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.
