In the darkness, the light from the derelict old town could be seen from miles...even though it was abandoned. A lone figure stepped out of a rusty old hatchback, from before the war, and began to walk briskly towards the town. He traveled light, a backpack full of provisions, his SigP228 handgun which was always loaded, and his worn baggy pants and black tank top. A long coat hung about his body, keeping him warm against the cool breeze of the desert's night. He didn't make a sound as he walked, knowing full well that if he did, he would probably disturb the scorpions that inhabited this part of the radioactive desert, and he knew that his Sig wouldn't be able to handle a huge mutated scorpion. As he drew closer to the town, he saw it was a small town, consisting of one street, several dwellings, and one large tavern/hotel. It was at the fountain outside the hotel he was heading. Even from a distance, he could make out the fountain, and the jeep, with its headlights on. It was here that his contact had said to go, and as much as he disliked doing contraband runs for gangs, he needed the money. He owed a powerful loan shark back in New Reno a lot of money. He had originally intended to pay the loan shark back by doing a hit against a rival operation, but it went horribly wrong, and he wound up getting the one of the loan shark's closest allies killed instead. So, the shark demanded the money in full, with double the interest, and the Drifter was forced to take up several, less professional, mercenary jobs. This smuggling job was to be his last before he had gotten all the money, and he was confident he could get it done before the loan shark's deadline on Sunday, the end of the week, before he had people crawling up his ass trying to beat extra money out of him. It was an early Monday morning, as the Drifter walked towards the fountain, his hand on his gun...

As he approached, the Drifter could make out a few shapes silhouetted by the Jeep's light. There were two people, a man and a woman. The man was holding a gun and the woman had a medium sized briefcase handcuffed to her wrist. The Drifter moved confidently to the Jeep, keeping alert for the sniper that was surely hiding somewhere in the town.

The gang member eyed the Drifter suspiciously and said simply, "Password."

"Canteloupe." Said the Drifter confidently.

"It is imperative that this package is delivered unharmed to Old Angeles." The man said, pushing the woman forward. She wore and odd expresion on her face; almost devoid of any life. The man then proceeded to remove a small envelope from his long trenchcoat. "Here is half of your payment. You will recieve the other half upon your arrival at Old Angeles. Good luck."

The man promptly turned around and strode towards his Jeep, apparetly intent on leaving the area as soon as possible. It was getting late, and being out here without taking precautions was dangerous...

...but then, this whole business was dangerous.

The Drifter turned to the woman. She was looking after the receding Jeep that had brought her here to this wasteland. "So," he said, "your place or mine?"

The woman looked at him. Since the man had left, her expression had become even more lifeless.

"Um," said the Drifter, "that was a joke."

He barely had time to react before her arm jerked upward. Anticipating a blow to the head, the Drifter ducked without thinking and, instead of her hand, his jaw encountered the momentarily forgotten briefcase as it swung from the upflung wrist.

The Drifter and the woman spoke simultaneously:

"Gah! Shit!" the Drifter bellowed.

"GET THIS THING OFF ME!!!" screamed the woman.

The Drifter staggered but maintained his footing. His hands went his gun and his jaw. "What the hell is in there?" he said through clenched teeth.

"Get it OFF ME."

He looked at her face. It had not lost its pallor, but its features were suddenly twitching and twisted.

"First," the Drifter said, gritting his aching teeth, "tell me what's in it."

The woman froze. "It...I..." She looked down at the briefcase. "Encoded computer files. And plastic explosives. And...and my husband's prosthetic arm..."

The Drifter chuckled...prosthetic arm? These guys had quite a sense of humour, and he was twisted enough to enjoy it. The woman looked at him again, but with a slight twitch of disgust. "Funny? You think this is funny...? I'm stuck with you, I've got stuff handcuffed to me that would get me killed, and you're LAUGHING?" And, before he could stop her, she took off running into the desert, holdinging the briefcase akwardly as she ran. Drifter, taken by surprise, took a minute to regain his balance and chase after her. He swore under his breath, and pulled his gun. He'd use it only if he really needed to...and with the noise she was making, he was afraid he might have to use it. All of a sudden, she shrieked, and he lost sight of her...

