warandwaste | CANON

He is flat on his back. The hot light hooked up in the undercarriage of the car casts a swirl of shadows from his arms as he works: wrench in one hand, screwdriver between his teeth other hand steadying, steadying the pieces he's bolting back into the car.

It's not his. Spent a solid six hours unwiring the door of his, wrenching it free, remaking the hinges and bolts and considering just welding the whole mess in place. What's he need a door for anyway? Nothing good is what. Is knee deep in trying to decide one way or another - hasn't got the patience to just fire it, and this - replacing the cracked fuel tank of the car Furiosa's boys had driven out of the desert - is a cathartic distraction without straying too far from the problem.

There's a pan beside him to catch the dripping fuel. Chemical smell in the air. It's been three days. A long time - for the car to be out of commission for the boys roving all over the ground in the Citadel's shadow, for him to be here. Can feel the prickle of an itch under his skin. Turns the wrench, pauses, then trades it out for the screwdriver and begins to gently tighten the screws. It's the right size for only half of them. Takes a moment, tries it anyway on the rest, and then grunts out in irritation. Kicks her leg, heel catching against stone and scraping - rolling himself out from under the car. Dog, waiting near his knee, shifts to stand. He clicks at her, attention swinging as he drags himself sitting - peers toward the front of the car where Furiosa still has the hood up, all the car'a guts - more mangled than its behaved in the wastes - falling out and ontk the nearby workbench.

Taps the handle of the screwdriver against the weel wheel to get her attention. Flips it, turning it in his hand - offers it out when he's sure she's looking.

"Too small."

Edited 2015-06-21 20:10 (UTC)

Three days was a long time for practically no time at all. Bounding towards eight thousand days since she was taken, thousands more before that, and this is the long and short of it- she has had his silhouette in the corner of her eye for only seven of them.

And yet.

He is not in the corner of her eye all the time. She has work, and he has distractions, and the Citadel is a vast sprawling thing that offers more to see than you'd think. It's impossible to be here and not get dragged into one duty or another. It maybe a far kinder place than it was when Joe was in charge, but it didn't mean life was easy or peaceful. It was never so calm as to set her fingers twitching more than what a week or two's ride into the waste to deliver or pick up this or that could cure. It's more by luck than by plan that she ends up in the garage at the same time as him, but the car was still broken and the boys that usually thought of it as theirs were getting anxious and would soon get worse. Besides, they didn't have the resources to be down even one. So his help is- appreciated if not strictly needed. The same as hers, if she's being honest.

He drags himself free of the undercarriage with a grind that doesn't really warrant her attention from where she's dragging out blown hose, fingers black as charcoal and face streaked with it. The tap on the wheel well does, and she leans sideways to catch sight of him. Narrows her eyes at the offered screwdriver and scrubs her hand across the line of her pants before reaching back to the bench. Figures- yeah, that one, wraps her fingers around a well-worn wood handle and puts her weight on her metal arm as she leans down across the hood, drag of her torso along the beaten line of metal to pass it to him, handle first.

"Should do it."

Catches it up from the end of her outstretched arm - turns it over, inspects the gauge - and rocks back with a grunt of approval. Press of his heel and the slab of metal grating on wheels disappears back under the car with him laid on it. Dog lays back down, ugly square head and shoulders half under the car alongside him.

As in all things, he works-- not quiet, not dead silent, but wordlessly. Small irritated noises as the bolts slip and the welded soft metal hose clamps don't sit quite square around the patched and welded and sealed part. Huff of satisfaction when he grinds the right screws it with the right screwdriver. Scrape of his boot against stone as he shifts his knee over to nudge Dog out of the way when she leans in too close and blocks the light. Doesn't need to say anything - doesn't have much to say anyway. Thinks about his car and how quickly he can get in and out through the top panel. Thinks about refitting, about how much more he could get for trading a door instead of scrap. Thinks--

And secures the last screw with a small, curt hum. Rechecks them all once and then worms his way out from under the car - fingers stretching out to unhook the light and drag it out with him. Sweating, black over over his hands and streaked up to his elbows. He uses his wrist to push Dog out of the way and hauls himself like dead weight up and on to his feet.

