Warcry could not recall running faster in his whole life, even back when his leg worked. Luckily, he only had to run about two feet, into the pickup truck.
"I'll drive," Snake said as he sprinted toward the driver's seat.
"No shit," said Warcry, who could not have driven even if he wanted to, due to the nature of gas pedals requiring working feet.
Needle found a strength that allowed him to easily sling the duffel bag over the side of the cargo and climb inside behind it, his arms screaming all the while. his heart pumped so loudly in his ears, and he started to wonder what sort of medical complication that could lead to. Then the truck pulled forward more quickly than he expected, so he held onto the duffel with one hand and the side of the truck with the other. His chains rattled loudly as the cars rode over worn asphalt.
The heavy metal music blared as they drove down the hill. Snake had entered an altered state of mind when he saw those headlights. It was the same protective spirit that saw him build a fort around his palace and raise an army and buy a doctor-slave. He couldn't even bear to look at his son, for fear that he might see the weakness on his face.
"You jinxed us," Snake said, as the truck barreled down the curve of the hillside. "You willed this into existence." He had to yell over the crash and scream of the music blaring out the radio.
"How?" Warcry asked. The sun had nearly set and he was cradling the rifle in his lap.
"You said that people were always trying to kill me. If you didn't say that then this wouldn't be happening."
"Oh, come on." He really should have been used to his father's unique brand of psychosis, but the old man still had the power to surprise him. "This was a stinger and the trailer was bait."
"See, you're looking at this rationally. I'm not."
Warcry wanted to offer a reply, but his chest got tight all of a sudden, and breath just wouldn't come. He coughed and choke, and sucked in what little air he could, but his chest felt like it was being weighed down by a dumbbell. He gripped the door as he coughed violently, throwing his head forward as spittle flew out.
"Shit," was all Snake could say, though he wished to say how disgusting that was.
Warcry banged on the back window of the truck, getting the attention of the slave in the back. Needle was trying to hold on as the truck barreled across the road, but he managed to open the window. He expected someone to bark orders at him, but all he heard was coughing and choking. The confusion wore away when he realized his owner was asthmatic.
He rummaged through the duffel bag as the truck rattled around his, sending him flying across the cargo as he tried to stay still. Water canteens, bread loaves wrapped in foil, cases of ammo forged in the factory, and more than a few knives. Then he found it, at the bottom the sack. A little grey inhaler. He held it through the window and waited for Warcry to take it, frightened that it might not be enough to stop the attack.
Warcry took the inhaler just as the first shot rang out, just as they reached the highway once again. But they were all too awake and adrenaline-fueled to be startled. Needle was relieved to see his master breathe clean again.
Snake found focus in the escape, with the knowledge that his son was safe for now, but only if they got away from the highwaymen. He wished he could stand his ground and engage in epic combat with the idiotic gang, but that would be a tactical mistake. He would walk out the fight fine, obviously, but Warcry wouldn't. No matter how good he got with that rifle, he wasn't taking down any highwaymen.
Stray bullets occasionally connected with the armored hull of the truck, but never pierced glass. Needle kept his head down and hoped he didn't get caught by one of those bullets. They sent sparks across the rusty truck.
Snake looked through the rearview and counted the cars. At least six, all armored. Headlights shining bright, and possibly closing in."
"Probably Bronze Bullets," Warcry noted as he regained his breath. His head felt light, like he was floating someplace quiet, but the world was filled with noise.
"Not likely," Snake said. "No flags on the cars. Besides, they don't have the men or cars for something like this. I'd bet their mercs."
"Fuckin' mercs," Warcry added, though all he knew about mercenaries was what the highwaymen had told him. Highwaymen for hire, usually former soldiers, paid for by loners with resources and ambition who don't want to associate with ordinary highwaymen.
It was a long chase, with surprisingly little violence, considering that it began with an assassination. Every time it seemed like the enemy was getting close, Snake managed to pull forward. They didn't have to leave the highway, and they didn't stumble onto any traps. Only a few bullets managed to embed themselves in the truck, and the attackers seemed blissfully unaware of the painful death that they were riding toward.
"Who hired them?" Warcry asked as they got a little distance.
"Fuck if I know. Bronze Bullets? Heritage? Fucking God? Maybe all three of them. Better yet, it could be some traitor in the Overdogs. Fuck."
