Needle and his fellow captives were packed together, suffering and sweating and choking on the heat together. Needle was lucky he was so thin, unlike the laborer slaves. He could squeeze into these smaller areas easier. Still, he didn't like how many people were breathing on him all at once. If just one of them was sick, then they all would be ill, and the Overdogs weren't about to waste their medicine on a bunch of slaves.
Some of the slaves were whispering to one another, but most were smart enough to remain quiet. There was no way of knowing when their new masters might return, and they may not like the idea of slaves talking to one another.
"This is our chance," one man said to a woman beside him. They knew each other once, but could not say that still remained true. Still, the attachment was there. "We can escape. Go to Heritage. Be free again."
"Heritage is a myth," she said in reply. The other slaves nodded in agreement, not saying a word but not needing to.
"It's better than this shit." He held out his hands to her, weighed down by the iron shackles that had bound him for years, skin gone raw beneath them.
And who could blame him for wanted to finally escape? He had spent years in the darkness, only kissed by the sun on that very day, and then was shoved back into the darkness of the rickety truck trailer, crushed between his fellow slaves. He wanted to feel the sunlight on his cheek again, and he wanted to do so on his own terms.
Needle could understand that sort of mentality, but he couldn't understand the stupidity that accompanied it. He'd known of so many slaves who simply cut and ran one day, as if their chains would not weigh them down, as if they would not be seen by the very Crazies they just ran from. If they were lucky, they would be beaten with flogs. If not, they would face death by fire in full view of their many chained brothers.
An argument was about to erupt when gunfire sounded outside the metal shell of the truck. Then something exploded so loudly that Needle lost all sense of hearing, save the sound of ringing. But it was not a fiery explosion, not like those that took the cities so many years ago. As the truck swerved to the side and titled over, he realized that the gunfire had popped several tires.
Metal screeched and so did slaves as the truck careened. Needle was in the air for a moment, free from the binding force of gravity, until the truck hit the ground and an elbow hit his face. Hundreds of chain links jangled as already bruised beings hit the warm metal.
Needle was dazed a moment. It was like he suddenly woke up and wished only for five more minutes in bed. Then the copper taste of blood filled his mouth and a shattering pain ripped across his face where some other unlucky bastard had accidentally hit him. The bruise would appear moments later, and he knew that an ice pack was all he needed to make it go away. Ice packs were not particularly common in the wasteland, and he was not sure why his mind wandered to such things.
Metal continued to creak as the truck settled. Horns blared outside and bullets rattled against the sand and asphalt and metal. A thin trickle of light shone through the opened back of the truck. The lock that had sealed it was broken by a stray bullet.
The slaves rose to their feet, one by one, not daring to help one another. They stared at the glimmer of light as it illuminated bits of dust hanging in the air, and not even a breath was heard among the cacophony of bulletfire.
"Providence!" shouted the one rebellious slave. He pushed through the others, a grin and a wound on his face, and ran toward the slit of light. "We're free."
His frame was massive, only shortened by the slouch that came with heavy chains. Still, he was built to be a laborer and laborers needed muscles to work those long days in the field or in the mines. He was easily the size of his new owner, maybe even larger. So, when his ripped body pushed against the metal door, it didn't put up a fight.
He smiled wildly and even cheered as he entered the chaos of battle, for he was in the sunshine once again.
He would never know whose bullets shattered his body. Blood splattered across the sand, red on grey, and the rest of the slaves cowered back into the shell of the truck.
The carmada had encircled the fallen truck as the chopper attacked, following a pattern that had been devised long ago, when Snake was still conquering enemy gangs for fun. The chopper itself was armored with the same rusted steel that protected vehicles and highwaymen. It seemed to weigh the great beast down and the whiny strain on its engine could be heard from below.
Snake was not a mere armchair warlord. There were some in the wasteland who did not fight. They just barked orders to their soldiers and relied on lieutenants to fulfill their orders. While the Overdogs could function easily without his assistance, he preferred a more hands-on approach to business matters.
"Surrender the cargo or die," shouted one of the highwaymen on the chopper. The Bronze Bullets, their gang, had once been great enemies of the Overdogs. Now they were a petty nuisance that showed up occasionally, trying to stir up trouble. How they got a helicopter, Snake could not imagine.
"You came a long way to end up in chains!" Snake screamed in reply, but they did not seem to hear him. He leaped out of his pickup truck's cargo and onto the hood of the armored sedan in front of him, adrenaline pushing him forward. He dodged the spike mounted to the front of the car and stepped over some plated armor, not even bothering to hold on. One of his men handed him a rifle, one with a scope, as he took a seat on the top of the car. All this, and he had not yet put his clothes back on.
The Bronze Bullets were not a particularly bright group. Their enemies claimed that they had difficulty with simply tasks that did not involve meth, and this was not an exaggeration. The gunner was an exception, however, in that he was proficient with a rifle and knew how to prioritize targets. Legs dangling out of the side of the chopper, he emptied magazine after magazine onto the carmada below. At best, he took out tires and sent trucks careening. At worst, he made his enemies more hesitant to fire back, for fear of being shot themselves.
Years of wasteland warfare had taught the highwaymen, both in the cars and in the helicopter, the meaning of pain. There was no way to escape suffering in this desert, and it would only be washed away in the blood of others. When a bullet broke someone's skin, that person often found themselves with a nasty infection. Infections are difficult to treat in the wasteland, so those people often died. Even if they did not get shot, the sound of gunfire can be, quite literally, deafening. Many highwaymen fell asleep with painful ringing in their ears, a symptom of such constant violence.
The aroma of blood and lead and even some gunpowder had a tantalizing effect on Snake. The highwaymen in the helicopter were surely baffled by the adrenaline-fueled hard-on between his legs, raging against the noise and chaos that surrounded him. Perhaps it was just the thrill of near-death, or the way his heart was pumping so loudly in his ears, but a dangerous energy came about him and manifested in a way that would surely pleasure Delilah later.
"I'm gonna fuck your corpse!" Snake unloaded a hail of gunfire, but to no avail. Each time the rifle pushed against his shoulder, a bullet got lodged in the chopper's armor. Even the scope did not help. "Lube it up for me!" They were idle threats. He did not molest corpses. Rapist and killer, he may be, but at least he didn't defile bodies.
One highwayman stuck his head out the window, disturbing Snake. "Boss, where'd these guys come from?" he asked in a thick drawl. His bulbous head was covered in dirt and an old, stale cigarette hung out of his mouth.
"Hell, most likely," replied Snake, taking a moment from his failed sniping to respond to the hick highwayman. "More recently, they're probably survivors from our last raid on the Bronze Bullets. Rest ran off and joined other gangs."
"But, boss, where'd they get the chopper?"
"I will personally let you know just as soon as I find out." It was a lie, but lots of lies were told to hicks while they were shooting at helicopters. Especially as warlords rested on the tops of moving cars.