He wasn't going to try and find her in this darkness. In any case he couldn't be bothered. He was dead tired and in no mood to chase a stupid woman. No doubt she'd turn up. Or someone would turn up. Drifter decided to head for the hotel.

It was old, run down and seedy; the sort of place where vicars take young boys and then kill themselves. A yellowed, frayed advertisement for "Robertson's Silver Shred Marmalade" hung over the door. Drifter imagined that the hotel once had been a respectable establishment for families and passing insurance salesmen. Decay, like his own decay, made him sad.

Drifter edged in through the door. The foyer was deserted, but he could hear the fake orgasmic groans from a porn video playing in the office. He moved to the counter and rang the bell for attention. After several minutes, a young man, short, fat, ugly, and wiping his hands on a filthy t-shirt, emerged from the office. The video contined playing loudly in the background. "What you want?" the man asked. "A room. Give me a room", replied Drifter. He paid the money and took his key. "If a women with a briefcase comes here", Drifter said to him, "you send her up to my room."

The room was much like the rest of the hotel, and in fact much like everything these days. Decrepit. Faded and frayed at the edges. The drifter sighed, and sat down on the edge of the ratty bed. Even a dump like this was a refuge from the chilly desert night. Still, the desert air had a cetain cleanliness that this place was decidedly lacking.

Despite his best attempts to the contrary, the drifter dozed into a fitful sleep. Garish fragments of dreams seemed to fade in and out, and he awoke with a start to the harsh desert sun shining through the open window, and the woman from last night, looking down at him, minus a briefcase. The drifter cursed.

"Where the hell...is...it?" he snarled.

The woman looked at him blankly, and replied,"I stashed it in the desert. Where THEY can't get at it." The drifter could hear the emphasis on "they," but only cracked his stiff neck and got up.

He put his boots on, and as they exited the room, the drifter indifferently asked "Who are THEY?"

"My husband and his goons."

The Drifter nodded understandingly. He'd seen the situation a million times. A young, naive girl gets caught up in the glamour of dating a cocky gangster type, then finds out what their life is really about.

But the Drifter couldn't afford to be sympathetic, so he pulled out his sig and shot her in the leg.

"Ahhhh, what the fuck!?"

"You need to tell me where that briefcase is, or I'm a dead man," the Drifter said coldly.

"If you kill me, you'll never find the brifcase," the woman sputtered.

The drifter pulled out a small knife and said, "Oh, I'm not going to kill you. But in a few hours, maybe days, you are going to wish you were dead."

It had to be the heat. The drifter had never reacted like this to anything before. He was no saint, that was for sure, but this...this was something else. His life was on the line though.

"Last chance, bitch. Then we head out into the desert..."

The woman struggled, but was already growing weak from the gunshot wound, and gave in easily.

"The restaurant....the Mexican one. You'll find him there."

The drifter put away his knife. "You mean we'll find him there." he said. "Let's go."

The woman wrapped a piece of ratty cloth around her bleeding leg as the drifter dragged her downstairs and out into the dust and glare of the street. A few people turned to look as the drifter dragged a bleeding woman out the door and down the street, but not many. It didn't pay to concern oneself with others' problems.

The Mexican restaurant made the hotel look like a five star hotel. What was left of the paint was faded and peeling like a sunburn. The glass windows were cracked, and the cardboard taped up to cover the cracks was old and peeling too. The sign out front said Tac Bi l' . "Taco Bill's." the drifter muttered as he loosened the gun in his pocket. Expect anything, that was how one survived these days.

As he dragged her nearer, she began to fight more. After several more minutes of struggling, he threw her to the ground and kicked her savagely in the mouth.
"SHUT UP!" Drifter yelled, and she fell silent instantly. He could see the restuarant up ahead, the guards out front, but they hadn't seen the commotion, luckily.
Drifter tried to get the woman to stand up, but he had knocked her unconscious. The drifter swore, and stashed her in an alley, underneath some boxes. She whimpered slightly, but didn't wake up.
As he began strolling towards the restuarant, the guards stood up, each eyeing him cooly from behind their sunglasses. One was holding a sawed-off shotgun. Drifter always walked with his hands in his pockets, and now he had his right hand on the gun, in case he needed it suddenly.
"You." The guard with the shotgun motioned.
"Over here."
Drifter strolled up on to the porch, expecting the worst. One of the guards came up, took his arm lightly but firmly, and led him into the restuarant. The other guard took a glance down the street, waved his shotgun, and followed in after Drifter and the other guard.
When they entered the building, Drifter didn't hestitate in pulling his gun and firing...

