Kalahan listened to the organic mechanic babble about how useful the thief was and something about carrot art? He didn't have long to ponder on Sawbones' words before all at once the storm began to nip at their heels and a convoy made itself known. Holstering his crossbow, he shook his head at the convoy.
"Fuck me sideways."
The storm was of no concern to him, if anything it was something joyous to him, but the convoy might not be as indiscriminate as a duster.

The goggles on his forehead came down to protect his eyes but he paused with his hands on the gas mask around his neck.
"If we survive this, you best start makin' tracks off our way," he screamed to the silver tongue.
The Road Warrior turned without another word and donned his gas mask as he sprinted off through the corpses and groaning machine frames, practically leaping at Amaha.

He took hold of his bike by the handles and muttering words of encouragement that were snatched up and clawed to ribbons in the roaring wind. The metal welded to the kick stand made it awkward to put up but he managed with one, swift kick. Heaving against the wind, Kalahan pushed his beauty behind a burned out car and removed a rusty chain, complete with a lock from a saddle bag. He took a shiv from the multitude along Amaha's flank and used the pommel to shatter the passenger side window and the window behind that before looping the chain through the broken windows, through Amaha's back wheel, and back to meet the other end of the chain. Sealed with a beefy padlock, his beloved was bonded to the car and hopefully it would be able to withstand the strength of the outer storm. He patted her chassis as if to reassure her before climbing through the broken window and positioned himself to be sprawled over the dash board.

That would've been the end of it, but he glanced behind him to see if there were any weapons in the back. There were of course none, the raiders had picked them clean, but he did find something that made him stop. A young girl's corpse was lain across the back seat with the left side of her head open and the contents splattered across the opposite window. Kalahan sighed and reached back to gently pat her arm.
"Go in peace, lil' bugger. Since you're gone, I'm just gonna borrow something from ya, alroight?"

Taking his shiv, he plunged the blade into the corpse's abdomen and wiggled it around, creating a sizable hole from which blood very slowly oozed. He removed the knife and replaced it with his hand, dipping it into the intestines up past his wrist and followed with a second hand. He cupped his hands together and collected blood that he proceeded to smear across his face and dripped into his hair. At a glance, he seemed to have suffered a grievous head injury. His camouflage was now complete and so he leaned over the dash board and trapped his hand clutching the knife beneath his body. Anyone that came to move him would receive an eyeful of rusted metal.

He concentrated on pin pointing the sounds of the convoy so he could know if they were far enough away from the camp he'd spotted earlier so they could make their escape. This would be a close call without a doubt and a small grin made its way onto his face at the thought of how close he was brushing with death.

The dust storm was going to bear upon them at any second now. It was only a matter of time and whether the Great Hippo was feeling merciful today or not. Sawbones eyes looked around in a mad manner, eyeing each corpse of a vehicle and figuring out which one would be best to weather the storm out. Especially with the presence of the convoy. Raiders. Pilgrims. War-Parties. It didn’t matter to him. If they would stand in the way of his precious quest for the completion of the Panacea, then, they were all flesh and bone in his eyes. His to carve and his to mould.

Sawbones heard a wet and terrible ripping noise as Kalahan messily disembowelled and removed the young female full-lives person of her organs. He narrowed his eyes at the grievous act of shame that the Road Warrior was displaying so wantonly. Wasting all of that fertile blood and flesh just as a gambit to disguise himself. It was simply despicable. Good blood. Good blood to spread and breed blood in others. Then again, the Great Hippo had not let him survived the storm for nothing. From the looks of it, despite its simplicity, the disguise looked convincing. Maybe, he had a good idea after all.

He wouldn’t waste a good corpse like that, however. They would need a distraction if they were going to survive the storm.