Before they could discuss the complex political strata of the Overdogs, they came upon the outpost where Chef was holed up. It was well into the night, and electric lights shined across the fortified gas station. The gate opened for the truck and highwaymen in defensive towers scurried into position.
The battle was not one that would go down in history, and disappointed the great warlord of the Overdogs. Bullets tore against the open air, explosions crashed across the desert, and highwaymen died for the same reasons they always had: because someone told them to.
The mercenaries could not have known what a foolish battle they were riding into. They had the numbers to attack Snake, but not nearly enough to assault his most critical outpost. Overdogs numbering in the dozens fired against the cars as they encircled the wall. They fired from the makeshift rooftops and defensive towers and the cracks in the wall, and the mercs failed to return fire in any meaningful way.
The world was noise and fire and smoke Needle and Warcry found themselves alone in the garage of the gas station. The room smelled like oil, and they hid beside the damaged hull of a car in need of repairs. Warcry felt a great shame come over him, so he hobbled away to join the fray. "I'll be back," he told Needle. He wanted to kiss the boy, but couldn't find the stomach for it.
Needle felt the same way. But instead of saying so, he simply said, "Don't die."
The battle was over before Warcry could fire a single shot. He hobbled out into the dying sounds of those last few bullets, as smoking trucks came to a halt, as tires melted, as men died. The enemy vehicles were all burnt-out husks, damned Molotov cocktails and exploding gas tanks. Smoke curled toward the sky and Warcry was careful not to breathe it in. His chest was still tight, though not nearly as bad as it had been.
He saw his father standing beside wounded men, insanity in his eyes. "Is that it?" he demanded, screaming over the wall to the dying mercs. "I didn't even cum! Goddamn weaklings."
Snake saw the gun in Warcry's hand and the tired look in his eyes, and seemed to think that his son had fought in the battle as well. The battle had only last a few moments, and he could not know if his son had even killed a merc, but pride swelled in his chest. He did not tell his son how proud he was, but they both knew. Warcry would never confess that he actually missed the battle.
The Overdogs brought in a few wounded enemies. The rest were dead. Snake and a few veterans got to work interrogating them in the garage, while Needle treated the wounded. Slaves, those invisible servants who lived and died for the highwaymen, cleared a space for Needle to work, in a small shack beside the old gas station. Moonshine became anesthetic and sanitizer, and the few medical items in the duffel bag saw extensive use.
The Canyon Crazies had taught Needle about triage, but only in very abstract ways. He had never been forced into a situation where he had to prioritize wounded highwaymen. And yet, it came with surprising ease.
Neither the least nor most severely wounded received first treatment. The men who had simple cuts and bruises could wait, though they had likely not seen a doctor since the war. And the men who had been torn to pieces by shredding bullets or shrapnel, they weren't going to make it no matter what Needle did. They would just waste time and resources, both of which were extremely limited.
So, he focused on those middling highwaymen who had a fighting chance, but needed to be helped as soon as possible. Warcry watched over the operations, waves of exhaustion washing over him. Still, he presence of the Overdog prince kept the slightly injured from fighting their way into the shack. They knew better than to piss off the son of the warlord.
Injured highwaymen drank to numb the pain, especially as their own moonshine was poured on wounds to sterilize them. Needle washed his own hands with moonshine, and the smell was nauseating.
"Fuck that," one highwayman screamed, as Needle poured alcohol on his bullet wound. "Stop that! Just pull the fuckin' thing out."
Even filthy and wearing chains, Needle commanded a certain respect from those around him. it was nothing to do with his figure our personality or pleasant facial features. In a way so different than ordinary highwaymen, he held the power of life and death. So, in view of the highwaymen who waited for their own treatment, he became a stern medical professional. "If I don't sterilize your wound, you'll die from an infection. It will hurt, you will beg for death, and then it will be granted. I don't mind this. I like thinking about all the painful ways you could die. Unfortunately, if I let you die, then your boss will invent new ways to kill me. So shut the fuck up and let me work." He pushed a rag into the highwayman's mouth so he had something to bite down on. it barely numbed his screams, but they were overshadowed by those of captured mercs.
It was the opposite of bedside manner and Needle would not have gotten away with it had Warcry not been standing nearby, chuckling at each insult. Such disrespect was unheard of, and Needle was keenly aware that he was mostly acting so rude because it impressed Warcry. They shared a brief smile at one another, while the physician was wrist-deep in an injured highwayman.