Tank's in, says the fact that he's standing. He wheels the cart over to the wall with his foot and then wanders around the front of the car toward where she's working.

She stays where she's leaning a moment longer, watches him push back under the car, dog going flat down beside him. Might be waiting to make sure she's guessed right, but she knows she has. So really it's just- watching. She does it plenty.

But there was work to be done. Drags herself back up, mouth pulling crooked at the sight of the mess beneath her before she ducks back into the hood and starts back to work. Pulls and twists and jars things out of place with finesse and, when it called for it, brute strength. It's half-gutted by the time she's done, but the engine is still good and most of the frame and chassis held up so it wasn't a scrap job any way you looked at it.

Time, and eventually another drag of metal across stone. Longer, feet on the ground, sound tinny from where she's still ducked down inside the car. Gets a bolt that's gone loose on one of the few parts still totally functional before she pulls herself out to look at him. Waits, and doesn't say anything, dragging the back of her wrist across her eyebrows, pointless attempt to keep the sweat from her eyes. She knows the tank is in, she knows it's done right, because she'd got more than enough of a feel for what he could do- not a hard repair anyhow.

So, then, what now?

Not looking at her - leaning out over the gutted engine compartment and scanning the empty space, the tangled sprawl of components and wiring and rubber tubing. Tugs on a piece of metal and the body of the car rocks on its frame - shivering on the blocks it's up on. Shrugs. Wipes his hands off on the front of his shirt and squints tight, lifting his eyes to her. Looks like more patchwork, probably. Scavenging hoses and small parts, mostly. There's a trader down in the market, he knows, with rubber. Was there this morning - early. But thinks it probably doesn't matter really. That there's probably all kinds of scrap lying in heaps in the tangling tunnels of the Citadel. Looks at her square in the face - then slides his eye line up between her eyebrows to the smear of grease on her forehead. Some black line passed from the edge of her hand or wrist there.

Fingers twitch up toward his own forehead, careful not to touch because he's filthy enough already. Makes a short motion with his thumb. You've got something--

He gets a good look at the damage, leaned over in the dim light of the garage- one thing they haven't been able to fix about the Citadel, dark almost always- easy to see what he's seeing. It's a mess, but none worse than they're used to. There's problems that aren't easy to solve but are- simple, in their way. Obvious problem, no obvious solution but a handful of possibilities and practice with figuring out work-arounds. Not impossible.

Evidently satisfied he leans back enough to look at her before his eyes stray and she finds her's following the line, flicks back to his raised hand, the small fidgeting move. She blinks, breaths out amusement, raising her upper arm and dipping her head to scrub it against the line of her shoulder. It didn't matter much, they were both filthy and it's not like she'd never had grease, thick and black, on her forehead before.

"Thanks," it comes out a little more wry than she means it to, but it was-fine. There's a trickle of sweat running down the line of her neck and now that she can't tough it, of course, it's bothering her. Shifts on her heels, wonders if she should ask him if he wanted to stop- but he probably would if he did. She shifted on her heels, the smallest motion disturbing her usual stillness.

Feels like he's been under a car or ducking down below the shadow of an open hood all day (mostly because he has). Can feel the tension in his shoulders, distinct ache in his lower back. Soft from three whole days of easy living. He rolls his eyes at the edge in her voice and angles his shoulders off, shifting toward laying the screwdriver in his hand flat on the table. Click. Thinks he's made a decision about the door and twitches back, tilt of his head leading--

Stops when he catches sight of the girl swinging quick in around the bend of the tunnel. Familiar. The youngest wife. --Sister. She has a spyglass in her hand, a threadbare expression. Looks only at Furiosa as she comes careening around the gutted car.

"There's a caravan. Brix saw it." Shoving the spyglass into her hands like it somehow carried a picture with it. "But there's a bunch of dingos coming in after them. Gussie says they'll get to them before they hit the gate. We should send them help."