In situations like these, instinct takes over; thoughts and memory become blurred. So when the Drifter emerged from Taco Bill's some time later, he had little recollection of how he came to find the briefcase. Or how he came to lose his left arm. But his left arm was not important right now. The briefcase and the girl were his priority. He stumbled his way to the alley, and collapsed next to the girl. Maybe he did need to do something about his arm. Then he remembered something...

The memories came back in short flashes, like they always did after a vicious firefight...

He entered the building, scanning the scene in an instant. His peripheral vision caught three dead bodies on the floor of the restaurant, one of them the woman's husband. In front of him were four men armed to the teeth. One had a large revolver, the next had an Uzi with strange orange markings on it, the third had two Bereta 92FS pistols, and the last one a katana. In the split-second he had to process the situation he pulled his pistol and fired. The rest of the battle was a blur of intense gunfire.

With that in his memory he realized that in the fight he must have de-prioritized the one with the Katana, and paid for his oversight with his left arm.

The woman began to cry hysterically. The drifter lay on his back, blood flowing from his severed left arm. The adrenalin was fading and the pain was coming. He held what remained of his left arm up in the air, hoping to at least lower the amount of blood loss. With his other arm he tore off a part of his shirt. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter. He placed the torn up section of his shirt on the ground and lit it on fire. He gritted his teeth, preparing for the pain. He plunged the bloody stump into the fire, feeling the surge of pain exploding in his brain. He held his arm there as long as he could handle and finally lurched backward with a scream. The wound had been completely sealed over.

He heard a clicking sound. If he hadn't lost so much blood he would have been able to react but instead just dumbly tilted his head to the side, staring straight down the barrel of his own gun, in the shaking, unsure hands of the woman.

"Put....my....fucking....gun....DOWN!" he growled, the last word containing as much menece as a man with one arm and a bloody stump can manage. He noticed, through blurry double vision, that she had not yet lowered the gun. He hope she didn't know enough to cahnge the clips, since he had already emptied the one in the gun. Had he? He hoped he had. Both of her were looking really pissed off and scared at that moment, and pissed off scared women tended, in his limited experience, to do bad things to bloody incapaciatated men. New tactic, he thought. He tried to steady himself... "I've gotten the briefcase back..." he started. "SHUT UP!" she screamed at him, her voice cracking. "SHUT UP! YOU SHOT ME IN THE LEG! YOU KICKED ME IN THE FACE!" she put a hand to her bloody lips. "YOU KICKED ME IN THE FACE!" This wasn't going well. "I'm sorry about the face thing," the drifter started, "It wasn't personal." His mind returned again to his arm. He really needed to do something about that. "Listen, you'll notice I've lost my arm..." he waved the stump for emphasis, "I'd say that makes us even, so if you'll just open that suitcase up and help with the that prostetic... it wouldn't happen to be a left arm would it? I guess it doesn't matter... two rights are better than nothing." He briefly pondered how this whole one arm thing was going to effect his career before he passed out again.

The inside of his eyelids glowed bright red. He opened them to find himself staring directly at the rising sun. He squinted his eyes. In the daylight he could make out the twisted skyline of what used to be the city of Pheonix far in the distance. A pheonix which had returned to the ashes. There was a humming sound in his ears. He looked around him, and saw the metal edges of the back of a pickup truck around him. The dry desert landscape was rolling by, and a cloud of dust billowed out from behind it as it rolled westward along the cracked remains of Interstate 10. He got up, surprised to find his left arm intact. He looked at it, and realized it was the prosthetic one. He looked into the cab of the car, and saw the woman in the drivers' seat. Suddenly his advanced thought processes clicked back into place and he realized the immediate danger they both were in. He turned around and pounded on the back window of the pickup. The woman turned around.
"Stop the car!" he yelled. "Now!"
The car stopped and the woman stepped out.
"What the fuck are you doing, you crazy bitch?" the Drifter said, climbing out of the truck.
"I'm taking you and your precious briefcase to Old Angeles so you can get the fuck out of my life! I just let you live, you should be a bit more fucking grateful!"
The Drifter looked around, his eyes wide open with disbelief. "No, you've just killed me! You've killed us both!"
"What are you talking about?"
"You better have a whole lot of fucking firepower in that truck with you. You just drove a noisy vehicle into the desert in the early morning! Every damn scorpion in the desert is awake and hungry at this time!"

