Tales from the Wasteland | The Desert of Loss

Chapter 8

The Road Runner roars through Desert Damnum with blood-fueled ferocity as Rod's eyes are deadlocked on the distant prize. His gaze is clouded milky white with only one thing on his mind: death. Their penance will come swift and painful as the hunter will play all the parts for Strand and his men: judge, jury, and executioner. No acquittals and no lawyers spewing rancid honey of technicalities. No one is going to help them. The Dark One has lived up to his side of the bargain, gifting Rod unbridled strength, cunning, and ferocity to slay all that stand in his path. No matter how hard he fought, the temptation was always too great for Rod to resist. He always gave in to the Dark One. No amount of hope or positive thought, or love, would keep Rod and the Dark One separated. You will become your true self, the calling onto the world. The Dark One whispers hypnotically into Rod's ear as the hunter steers the steel stallion between a series of boulders and scattered debris.

Oh, my boy, vengeance flows through your veins like delectable poison. What's your play, slow agonizing torture? The Dark One asks playfully, enjoying the anticipation of the fight to come. Ah, I know, maybe a homage to the old ways, a little crucifixion perhaps or burning them at the stake? Hearing their pleas for mercy going unheeded, God, it gets the blood pumping to the rock.

Rod doesn't answer. The nightmare from the previous night still dances hauntingly in his mind. The brutal visions of Rin and his family's torture by Strand pump more blood through his veins as the mad doctor's tainted laugh echoes. Those piercing eyes, that sadistic grin flash across the windshield. Rod slams his fist into the ceiling, desperately trying to squash the view. If only it was Strand's face he was pummeling now, if only he could wrap his hands around the doctor's squirmy neck, and squeeze with all of his might. Only then would Rod find a bit of solace, and comfort for his friend. He knows it won't take away the guilt, but it would at least draw it back into the abyss for a little while. Rod's foot pushes harder on the pedal, and the Dark One decides this is the perfect opportunity to instigate the situation.

Faster, faster! The Dark One shouts. Once again, the harbinger of death has bubbled to the surface. Use this moment, garner the energy that surrounds you that you deny, always pushing it deep inside yourself. Run from it no longer. See your friends, their anguish, and look deep into their eyes, visioning those last moments of their lives. What prayers did they whisper nether, what forgiveness is waiting for them on the other side? Nothing. Only you can bring them rest. So store that anger, collect those lost droplets in a bucket, and unleash the wrath of Hell and the divine retribution of Heaven. These wretches won't know what hit them.

_______________________________________________

Near the tunnel entrance sits the skull-faced villain riding shotgun in a rundown cargo truck anxiously waiting for Rod. Strand is leaning back, meticulously whittling a skull from a piece of wood. His dimwitted manservant, Bob, is chatting with another vagrant just out the driver's side window. He turns from the discussion to Strand. "Um, B-boss?" he says with a quiet stutter.

"Can't you see I'm busy?" Strand morosely. He doesn't take his eyes off the skull, carefully eyeing a section he previously shaved. Gently, he blows the excess shavings, now feeling it with his middle finger. Even though he's trying to forget Bob is there, Strand can't help but feel his dumb stare waiting with bated breath for his master to finish the sculpture. This takes the demented artist out of the moment, and Strand wistfully turns his head to Bob.

"Well," he begins with an agitated sigh. "Are you going to finish speaking or just sit there with that dumb expression? I'm curious, did your mother drop you on your head? I swear she did, or a bit of inbreeding in the family line? That's it, your family tree roots instead of branches."