She catches his look before she hears the footsteps, and that's all it takes for her to go sharp. Hadn't realized she wasn't until she suddenly was again, turning to follow the line of his gaze, slide of her boot heel against stone as she settles to face Cheedo. The girl isn't running but it's a near thing, breath huffing high through her nose- must have been down low to be breathless like that. Cheedo had been soft, but none of the sisters were the delicate things they were before. She was an adult now, had been, probably, since that day on Fury Road, and t shwed. Showed now in the quick facts of her words, the knowing look on her face.

Bad news.

Furiosa is reaching out to take it before Cheedo has even finished handing it over, fingers closing around brass automatically. Cheedo's here- barest flick of her eyes towards the only hint of sunlight down here- yeah, Toast's out now, perimeter patrols before sunset. She'd have a good group of- "I'll go."

She doesn't finish the thought before she's speaking, already swinging forward, shoulders back and tensed.

"Have some healers ready, they always need them. See if you can't find Capable. And make sure the boys on the gate don't get it in their minds to follow me."

Because it could be a trap. Always could be, and they needed to guard the Citadel even if their blood ran hot. Cheedo nods, only the slightest flick of her eyes for the fact that, yes, she knows.

"They're coming from the south, and the rig's already hooked up to the tanker for the three days run."

No good, then.

"Fine."

A dismissal as she turns around one of the tight corners, all nose to the wind.

An electric line running hot up the length of his spine. Looks from the girl to Furiosa and back again, leaning away to flick his eyes to the gutted car and down the passage Cheedo's come through. Listens with one ear, blood prickling, and looks to Dog. Snaps his fingers at her, which has the animal twitching to attention just the same.

'Fine' says Furiosa and the girl doesn't go, but she does give way - finally tosses a look his way and it feels... expectant. A quick, uneasy look spit between the two of them.

"I can run you out," he says. It's not any revelation. Felt it in his bones the moment they mentioned the rig. And then he's moving, sharp sound for Dog who leaps to train herself to his heels. Door's off - hell of a gap - but his ride's fast and mostly sturdy. Better than pounding down toward a handful of buzzards on a bike or whatever other alternative she had available anyway.

She thinks about it, but not for long, words in and out as she prowls down the hall. Rig's out, could use one of the boys or girl's rides but she'd need a second anyway and his ride was (in pieces) as good as any, from the few snatches of it she'd seen. Not that she'd been looking. He wouldn't offer if he didn't think it would go, so, easy choice.

"I need to find us some guns first, but the road should be clear by the time we get out."

Even for a strange car, there'd be rumors traveling faster than any nitro-boosted v8 by the time they go to his ride. She turns another corner, a strange sharp spiral of stone steps, claustrophobically low ceiling. Spits them out into a wide room all bustling business, and she doesn't wait before stepping to one of the tables lining the edges and grabbing- no asking, a rifle here, a handgun there. Hands one and then the other back towards him expectant and doesn't stop walking the whole while. Winding her way outside with a step just this side of running. Not too fast for him to keep up but- intent.

Handgun, rifle. Picks up a second pistol - peels down a satchel of ammunition -, on her heels with the same reliability as Dog at his. Cuts forward only once he knows exactly where he is, surging ahead and angling out toward where his ride sits. It'll take time to get it swung out, but there's a system to this - the lifts and the boys (and girls) - and he's been here three days and they see him coming, a gun in each hand and every single one of them goes sharp - and then buzzing when they realize Furiosa is there too. A girl comes running.

"Top her off right!" and someone is bringing a fuel can and a howl runs down the line for the lifts. Boys scrambling free of scrap and a pack of them fall in behind them, yelling hot like they're talking to one another even though they're clearly putting questions to Furiosa. "Ravagers! Sand snakes? Are they riding in that thing? They'll need back up like that!"

Max leans down through the open gap of the door frame, sets the rifle across the seat. The handgun there too. Stows the second gun in a sling near the steering column and then wheels around, snarling at the boys and they part like metal stripping from the frame of a car, skittering out of his way as he moves to the back of the ragged car, leaning low with a creak of the brace so he can jam the hidden lever under the rear wheel well. Boot pops open with a crack; he wrenches it open and pulls another long gun free with howls from the press of boys circling the car.

"Bring the sticks! Flamers! Juice!" they crow and the lift slams home with a heavy clang. He bangs the trunk shut and lurches back for the driver's seat, Dog leaping through the open door and scrambling into the narrow back compartment.