There was a clicking sound from far to the south, then another from west.
"They're coming." the Drifter said.
The woman jumped back into the truck and turned the key in the ignition.
"Stop it!" said the Drifter. "You can't outrun them. Do you have any weapons with you?"
"I have your pistol, and I took all the weapons from the people you killed in the restaurant, and my husband's shotgun."
"A Shotgun! That's good!"
The clicking sound grew louder. She tossed him the shotgun. He quickly inspected the ammunition in it. Only 6 shells. Dammit. He would have to make his shots count, and hope that the ammo was all good.
A cloud of dust in the distance. He could make out the front claws, clicking madly as it approached from the south. The woman held an Uzi tightly with both her hands. She looked towards the west, petrified at the sight of the enormous beast heading from that direction.
"I'll take this one, you take the other. Remember to keep your eye on the stinger at all times." said the drifter. "It strikes faster than you can imagine, and has a longer range than its claws. When you shoot at it, aim for the eyes. If it ever exposes its soft underbelly, unload your whole clip into it. It's your best chance."
The clicking sounds were much louder, and they could hear the unearthly growls of the advancing creatures.

The drifter lifted up his shotgun. The sounds stopped as the scorpion approaching him launched itself five feet into the air at him. He pulled the trigger.

And pulled the trigger. The scorpion's entire head exploded in a gory mass of flesh. Dodging backwards, drifter evaded the death throes and flailing stinger of the scorpion, and went to help the woman. She was backed up against the car, her uzi empty, and the scorpion coming up fast. Drifter came flying around the front of the truck, firing his shotgun, and grabbing her at the same time. The scorpions stinger got stuck in the dirt just as the drifter opened the door and stuffed her and himself into the cab, and slammed the door, while simulationiously starting the car and peeling out in reverse. He could see more scorpions on the way, looking for a yummy meal. "How many days have gone by?" The drifter asked her. "Two, why?" "Not much time left..."

The truck's tires ran over the right legs of the scorpion. It screamed and fell over on its side. the drifter slammed on the gas pedal and drove at the tilted scorpion, jumping over it like a ramp. The truck landed on the other side of the scorpion with a hard bump. Three more scorpions were following behind them.
"How long have we been driving?" asked the Drifter.
"Just since last night, I spent a day in the town in hiding, waiting for the right moment to drive off unnoticed. There's another gang out there that wants the briefcase bad!"
One of the scorpions was approaching the truck. The drifter pushed the gas pedal even harder, but to no avail, since it was already floored. He could hear the clicking sounds getting louder over the roar of the engine. It was coming up to their left. The drifter grabbed the shotgun in his left hand. The prosthetic arm was remarkably responsive. Top of the line, almost like a real arm, the kind of technology that only a big-time gangster could afford. He saw the front claws of the sprinting scorpion out the left window. He pulled his head back just as one of the claws snapped at his neck. He fired the shotgun blindly, but it just missed the head glanced off its thick armor plate. To his surprise the scorpion began to move away from the truck. Then he realized what it was going to do.
"Brace yourself!" he yelled.
The scorpion hurled itself back toward the truck, smashing into it with its full weight. The truck tilted on its side, running on two wheels. The truck landed back on its left wheels, popping the front tire. The drifter dropped the shotgun and struggled to keep the truck on a straight path, but the scorpion was charging again. The next hit was far more severe. The truck landed on its right side. The drifter was launched out of his seat and landed on the woman, pressing her face into the dirt that was swiftly moving past the right window. The truck finally stopped moving. There was another hit the rolled the truck onto its roof. The drifter smack his head on the roof and the rest of his body came after. The woman, half of her face bloodied and ripped, looked out of the window with her one good eye. She saw the scorpion lower itself and stare at her directly. The scorpion reared back, preparing to strike at her. She screamed.

