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...
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