Sinners of the Sand (A Mad Max Fury Road FanFic)

💀 < 1 > 💀

'Where must we go... We who wander this Wasteland,
in search of our better selves?'
The first History Man

The flames draw shapes and stories against the orange of the desert, and the pitch black of the sky. Three Buzzards, all dressed in recognisable clothing are crouched down to the crackling fire. The red reflects on their goggles, and you can hear one of them mumble things in a language I've been recently taught to understand. From the rocks we are hidden behind though, I am out of hearing distance.

Smirk is on his knees a couple of meters away from me, behind a similar stone pointing out from the sand scape. He has his back pressed against it, his fingers on the string of his bow. His lips form whispers and I know he wants to turn on those Russian bastards as much as I do. But we need to stay put, wait for the signal.

I let my hand slide down to my waist, where three knives are stuck behind my belt. You get born with a weapon in hand, that's what they say about the Wasteland newborns nowadays. The quicker you get used to it, the longer you will live.

I look up at the sky, bright stars sprinkled over the dark endlessness. Once, there were satellites there, I had been told. Machines capable of reaching such heights, connecting people from all over with one another. Funny, how we managed to do that, but now are but warriors on a world of sand and blood. My eyes lower back to reality, the one with no certainty. As far as my eyes can reach, there is nothing but, even, orange ground. And that's when I hear it's engine. Smirk locks eyes with me, and we both nod, confirming we are aware of what we're here to do. I grasp on to the handle of one of my knives, and sit down in such a way, that I can shoot up and run easily. The roaring engine comes from my right, heading straight towards the Buzzards who seem to have not yet detected the coming jeep.

Their cars are meters away from me, but with a short sprint I could easily make it to them and be off and away, before a bullet could be planted in my brain. Buzzards cars are efficient. Fast, intimidating, and nicely weaponised. The rusty vehicles are covered in metal spikes, and while driving, it's a nice way to keep curious riders at a safe distance. Sand flies up in the horizon, the sign of tires. From behind my hiding spot, I see one of the men stand up and scope the horizon. Brown bandages wrapped all around him, and no physical features poke through. His face, with that, is hidden too. With the standard goggles and gas masks they all wear, there is no identification of who could be underneath the outfit. If it even mattered.

The man has obviously noticed the nearing Jeep, and he shouts at his companions.

"Get up. Intruder." I can make out of it, he has a thick accent which I'm not used to. I was taught Russian by an Australian.

The other two men pick up two rifles from the sand. Attacking in their cars is no longer an option, the Jeep has come too close already. The tallest Buzzard, with a backpack which must be filled with ammunition on his back, raises his gun and aimes. Our signal. I roar and dive from behind the rock, pull the knife from the belt and release it after giving it a good swing. It takes the time of a flinch, floating through the air, before landing in the middle of the Buzzard's goggle. The scream got him to turn to me in surprise, and now the blade has completely disappeared in his right eye. The man stumbles one step back, before dropping lifelessly on the ground, losing his grip on the gun. His pals watch him drop before one of them, the one without the gun, starts sprinting for me. Screaming curse words and messages from the devil. He does not even reach me. One of Smirk's arrows drills through his collar bone, and he sacks through his knees, screaming in agony now.