Suddenly there was an incredibly loud sound of automatic gunfire. The scorpion squealed as yellow blood erupted from large holes in its back. The drifter looked out his own window, and saw the dust around them begin to blow like a whirlwind. There was a large shadow on the ground, a shape which he recognized as a helicopter. The helicopter landed a few feet away from them. Through the open door of the chopper he could see a ragged old man behind a smoking gatling gun. Three more men, armed with a variety of assault rifles, ran out of the helicopter to help the two passengers out of the truck. They were pulled free. The drifter had only a few bumps and scratches, but the woman looked seriously injured. She was unconscious, and two of the men had to carry her to the chopper. The drifter quickly ducked back into the truck and retrieved the briefcase before following them. The gatling gun opened fire again, taking down another scorpion which was approaching the group. Once everyone was in the chopper, it promptly lifted off.
"Thank you. You saved our lives." he said to the old man.
"Pleased to meet you." the old man said. "You're lucky we ran into you. Now let's take you to our town to get some medical help. Your wife looks like she needs it."

"She's not my wife." said the Drifter.
The old man shrugged and looked closely at the woman's face. "She doesn't look too good. I don't know if she'll ever be able to see out of her right eye again."
And the Drifter knew he would never use his left arm again.
"So, what's the deal here, old man?"
"I don't understand. What do you mean?"
"I mean, you don't even know us and you saved our lives. What do you want in return? Money? You want someone whacked? Or do you just want the woman?"
"We were on a regular patrol. We saw that you were in danger and we rescued you. That is all."
"Bullshit. Look, I'm in a hurry, so why don't we just quit the charade and get down to business?"
The old man sighed, and looked out the window at the hot desert flying by below. "This is a sad world that we are living in. Simple acts of decency are suspected to be part of a sinister plot. Sir, I assure you we ask nothing in return except your thanks."

The helicopter approached a steep cliff, and increased in altitude. The Drifter looked on in awe as they passed over a large man-made wall on the top of the cliff. Behind the wall was a large town built entirely on the flat top of the tall, rocky butte.
"Welcome to Paradise!" said the old man.
They soared over the town. The Drifter looked down and saw some children in the street looking up, laughing, and waving as they ran to keep up with the helicopter. There were walls completely surrounding the town, overlooking the desert below. Along the edge were several guard towers facing outward. On the northern edge was a helipad, where they set down.
The Drifter and the Old man carried the woman out.
"We have an injured woman here!" the old man said. "Get the doc!"

The doc, a portly man of about sixty, with the flush face of a drunkard, eyed the drifter's severed arm. "That must really smart," he said, nodding towards the charred stump. "Only when I think about it," the drifter replied. The doc snorted in amusement, then turned his attentions to the unconscious woman. "A few stitches, some rest, and she'll be fine," he said, before greedily stripping away her clothes until she was naked. "Ah, a fine specimen," the doc exclaimed. "You want to sell her? I know people. I can act as your agent. What you want for her? Gold? Weapons?" The drifter weighed the opportunity. But before he could think of a reply the old man from the helicopter appeared in the doorway. The doc quickly covered the woman and stood to attention.

He must have been seventy-five at least, the drifter thought, but he was fit and agile and had that air of natural authority few men possessed in the post-apocalyptic world. He was the kind of man you instantly respected -- and feared. With merely a look, the old man dismissed the doc, pulled a chair against the wall opposite the drifter, and sat down. "You were responsible for that little incident in the town" the old man declared. "That is no problem. They were bad people," he added. "But what was your mission in these parts? It intrigues me." "Just passing through," the drifter lied. "Of course," said the old man smiling at the lie. He looked at the woman, at the drifter's severed arm, and at the briefcase lying protectively beneath the drifter's good arm. "You have a problem" the old man declared. "We also have a problem. We could help each other. It would be a mutually beneficial arrangement." The drifter was silent for minute as he weighed his situation. "What do you have in mind," he asked. The old man smiled a wicked smile. The drifter knew that he was in deep, deep trouble.