He takes what he needs and moves with the forward motion he only had in a fight- slipping into it like something old and comfortable. Reliable. The kids see him first, and she'd be proud of their reaction later, because when they see her they start up like an engine, revving around her. Eager to help, eager for her attention, eager for the excitement that still just seemed like excitement to them.

There's a part of her that thinks it's not right, they're all war already, but it's not like she'd ever been peace, either. Even in the Green Place. They'd decide how they wanted to go, and the truth was they needed them.

She nodded, slightest motion at the question as she looked out over the edge of the lift, pulls the spyglass to her face and peering out for the barest glance she could get as she rolled up to the side of his ride- doors off. She glances at him sideways as he loads in the guns, goes for more, quiet approval before turning her attention back to the pile of kids pilling up at her feet, boys and girls, braids and smooth heads and missing teeth and lumps and bumps but well fed and happy and sharp as wolves right then. She waits, one long hard second until they're all focused and keen before she speaks.

"We need two flares. Keep the walls safe, don't get distracted. You'll know if we need you. If Toast comes back you tell her and then you listen."

There's a murmur and then a mumble and then a loud affirmative followed by others. She takes it with the most subtle shift of the corner of her mouth half hidden by the way she turns around and throws herself into the passenger's seat, gives it a quick look and immediately reaches for every place she knows she'd keep a weapon. Takes stock quick.

The great wheels turn. They get closer to the ground all the time, and the children clear the way with anticipation heavy in the air and on their tongues.

He swings down in after, one hand on the door frame as the lift grinds down, down. Twists the handle of the ignition - no key, no fitting, just the raw open mechanism and the the blunt metal of a reworked tool jammed down into it. The engine snarls to life. Vibrates through the flat slab of the car's interior, through the steering, through the wheel. Feels it in his teeth, in his blood. Tastes it like something heavy and sweet.

The lift touches down. A boy leans in through the door frame, handing over the flares and the bastardized rail gun they load in to, skirting free the moment it's been passed over because the engine roars and Max shoves the car viciously into gear. It rocks forward with a groan, down off the edge of the platform with a pitched rattle and a spit of dust. Eats up the ground, air passing hot past the open door frames, worn shocks creaking as the car works its way for the gate. Keeps it running in a straight line as he leans forward, unslings the ammo pack from his shoulder and jams it down between them. Dog sets her front paws on the metal slab there, tongue lolling and ears pricked.

The gate's vicious teeth yawn open. They pass under and through it and the road licks out in front of them.

He turns it over quick and hard, sets the engine roaring, runs through in a rumble and she can hear- he'd need to take a look at that- but mostly what she heard was a good rumbling V8 that had driven thousands of miles and could go thousands more. Sunk through into her bones has her shifting back in the seat even as she plants her feet and hitches her arm up to catch the frame under her right hand, fingers curling over warm metal as they settle into the sands. She catches the flares with her metal grip, tucks them into the space beside the seat, doesn't get the chance for any more warnings even if she'd had them, as the car lurches, thumps off of the low ledge and into the sand with a dull sound and wheels catching uneven and then there is- hand on the shift, foot on the clutch, feels it catch into place, feels the pull through her gut before it drags forward, roaring growl.

It's a good car. Not flash the way the way a lot of the ones in the Citadel were. No wonder he'd been caught in the first place because she didn't see the slightest sign of nitro or any of the other dirt tricks they had around here. It was just a- very fast car with a very big engine and a very steady driver.

She glances at him, flicks her eyes up then down, catches sight of the happy dog as the car jolts underneath her feet.

Then she draws out one of the handguns, clank of metal on metal, flicks open the cylinder, reflexively double checking the bullets as he eats up the distance, aims to the horizon, citadel disappearing behind them, caravan slow to swim up.

Roar of revolutions per minute. Clutch in, shifting high, steady foot at the gas and the engine growling hot as it courses up, up, up. The dust from the caravan comes up on the horizon before anything else does, but it isn't long before the scrapped together campervan and limping utes come up into view: small black marks on the orange sand. Beyond them, closer to the band of vehicles than they are now: more dust, the vague shapes of cars. The dingoes Cheedo had talked about. Hums low. His car is sturdy, but they won't get there first.

