meets the waist. Sunk down to the handle, no doubt peeked through his belly at the other end.
 
        Wrench made a noise, an awful wheezing sound, but I interrupted him. I spun around on my left foot, kicked with my right, and hit the sunken handle of the screwdriver with my sole. Hard. It knocked Wrench off his feet. His jaw crashed into the toolbenches with a cracking sound, and then he fell fully and settled there.
 
        Knife was staring. Staring hard. Watching his dead friend with blank eyes. The bleeding from his gut looked bad. It was seeping through his tight-knit fingers, despite their valiant effort to stop it. He made another, different noise as I picked up Wrench's wrench. A scared one. I wasn't exactly feeling merciful. What goes around comes around.
 
        He tried crawling away, but the wrench stopped him. I heaved it over my head, then brought it straight down. Like splitting a log with an axe. It crashed right into the center of Knife's chest. I heard ribs splitting inwards, compressing on his organs with a vengeance. His face got all screwed up with pain, and he looked like he was about to start howling. That is, he would have, if the wrench hadn't landed again, a split second later, right smack in the center of that pained expression of his. Knife's face caved in, just like that. The wrench embedded itself, sent the whole thing inwards, like smashing a melon.
 
        I breathed in, breathed out. Rolled my shoulders, caught my breath. Then I turned to look at the man on the column.
 
        He wasn't breathing.