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Road Warriors - A survival adventure set in the world of Mad Max

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...

Road Warriors - A survival adventure set in the world of Mad Max

Nobody asks permission to join the apocalypse. You just do.

Road Warriors - A survival adventure set in the world of Mad Max

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....

Road Warriors - A survival adventure set in the world of Mad Max

Rig

Rig. Linky

Name: Rigzin 'Rig' Carter

Path: Green — but he buries it deep.

Role: Road'Slinger (Road Warrior / Leadslinger)

Gear: He's got a 'bike. He'd prefer a car. Something with some space to stretch out, make a home, store the goods. But this'll do. Last fella owned it doesn't need it no more. It's decent fast, and nothin' too precious that he wouldn't trade its life for a mark in the 'W' column. He carries a piece at his side. Holds more bullets than he's ever seen in one place (currently he has four. One more that he's not completely sure about.) Bit 'o tin keeps the flash from the muzzle to a minimum. Bit 'o bodge traps the spent brass. Bit 'o this 'n that keeps the grips from falling apart. For when the bullets don't speak yelly enough, he's got a shotty, too. Used ta be a flare gun, back in the before. But it was sleeved to accept a single breech-loaded 12 gauge shot shell. (he currently has three, but they may, or may not be any good...) Nobody worth the salt walks the wastes without a blade. He carries a knife always. Can't count on the boomers. Last bit of business is the bat. That's usually slung behind his back. (but shhhh.... don't tell anyone I said so.)

Personality: Rig's not much for wordstuff. Never seems to do him much good. Most don't take kindly to it when you're an outlander. Come to think of it, Rig's not much for people. For the talkings, or otherwise. Too much trouble. Leads to the snuffing. Which he doesn't appreciate either. Folks'd be best off if they steered clear, seems to be.

History: Been across the wastes, long ways. Seen a lot, done enough to see through two half-lifes. What more is there to say?

Road Warriors - A survival adventure set in the world of Mad Max

I'm late. Still time to play?

The Risen: Fear the Fallen

Checkout Counter #6, Walmart, Framingham, Mass.

She was close. Close enough that he could smell her. (Degree Antiperspirant, $3.99, aisle 3A.) Wait. Was that her? Blood on the floor. His. Grant-package's. (Band-Aid brand plastic coated self-adhesive bandages, box of 50, $5.99, aisle 3B.) No. Nonononononono... Not her. Something else, smelly. His focus was on them, on her... but his ears were elsewhere. (St. Elsewhere, box-set, season one, $29.99, aisle 28) **quietly, almost hissing** "not NOW, dammit..." He could pinpoint a sound now. It was in women's underthings, just inside the main entrance. **still very, very quietly** "Your fault. Your fault. Your. Fault. Yours. Bad. Yourfault. You and Grant-package. 'least two of them. Stinkers in the naughty garments. Leaker needs new hosiery... cleanup, aisle 2 please..." Very, very slowly, with his off-hand, Ryan reached into a coat pocket and withdrew a set of dikes (Milwaukee, $11.99, aisle 17, Automotive) and as he swivelled the wavering gun barrel toward the ladies' naughty garment section, held them out for the woman to take. Held them as if touching her or touching them while she touched them would mean certain transmission of cootiees. "Cut him out. There'll be more coming. Always more. Always when there's fresh meat. Aisle 10. Delicatessen / Butcher..."

@The DudeMan @Lady of Lore