Aftermath

Chapter One: A Bump in the Road

The caravan rumbled down the remnants of Highway 15, kicking up a screen of dust in its wake. Thick pieces of scrap metal seemed to be slapped randomly on to the sides of vehicles, in the vain hope of stopping a stray bullet from piercing it's hide and entering the gas tank.
Or your head, for that matter.
The vehicles were of various brands and types; all long gone now, relics of a different world. SUVs, Trucks, Vans, the caravan was a dozen strong, a veritable land armada. If it weren't for the state of their rigs, they might actually seem like a proper convoy.
Instead, the group looked to be a ragtag bunch of nobodies, with not much going for them but the burning petrol in their worn out, rusty automobiles.
But they were alive, which was more than some countless millions, likely billions, of people could say. Because they were dead, and dead people don't do much talking about how pissed they are at getting toasted in a nuclear holocaust.
Arthur laughed at the thought, earning a few odd looks from his comrades. Arthur ignored them. It wasn't like they were excluded from the nut job club. In fact, they were probably much crazier than him by a long shot, or so Arthur figured.
Arthur crossed his arms and slouched in the uncomfortable seating of the beat up old van. He blew a strand of oily hair out of his face. Damn he needed a shower.
Arthur sniffed, wrinkling his nose. Some of the others needed one too.
It was hot, which didn't help. The van reeked of sweat, but the air was dry. That was a desert for you, Arthur thought, wiping his greasy face on the sleeve of his jacket.
Arthur really wanted a shower.
Arthur wondered sometimes about what showers had been like in the Old World, before the Decline. Anything would be better than a rusty bucket filled with soapy water...
Arthur's drifting thoughts of the past were quickly interrupted. A crack, the van lurching upwards for a moment before crashing back down with a thunderous bang. There was the tinkling of shattered glass. The contents of the van were thrown around the cramped interior. Arthur's seat belt strained to keep him from flying away as his body involuntarily lunged forwards, and he couldn't shake the feeling of just hanging there, suspended. He felt like a hand was trying to pull him from his seat, or maybe it was dragging him downwards?
It took Arthur a second to shake off his shock and realize that down wasn't below him anymore.
It felt like he was hanging there, because he was hanging there. His dingy seatbelt cradled him as he puzzled over this new situation. The van, it seemed, was inclined at a steep angle. Why that was, Arthur had not a damn clue.

"The fuck... kind of pothole... was that?" Carver spluttered between raspy breaths, from the other side of the van. Arthur just shrugged, still slightly dazed.
Carver was something of the group samurai. Or butcher. The guy was obsessed with sharp edges. It didn't matter on what: knives, swords, anything that could split some skulls. It was practically his fetish to watch someone's flesh part between his arsenal of lethal tools. He wasn't the only guy with those specific 'tastes' in the group, but he made a point of being the best of them.
"Not a damn pothole," coughed Xavias, next to Arthur. "We aren't tilted the right way," As if to prove his point, he spat, the spittle travelling downwards, or in this case sideways, to hit the van's back doors with a dull splat. Xavias, always thinking one step ahead, reasoned, "Driver must have lost control somehow, steered right onto the guardrail."
Suddenly, Arthur felt something heavy rush past his head. Arthur, and the rest of the van's passengers watched as a body fell and slammed into the van door below with a loud crunch. The door shuddered with the weight of the man, and Arthur could have sworn he heard the reinforced glass fracture.
There was a split second of silence before the van erupted into noise.
Arthur's body kicked into overdrive, adrenaline began to pump through his veins. Trying to understand the stressful situation, Arthur's brain started breaking down the following events into comprehensible chunks:
A voice called down from above, the passenger seat, the side Arthur was on.
"Shit, Clay! You alrig—"
The voice was cut short as another crack rang out, more audible than the last now that the noise of the road had subsided. The report of a rifle, no doubt about it now. A spatter of blood dribbled down to mix with the already sizeable pool gathering around the fallen van driver, Clay.
The van exploded into motion. Indecipherable shouting blocked out all other noise, save for the bouts of periodic gunfire. Someone across from Arthur fumbled with their seatbelt. Xavias' shout roared above all else for just a moment.
"Don't!"
It was already too late. The man threw his seatbelt off of him, barely having time to react as he spun through the air. He landed hard on his ass with a sick squelch. The door buckled for just a moment, and the van shook on its perch. The group quieted just for a moment as the van rocked back and forth, teetering precariously.
"Nobody. Fucking. Move," Xavias whispered, just barely audible as gunfire and shouting from outside reminded them of the danger they were all in. It was like he thought his breath would bring the van over the brink.
The people who had set up an ambush must have seen the van rock, or maybe the doors give for a moment, because a swarm of bullets suddenly ripped into the side of the van, a chorus of rapid fire and the metallic smell of blood mixing with the tang of gunpowder creeping into the air. Some bullets managed to punch through the van's shell and zipped about in the interior of the van.
Just as he had gotten to his knees, a bullet zipped past the man at the bottom of the van. Then a flash of blood, and thick red rivers running down his neck. The man swayed.
"Shit," muttered Carver.