Sawbones searched through the wrecks for an appropriate corpse hurriedly before spotting an half-life war-boy with sliver in his smiling teeth, his eyes closed in peace. The War-Boy was growing soft even before he died in the convoy. His skin was pallid and pale as chalk. There was a horrid tumorous growth on his chest, constricting his rib-cage and his eyes were sunken so far back into his skull that they looked almost gaunt. He looked almost recognizable to him as Sawbones popped open a scalpel and flipped him over, doing a hasty incision at his back. Wasn’t his name Slag? It didn’t matter anyway. He took a lengthy jagged piece of ripped bumper from an old buggy and rammed it in the bottom of the corpse, a foul smell emanating from the open cut. He eventually raised him upwards and propped him on the hood of a car to make it look as if he was standing in the storm. There was only the need for a little bit of clothing to complete the illusion before Sawbones examined his work.
Hopefully, the Great Hippo would bless him this time again.

The storm quickly approaching at a field’s distance now, Sawbones quickly ducked under the uprooted vessel of a burst-open buggy, digging himself firmly in the sand, underneath the rusty belly. His chin was buried in the golden sand as he closed his mouth, careful not to breath in the blistering sand. There was a small gap of light where he could see what was outside, his breathing quickening as the light was dying by the fraction…….

The storm was no longer holding off, and it was bringing trouble. Rex hadn't even had two minutes to take stock of what vehicles were still drivable. Now the crash site was about to become the deathtrap Rex initially expected. The wind whipped against his rags, light debris scraping past his boots in the gale. ‘These people owe you nothing Rex ... get out of here while you can you dumbass.’

There was no plan, no clever trick or useful experience that covered this. The only smart choice was to mount up and ride like hell, but the sorry bunch that survived would never be mobile in time even with his help. There was nothing he could do for them now. They were too busy squabbling with one another over whether to kill the supposed trespasser.

Rex has seen him approach from a conspicuously wreckage-free area. The way he chose his words cemented Rex’s suspicion he was a fraud. He would have threatened the charlatan too had he more bullets to spare. Why did it matter? People got scammed every day and he never lost sleep over it. Right now he needed to leave them to their fate and save himself. He have a heavy sigh, “God dammit Rex.”

He clamored up the same hill he came down a moment earlier, making for his bike, ignoring the yelling behind him. He flipped the stand and laid it flat, taking out a tarp to cover it. He buried the edges to keep it from blowing away and to hide it better. “Can't let raiders find this ...”

He decided not to stow his rifle, in his gut believing he was about to need it, and got back atop his hillside perch from earlier. If he could hide here, then he would have a clear shot below. Four bullets wouldn't win that firefight though. Maybe if he took a shot as they approached he could slow them down. Playing sniper on a sand dune left the survivors vulnerable. For whatever reason that bothered him, but what was the alternative? They couldn't flee and fighting in this condition was a horrible idea. “Got any more bad ideas Rex? This is hardly your worst,” he muttered aloud as he dug himself a somewhat concealed wallow to lay in and fire from.

Results so far
Overall conditions change

---

Group Project "Reach the large settlement" Objectives

• Scout the route
• Defend the vehicles
• Contact the settlement

---

The main body of the duststorm hit the wrecked convoy hard, the winds whipping around the burnt out vehicles, tearing pieces of their metal corpses off and sending them spinning through the air. For a few moments the only thing that could be heard was the whirling screams of the winds, and the dust carried with it cut visibility down to only a few meters, but suddenly the first of the raiders' vehicles burst into the relatively calm area between its destroyed brethren.

The trike seemed to have been specifically modified to move through the storm, with an armoured shell sheltering the driver and heavy girders strapped to the sides weighing it down against the high speed winds buffeting around it. As it passed by the ambush site a passenger tossed flares at each of the vehicle carcasses, marking them for possible salvage before the trike moved off on its way down the broken highway.

More headlights shone in the distance and it would only be a matter of seconds before the rest of the raiding party moved into view, and as the armoured trike rolled closer to Sawbones and Kalahan all Rex could do was hunker down and watch the headlights weaving around inside the dust cloud, his gun ready should it be needed.

