Wasteland

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fan Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic


Just a short take on what I think happened to Max before the events of the movie Mad Max:Fury Road and the game Mad Max

Submitted: May 30, 2018

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Submitted: May 30, 2018

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Sand and blood. That's all I've known for months, maybe years. The wasteland messes with your sense of time. Days run like water over the rocks of the Immortan’s Citadel. The only place in this godforsaken valley where you can drink and not want to rip your throat open to claw at the maggots infesting the brackish water you've just dumped into your body. Also the only place where maggots are human sized, with human faces, human voices.

Human greed.

And there are those maggots whose greed comes at the expense of those below them. Immortan Joe and all his filth. His deformed and brainless sons, failed attempts to merge his own twisted seed with his breeders. His crazed war dogs, white as ghosts and nearly as dead. The Organic Mechanic, more monster than man, taking pride in hacking to pieces the unfortunate bastards so unlucky to be sent to his chambers. Then there are those below, those who depend on the Immortan’s “generosity”, the poor fuckers who camp outside the Citadel day and night to catch even a drop of life-giving Aqua Cola. The sick bastard pumps it from deep beneath the sand and keeps it in his personal dam, only opening the dam to those below for a few seconds daily. And he has the gall to preach about the dangers of “addiction to water”

The world wasn't always this hellish. I remember a time, not too long ago, where water and food was plentiful and cars were used for leisure, not murder. Before the oil wars ripped our world apart. Before the green fields turned to deserts and the caring neighbours turned to crazed killers. Not to say that the world wasn't fucked up before the wars began, but there was at least one iota of civility in even the most deranged lunatic. Everyone kept saying the next war was going to be fought over water, but they didn't realize just how broken the world would be after the war for oil ended. I was just 16 when the wars started. I was neither in an oil-giving nor an oil-dependant...I think they were called countries? But that didn't stop those who needed the oil to come searching. And search they did, but not for oil. They searched for poor souls to work their oil rigs. 

It didn't take long for them to round up the able-bodied to ship off to God knows where else, leaving the elderly, the children and the sick to fend for themselves. I was one of those taken to a rig in the middle of the ocean, where we worked with nary a break and unidentifiable slop to eat. Escape was suicide, but so was refusing to work. Slowly, the black tendrils of smoke from the rigs infesting the world wormed its way into the sky, like Satan’s innumerable fingers choking the life out of the earth. We knew what was happening and we knew those in charge were aware of this, but we also knew that they didn't care. Greed is a disease, no matter who you are or where you come from, but it's not always the greedy that get sick. No, this time our world took the fall. 

A few months later, the oil rigs fell. Not by any man’s direct influence, but by the sheer force of the anger borne by Mother Earth herself. The toxic fumes pumped into the air clogged the ozone, trapping any heat from escaping the atmosphere. The constant cycling of hot and cold air created not only hurricanes and tornadoes, but tsunamis the likes of which only seen in those old disaster movies. Order, too, crashed down around us.. Those whose greed had killed the world found themselves facing the same fate, along with all those in power. Before long, all that was left of order were the monuments to past leaders, broken and strewn across the ground like so much broken glass. Then the killing began. Family turned on family, those joined until death found that sometimes it comes a lot sooner than expected. And in all of this, I slowly began to lose my grip on reality. 

Food, water, humanity. All became scarce as the world slowly turned to dust beneath our feet. I found myself wandering the barren deserts that were once green fields and stretching forests. My home, my family, my life. Torn from me by those who had no idea I even existed. Grief replaced shock, anger killed grief, madness smothered anger. I quickly learned to fend for myself using what my father taught me before he died, a peaceful death long before the oil wars. I was nine, only seven years before the oil wars ripped this world to pieces. He always taught me to see the good in any situation, but even he couldn't have foreseen his son, left alone and broken to wander the deserts of the world.

My father gave me his old hunting knife as a present for my eighth birthday and, as I used it to skin prey and dispatch aggressors, the blood that spurted over my face and hands slowly washed away my past and left nothing but a hollow shell of a man with one primal instinct: survive. And survive I did. I found a car, somehow nursed it back to health (or somewhere close to that) and used it to traverse the sand-choked land in search of food, water and possibly a fight or two to quell the burning inside my bones. I got pretty good at it too, the fighting. Soon it became second nature, like taking a piss. Cracking skulls and cries of pain slowly drained away to be replaced by my own fractured psyche, the voices in my head telling me to end it all. Heaven knows why I kept going, but I did. Driving, killing, scavenging. A life I neither forsaw,  nor wanted.

The wasteland offers up all sorts of treasures to those willing to work for them. Weapons, gas, memories of times long past. I yearned for the thrill of not only breaking bones, but finding something valuable amid the chaos. It was during one of my raids on a Citadel brigade that I found treasures not uncommon to the wastes of this world, but something I had not encountered before. Hostages, two of them, one my age and one younger, in her teens. Most likely breeders on their way to Immortan Joe to live the rest of their lives in solitude and misery while pumping out babies for that twisted fucker. Usually strays are nothing but dead weight for a man like me, but something in the older ones eyes, the way she shielded the younger from me, made me want to help them. 

God do I regret becoming attached to them. If I had kept my distance, not learned their names, not seen them smile, it would have been much easier for me to let them go. But no, somehow my dead heart started beating for something other than bloodshed. It beat for their safety, Hope and Charity’s safety. And so I kept them safe, and for a time it was good. I taught them all my skills, even took them on raids when they became skilled enough. We shared stories, the ones we remembered, even a laugh or two. It all changed one morning when I decided to let them sleep while I scavenged supplies for three. But I failed to notice the Citadel brigade following me back to my safe house, and now I wish every day that I had.

Immortan Joe. In the flesh. Come to personally collect his breeders from a lowly gas guzzler like myself. I would have been flattered if not for the spike in my leg and the gun pressed to my face. It would have been okay, they would have been okay, if I had kept my rage suppressed. But I didn't. I don’t know where the strength to wrench that spike out of my leg came from, where the speed to grab that gas canister came from, where that maniacal laughter, wracked with both pain and ecstacy, crawled from. Fuck but it felt good to douse that cunt in gasoline and set his carcass on fire. Watching the orange tongues of flame lap at his flesh, hearing his screams as his fat boiled, smelling the singed hair made it that much more visceral. If only his moron son Scabrous had let him burn. He would have inherited everything: the Citadel, the breeders, the fear that Joe mistakes for love. 

But, it turned out to be the last piece of my sanity that burned to ashes that day, as I watched Joe’s twisted War Dogs rape and kill the two people I thought could at last bring me clarity...and happiness. I held them as their eyes went dark and our shelter crumbled around me, pieces of smoking metal and wood dropping from above like so many tears

Hope and Charity. Ironic, isn’t it? That two beautiful souls with such fitting names would meet their end at the hands of a tyrant and his brainwashed minions, all while a man with nothing in his heart looked on, as helpless as a newborn baby. Heart and soul well and truly void, my sanity reduced to tatters once again. Every part of my heart burned for revenge, but what could one man do against The Citadel. 
Only one thing remained in my mind. Escape. 

The Plains of Silence. My next and final destination


© Copyright 2018 Dale Craig. All rights reserved.

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