"You'll notice that our town is in a rather dry and inaccessible area. Our water supply is running low, so we're going to need to take a trip down to the oasis tomorrow. You will be rewarded quite well monetarily, of course." The Drifter laughed grimly. "I knew it. So what was that shit you were spewing about selfless acts of decency?" "You misunderstand me, sir." said the Old man. "The rescue and everything was on the house, and you're free to leave any time you want." the old man grinned. "But it seems clear to me that whatever business you were into, everything went to hell and you really have no choice but to accept our offer." "So, I just go down to the oasis and get you guys some precious H2O?" "Yes." "Sounds simple enough." But the Drifter knew it wasn't that simple. Water was a precious resource, and as such anyone who had it would defend it with their lives. "Do I at least get some reinforcements?" "We'll send some of our best fighters with you, heavily armed of course. But don't worry about it tonight. Just rest." The woman groaned. "Signs of life..." said the Old Man. "How are you feeling?" She turned and looked at him. "Where am I?" "You're in Paradise." said the Old Man.

The Drifter sighed. Another hike through the sunbaked desert to look forward too.

It took two days for the Drifter to recover from his injuries. Two days of pain and strange medicine, that more often than not left him in a hazy fever state, wandering through the inner recesses of the mind.

The morning of the third day, he woke to bright sunshine, feeling fit again, if a bit weak. no use putting it off any more, he said to himself. Time to get back into the desert.

After a short briefing by the Old Man, the team left. They flew a short distance by helicoptor, then touched down on a dry streambed.

"We'll walk from here." said O'Brien. O'Brien was the leader of the reinforcements, a big, completely bald man.

The Drifter only nodded, and started walking. One hour and two miles later,the Drifter paused for a drink. Looking up into the clear sky, he was astonished to see...

To see dust in the distance. According to his rough, approximate figurings, drifter was late in delivering his package. And now, he knew he was fucked. Somehow the loan shark had found him, and he knew he was in for it, unless...

...The Drifter looked at the people around him. Some had assault rifles, some had custom hybrids of the useable parts of older, broken guns. The Drifter had his Sig and a shotgun with only five shells. Not exactly an efficient fighting force, but if the Drifter's plan worked they might not need to fight.
"How long are we from the oasis?" he asked O'Brien.
"If we hurry we can reach it in half an hour."
"What do you know of the defenses at the Oasis?"
"The group that currently holds the Oasis is armed to the teeth. We were only able to take the water on our last run by sneaking in at night, silently taking out the guards they had posted, one by one. They've probably improved their defenses by now. Or maybe they were overrun by another, more powerful group."
"Great!" said the Drifter, looking at the dust in the distance.
"Great? What do you mean by..." O'Brien looked at the cloud of dust, and moved his hand toward the Colt 1911 strapped to his belt. "Friends of yours?"
"I don't know how they found me, but they're with the loan shark that I owe a great deal of money to. Look, I..."
"You know what I think? I think you set us up!" O'Brien whipped out his pistol, an action mirrored by the Drifter. As they held the guns at each others' heads, the other fighters quickly raised their guns at the Drifter.
"Listen to me." said the Drifter. "I have an idea that could work for the both of us. Just call off your men, lower your gun, and listen to me."
O'Brien lowered his gun and signalled his men to do the same. "I'm all ears."

-

The woman looked out of the window of her temporary residence in Paradise. She closed her left eye, straining to see out of her injured right eye, but there was nothing but a dull blur. A tear started falling down her cheek, the first tear in a long time. All the events of the past few days rushed back to her in a moment and she couldn't handle the flood of emotions. She wept openly, and closed the window.

She turned around and gasped when she saw the Doc standing in her room.

"What are you doing in her, I thought I locked the door." She managed to say without letting her fear leak thru.

The Doc stood in front of her, arms behind his back, with a small smirk on his face.

"This is my clinic, I have a key to every room of course."

He dropped the set of keys he was holding, into the outside pocket of his lab coat but kept his right hand well concealed behind his 'not-so-small' figure.

She noticed that he was keeping something from her. Hiding something from view.

"I'm trying to rest, what do you want?"