The sound of the dust-storm blowing over the heaping wreck of vehicles was absolutely ghastly. It felt as they were in the gullet of some gigantic monstrosity, slowly swallowing them whole downwards into oblivion. The sandy wind leaked through the rusty metallic frames as Sawbones remained utterly silent, tightening his grip on his trusty scalpel and the pages of the Panacea. The blistering currents of shaving sand shifted and blew through the junkyard of scrap, each grain of sand ringing off the metal with a shrilling collision, as if it were taunting him at the second. Sawbones continued to mutter prayer after prayer in assent as he lied, flat on his belly, in waiting for the right moment.

“ Oh hippo preserve me, hippo preserve me, hippo preserve me, hippo preserve me, hippo preserve me…..”

A vehicle rolled up next to his hidey hole. The sound of burning guzzoline was muffled by the screaming storm but there was no doubt about it. He stayed silent as a burning flare was dropped next to the wreck of a nearby buggy as he stayed underneath the broken-down truck. He could notice that there were several other flares following behind the main vehicle. It eluded him to how the small vehicle could stay grounded in this blithering dust-devil until he noticed the large sections of metal bars strapped down to it like an anchor. It slowly steered through the entire wreckage while dropping flares. The war-party rolled behind it, lights flashing through the grimy storm. Flares to mark out loot. Treasure. Good scavenging.

They would be discovered soon unless the Road-Warrior would intervene. There was no escaping from the raiders out in this storm, unless they wanted to be ripped to shreds. It was doubtful. Against an enemy this large and organised, they would be scrapped sooner than you could say Vahalla.

So, what to do?

Wait and lie flat on their bellies for the storm to turn over?

Or try and change their eventual fate?

There was only one thing to do now. He needed to distract them, to keep them from discovering his and the Road Warrior’s location.

“Oh, Great Hippo, may you bestow upon me your wisdom like you did with the Great Fleming…”

Sawbones shuffled out of his hiding moment, extending his upper body out into the storm for a moment. With one of his shivs in his hands, he tossed it limpidly towards the right of the trike as it collided with the hood of a desolated car with a loud clang. He scurried back underneath his makeshift shelter, coughing and hagging out sand from under his mask.

There was no riding in a storm like this. Not without air filters, and not without a greater touch of the crazy than Rig had been cursed with. No, he'd dug in and then tarped his prone form a stone's throw from the bike, with every intention of waiting out the rad-blasted chem-storm like all the others before it, and the many yet to come. He'd left the bike looking abandoned and wrecked, but that ruse was likely unnecessary, since even before he covered himself with the makeshift tent, the bike was half-buried in drifted sand. His burrow wasn't comfortable, it wasn't truly safe (what was?) but once the ever-shifting sand had buried the tarp, it was as close to full concealment as you could get in the Empty.

There was no food. There was very little water. He'd ration that for the morning. There was no need for light. His hands played over his weapons, checking their readiness over and over. The storm raged mere inches from his face, the smell of ozone and the roar of the winds assaulting his senses. But it was all white noise as he let himself sleep. This too, would pass....

The blasted chem storm lasted for what seemed like an eternity, the wind, the cursed W... ripping at his eardrums until all was white-noise, every hair standing on-end as heat and lightning, ozone and toxins that would rend flesh from bone and bleach skin as white as the salt, assaulted his senses. He got maybe an hours' sleep before the storm came upon him, full-bore. And after that, there was no rest. No real sleep. Only silent prayer to whatever passed for a God in this living hell. Prayer and curses, curses and prayer that he'd live on. Why? Best not to venture too far down that road, friends. Suffice it to say that some are merely too stubborn to lay down, when the other option -- placing one weary foot in front of the other, dogged determination in the face of never-ending nothingness -- seems somehow the right choice to make. Wrong, certainly. But who remains to remind those who plod on, that death is the better choice in a world with nothing left to give, but pain?