Road eats up under the front tires and he counts in his head as they bear down, stringing out the moment when the scavengers hit the clearly wounded group of vehicles. Counts from a hundred. At thirty they are close enough to see through the heat haze and dust there small shapes of a herd of bikes passing around it: circling the caravan and and kicking up dirt as they go. Doesn't lean forward over the wheel because he won't get any better look from this distance even if he does. Knows somehow with a bone jittering certainty the fleet of bikes is the Citadel's, their poor excuse of a war party. Toast - with them? Outside the Citadel it had sounded like. Thinks 'no good'and makes a low noise to that effect.

Twenty. Someone fires a shot, crack of it like a tinny pop over the sand. Ten. Can make out the bikes and the vicious patchwork leading cars (two) of the scavengers clearly even though the dirt. Three, two-- one of the cars cuts straight through the caravan, slamming into one of the Citadel's bikes, plowing it and the rider forward and punching through the middle of the campervan like driving a bolt through metal.

The size of the cloud of sand and dust gives her a pretty good idea of what they're looking at even before the trucks come into view. Limping tired beasts, all thin rusted bodies and held together with twine and luck. Not for war, not even slightly. Sees their weakness painted out- one especially large, used to be a bus, maybe, but it's slower than the rest and they're all hobbled to it. Full of people, probably. A few sturdier vehicles on the outskirts but for the most part they're easy picking. Not hard to see why they caught anyone's eye.

There's dangers to this, to being what they've become. People needed to believe in something better, but that didn't mean they were going to make it the whole way. She tried not to think about the number of corpses scattered across Fury Road chasing the hope they'd planted. He hums, and she knows. They weren't going to get there in time to keep the dogs off their backs.

The bikes come buzzing into view one by one and she plants her feet hard, pushes back into the seat so she can unhitch her hand from the frame of the car and bring the spyglass back up. Patrol doing their job, but they weren't kitted out for this. They were meant to buzz back to the Citadel for real help but they'd probably come on them too late. She can feel it like a rumble through her chest, eyes catching, one two three.

Her teeth grit hard. A shot. She holds one moment longer before reaching for the rifle and driving herself up to stand on the seat, one foot on the dash, dangerously close to him as she thrusts her upper body out of the hatch in the roof. sand catches grit into her eyes and she ignores it as she drags the gun out after her. Sight the scope quick and tries to keep balanced with the bouncing sway of the car under her. Can see too clear theirs that go tumbling off the bikes and remembers where they fell because she's not sure if they made it out of the way of the wheels or not. Draws a bead on the car slamming hard into the thin corrugated metal siding and breaths out long and low as the car goes over a little crest, fires in that floating interim before it slams back down, shattering windshield.

The sound of the rifle, a loud singular CRACK! over the roar of the engine. Somewhere ahead of them glass explodes. Someone's face or some equally vital part with it most likely. And the car snarls in across the sand, leaping out over the irregular ground - eats up the distance. Counts, counts, counts. Beats and rotations and the leap of the wheel under his hands - his hand, his left hand fishing after the pistol in the sling by the steering as the scavenger ride with its ruined windshield veers wildly. Cuts free of the caravan's center like a wounded animal. Charges forward and then-- spots them, yanking around with a spray of sand and dirt and small stone.

They are on top of it almost instantly, swinging in on its tail as it turns to run back to its pack. The car, doors gone and bouncing high on its shocks, shrieks after it. Dog barks, loud in his ear, and he doesn't look at the campervan or the ruined bike as they speed past it. Rolls his attention instead to the remaining two motorcycles wheeling around - flick of indiscernible riders as they roar past. Thinks--- nothing. Doesn't know what he thinks. Falls in line and roars after the dingo, riding hot up it's bumper.

There is a metal hatch in the back of the truck's cab. It unfolds. Slides open. The muzzle of a gun appears - spits in succession back at them as the ride swings wildly in the sand.