The sand had mercifully covered him in the night, sheltering him from the worst of the storm. A hand emerged. Then an arm. Soon the torso burst free of the freshly-dug and self-imposed tomb. The air tasted of copper and salt, and it was already hot, near forty degrees centigrade, if Rig had to guess. It took him a few minutes to unearth the bike, and a further several minutes to uncork her precious air cleaners and knock the sand out of the carbs. All-told, he sat, exposed, for far longer than he'd like, but there was no getting around a chem storm. Either you had shelter (if you were very, very lucky) or you made do. Or you died. There weren't too many more options. Anyone in his position (and he knew there were other unlucky sods out there) would be doing the same.

He was as safe as could be, given the circumstances in the moment. Before firing off the bike, he scanned the horizon with his binoc. There. About five kliks to the East. Smoke. Enough of it to be a camp, or a convoy. Not a ville. Big enough that Rig should've wanted to avoid it. He shook the tank on his bike, peering into the filler neck. Maybe an eighth of a tank. Funny how some things are absolutes. Sometimes, a body's mind gets made up without much in the way of choice. Whether he wanted to avoid it or not, seemed he was going toward the smoke.

He cranked the bike over. Once. Twice. It caught on the third, but something was off. He shut it down, and checked her over once more. Dammit all... fouled plug. He drew his dust mask around his mouth and nose, and pulled his hood up, wiping the worst of the sand away from his shoulders, and checked the load in his sidearm. The day wasn't great. And chances are it wasn't going to get any better. But if he got a tankful of juice, or a plug... he'd call it even.

Flipping up the kickstand, he began walking his bike toward the smoke...

...the trek took most of the morning. Walking a bike that weighed near 350 lbs over mostly loose sand and scrub ground was a fool's errand, a slog worse than running in knee-deep mud. Remember mud? heh. When he crested the last rise of the dune concealing the smoke (or what remained of it) he gave a low whistle. Whatever had happened here, he had missed it. And for small mercies, he was thankful. At least half a dozen shapes lay half-buried in the sand. Vehicles burnt and twisted from a fight that looked to have taken the lives of many. Other, smaller lumps in the sand dotted the scene. Bodies. There were no tracks left to examine, but reading the lay of the vehicles, Rig could tell that some vehicles had escaped destruction. That was good. Good for them that rode those vehicles. Bad for them that got left behind.

He flicked the spade end of the kickstand down, and after another thorough scan of the horizon, got to work. First, the vehicles. Digging out the remains was tough going, and the ones that had burned, he mostly ignored. Not much worth salvage there. There were two vehicles that had crashed, and begun to burn, only to have the fires snuffed by the storm. These, he focussed on. First was a buggy, its engine and transmission smashed and ruined. Even so, he managed to retrieve two bottles of useful life-blood. A plastic water bottle-worth of ATF, and a canteen of oil. Thirty-weight, by the taste. The driver had been picked clean, but the driver's seat was another find: still (mostly) covered in leather, the black, stitched pelt was freed to get folded and placed in his pack. The second vehicle offered up its distributer, and though the alternator looked good, Rig deemed it too cumbersome to carry. So it was left, along with some salvaged wiring, in a tin, buried in a spot he could find in the future, if it came to that.

Next, the bodies. This didn't take long. Most had burned, or were picked clean. Certainly, there was nothing left of use, really. Sure, he could have added a belt, or a pouch, but he had what he needed. The biggest find was a pistol, discarded, its barrel bent and blackened. This he stripped for small parts: screws, springs, the trigger assembly, all of which went into a tin he kept for barter or his own use down the road.

The second-to-last body, he pulled mostly free of the sand and began rifling mechanically through its pockets, when he recoiled at a sound. This one, clung to life. If barely. He drew his pistol, levelled it at the form. Stood there a full five minutes. It was barely alive. Unconscious. He holstered his piece, dragged the form clear of the sand. Male, female? He couldn't tell, the head was shaved. He flipped the unconscious form over, dragged it into the shade afforded by one of the wrecks. Either it would live, or it would die.

He spared the form another look, then went back to his bike to retrieve that fouled plug, and set to work cleaning it. It seemed, he was staying awhile...