He goes tearing after the dingo, and Furiosa braces herself to the best of her ability, knees bending with the hops and sighting the rifle again. Hears the dog bark as a distant sound through the whistling air. Her side catches against the hatch, lines of bruises to be. She gets the gun settled firm just in time for the dingo to pop the back, gun sliding free but no face or body to aim at. A sudden spray of bullets, one which catches the metal of her arm and sings vibrations into her bones as she screams raw and mean, throwing herself back into the car. Nearly hits the dog on the way down, pushing the rifle back under foot well and snaking her other arm around to grab at one of the other hand gun tucked between them, wincing at the sound of bullets piercing his hood. No major damage yet but maybe a couple more days of patching holes.

She pushes herself back up over the dash, low, ignores the heat of the dog at her back at the line of his elbow at her side and fires quick accurate shots unto the shadow of the boot of the dinos car. Trusts Max to keep them out of any other trouble.

One shot, two shots. Three. Throws a fourth for good measure bit she knows the man is dead when the gun chatters out the back. A sharp breath, pushing herself back up in the seat and glancing back at the grinning dog before fishing around for the shotgun.

It was going to be hard, but they just had to push them off long enough to get the caravan within the shadow of the Citadel. They wouldn't risk closer. Hears the whine of the bikes buzzing let's that be enough, focus on the next problem.

Ping, ping, pop, crack! Rounds punching through the hood of the car, a hot trail from the grill nearly to the windscreen and his teeth are gritting, a snarl in his throat, the expectation of cracking, spidering glass when one of those bullets finds it-- and then the line of fire rocks away, spraying high and wide as the gun goes wild under the crack, crack, crack, crack of her aim.

Sharp, vicious noise of pleasure. The dingo keeps running. He hounds after it, pedal scraping the floor of the car - tires spitting sand and stone. Engine screaming. Wind howling across his shoulder and Dog barking once, twice, three times. All growling, mouth watering adrenaline - pulse hammering hot. The car closes. The dingo slides in the sand, changing trajectory to run with its tail between its legs toward the rest of the pack charging up out of the red sand.

Three to one, though they've gutted at least the first car until the driver or another passenger can get and man the gun. Have to overtake it before it links up. Before it can slither away under the covering fire of it's partners, before--

Smoke hissing through the holes punched through the hood. The car guns up alongside the fleeing dingo, drawing a line between it and what he hopes is the running caravan. Swings the point of the shotgun free of the car, thrusting it out the open door frame as they crawl up the tail of the dingo. Fires, a blast of shrapnel, into it's rear right wheel. Watches the rubber explode and the dingo drops, fishtailing out like a wounded animal.

She gives him a look as he gets the gain on the car, a second of calculation before she looks away from him and goes digging around for more ammo, to reload the rifle and the handgun as quick as she could. Practiced sharp motions, eject the cartridges, free the space for new shells, slip them in, set them to rights with a vicious tug as he takes out the rear wheel of the dingo, her eyelid twitching but otherwise ignoring the now crippled car. It wouldn't be able to make it back to its friends before they did. The patrol could swing out later and clean it up if they needed.

Handgun loads faster and she sits up straighter in the seat as they eat the distance to the rest of the pack. Judges the distance. There's no cover and no traps between here and there.

"Come up on their right."

It's not an order, but she's already turning in her seat to press herself low over it, setting the rifle to her shoulder. If he cuts her door towards them it made him a smaller target and it gave her a better field of view. It also made her more vulnerable, but taking out one driver would be worth it.

One down, two left. He twists, brief and sharp, to look back - the mangled campervan, white fuel-clean smoke burning out from the wreckage - and then forward, forward, forward, like the thud of a pulse or the spray of buckshot or blood flowing from a wound or--

The angle of the rifle at her shoulder, vicious end of the gun peeking from the frame of the car. Shifts his grip on the wheel and the car twitches, responds under his hand like a snarling animal: peels up to the right as the two cars come pounding down across the sand toward them. Ten seconds. Can taste the expectation of blood - bitter and hot and metallic.

Ping, ping, crack--! Line of fire finds the front wheel well of the car. Feels it as it drops, as the tire blows - low thud as the tread shears away--, front end wrenching against his grip on the wheel--

Time hangs forever and passes in less than an instant. Vague impressions that fly by and leave a complete picture that last less than a second. Mind running hot. From where she is she can't see much anymore, has to rely on the sound and the swerve of the tires and his reactions to guess what's coming. When she will be able to see, it will be sharp and sudden and too quick and she'll have to be ready.

She doesn't get the chance. The bullets tear through his tire melting and piercing rubber, the resounding shriek of it whistling and shredding to bits, the thud of the rim hitting sand eats up the other sounds, momentary cacophony. She jolts in the seat, rocking and slamming against metal and worn padding, but she doesn't go flying out onto the sand, foot hooked under the seat and pressed as hard as she can as she waits for the next spray of bullets.

She doesn't have to wait long. The wheel jerks under his hands and the rear fishtails out to fling he side towards the last two vehicles.

She fires. Can almost trace the bullet. Again. Again, jerks with the motion of the car, a couple of shots spray wide but one lodges itself in the guts of the machine and she knows luck when it sprays hot guzzoline over a sparking engine and goes up in flames, the dingoes tying to jump to safety, hair and clothes and skin burning and burning, There's no time to feel satisfied. The car hits a bump and she has to scramble her hand to the frame, losing the rifle and ending up halfway out the door before she manages to get a breathless grip, sand and grit flying up into her face, guts hollow.

Every inch of him braced, wordless animal snarl of frustration as he fights to keep the car on course, as it shakes under his hands, as it swings - fishtails. Can't reach for her as she lurches half out of the empty door frame. Better to keep a grip even as the car spins out: vulnerable and desperate though the second dingo goes sparking. Doesn't see much - just the vehicle bearing down and then going up. Two, five seconds. A pop. Fire catches guzzoline. The skin and bones of the dingo rig goes up like a matchstick and he slams on the gas.

The car jumps forward through the sand, traction spotty but moving again. They are one to one now and even down one wheel, the single dingo left seems to recognize its odds aren't good. It wavers on its path and he cranks the wheel around, lips curling back from his teeth. Sweating in the heat and the grit and the chemical burn taste in the air and under the exertion of keeping the car on the path that he wants. The car turns. It roars across the sand, cutting a wobbly line on its three good wheels for the dingo still gunning for them--

And then the dingo cuts away, spitting sand and small stones: arcing out, a body rising from a panel cut into the roof. A gun, a rifle maybe, set against their shoulder as the car starts to race away. An armed retreat.

An iron grip, literal as anything, nearly hard enough to bend the frame of the car as her right hand hangs out the side of the car along with most of her upper body. Wrenches it back, snarls he fingers around the leather of the seat and drags herself back in with straining shoulders, breathless and half-blind. Keeps low as she chokes her heart back down her throat and resists the urge to grind the palm of her hand into her eyes.

He's still on them, and, blurry and vague she sees the last car go from barreling at them to turning away sharp and hard and gunning away and even like this she knows they've got a gun on them. She reaches across her chest with her good hand to tap at his shoulder as she hauls herself the rest of the way back into the seat, calling it off quiet. She'd love to chase them down and take them out, one less scavenger, but the car's in a state liable to get worse and she'd lost the rifle and wasn't going to be able to make a good shot as it was. Later. They'd done their job, the caravan was clear. Minimal losses, all things considered, tears streaming grit out of her eyes, blinking fast.

A bur under his skin, a ragged itch, a sliver of something sharp under a nail. His hands taut on the wheel, his foot heavy on the gas. She touches his shoulder and there's nothing for it - no give, focus pinned, an animal coursing after prey with the engine snarl humming hot and vibrant under his fingers, through his wrists, to his elbow. Churn, churn, churn of pistons pushing blood and steel. The dingo races out ahead. It's fast, light. It has a lead on them by eight seconds and despite the more powerful engine, the mangled tire trying to steer through red sand means they won't catch it.

That more than the tap to his shoulder that calls it. He makes a low noise, tired and frustrated and growling, and peels the wheel around. Turns the nose of the car back to the caravan, to the mangled wreckage, to the smoke and bikes buzzing like flies around the detritus.

CANON

:t

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