He calmly said, "Why you my dear." He reveled a coiled rope from behind his back, and began to move closer to her.

------

"That's your brilliant plan?! You're going to get us all killed if we do that. Do you honestly think they are going to fall for that?!" O'Brien said as he motioned towards the group of outlaws racing towards them.

"I know none of you have known me long, but you must trust me. It's the only way we are all going to make it out of this alive." The Drifter said, more to convince himself than the other standing around him.

O'Brien had a gut wrenching feel deep inside him. He thought to himself, this wasn't going to go well, but he knew this was only option. "Come' on men move out! Let's do this!"

The men scramble in all different directions with only minutes left before the storm of thugs and murderers was upon them.

The drifter helped pull two huge rocks together to form a decent barricade.O'Brian and his men pushed more onto that to create a circle of defence or so it seemed.The loan shark the drifter had acquired his money from was part of the sydnicate a huge crime network spanning across ruined america and had acquired a huge force of sydnicate soldiers to help track down the drifter.The sydnicate had been known before the war as the mafia but had grown from the new trades and lack of police that emeged after the war.They didn't exist though as far as anyone knows. At the head of this huge force Malone Harwell A.K.A The General headed this massive force in a pre war british challenger 2 tank.The fifty strong force clambered up the sand slope towards the paradisians. Then O'Brian shouted at his full echoing voice "NOW" Simultaneously each member of the paradise force pushed the boulders with all their might...

Over-confidence, that was the syndicate's problem. No one ever stood up to them, and it had made them complacent. The huge boulders rolled down the hill, picking up speed and kicking up huge clouds of dust. By the time the General saw them, it was too late.

Two of the boulders hit dead on, knocking the tread off of one side of the tank. The vehicle was down, but not out. The turret began circling to the left...

It was a rout. The syndicate vastly outnumbered and outgunned them, and the fight was over before it began. The drifter, O'Brien, and two others were the only survivors on their side.

The syndicate didn't believe in waste. Why give prisoners like these things like food, water, or transport? Let them make do for themselves.

O'Brien and the other two prisoners died during the march through the desert.

The drifter stayed alive, though. Something was driving him, keeping him from giving up.

-----

The doctor chuckled. "We know who you are, my dear. Did you really think you could fool us? You're their courier. You were to deliver the briefcase to us! That was the arrangement!"

The Doctor moved forward...

with rope in one hand, both arms out wide preparing to pin the woman in a bear hug. Just before he lunged forward, the women saw a dark spot appear the doctors throat just as a gloved hand covered his mouth. The doctors eyes went wide and his scream came out a gurgling cough muffled by the glove of his assailent. The stranger lowered his victim to the ground and gestured to the woman. He was dressed in a tan cloak, with the hood pulled down over his eyes and a bandana over his mouth like the cowboys in the stories of the wild west. He spoke not a word but hastened towards the door, gesturing the woman to follow. She felt she had no choice. The stranger turn left out of the door and went swiftly down the hallway. As she turn to follow she glanced down the opposite direction and noticed motionless bodies scattered on the floor. The strager led her into the starewell and down they went to the lowest floor. Her resucuer let her into what seem to be a vault, though what for she could not discern. After they were both inside, the cloaked stranger closed the vault door and locked it with the great steal mechanism. Her rescuer then turned around and began reveal itself. The hood was thrown back and to her astonishment

her rescuer had the face of a scorpion. As she recoiled in horror, the face began to melt, followed by the walls. Her rescuer dissolved, and she found herself tied down in her bed.

She could barely hear the Doctor chuckling to himself through her screams. "Now, my dear, just some mild hallucegenic side effects from the drugs. They'll pass soon enough. As soon as we find out just how much your drifter friend knows about the briefcase."

-----

The Drifter squinted against the glare of the desert sun. He had lost track of the days about three or four sunsets ago. Time seemed to have lost all meaning out here. The syndicate gave him just enough water and food to stay alive. That would be reassuring if he could think clearly.

As he raised his foot to step over a small rock, the Drifter stumbled and fell. The larger of the four men guarding him prodded him with the tip of his rifle, and survival instinct kicked in. The drifter grabbed the barrel of the rifle, burning his hands on the sun-heated metal. Before the guard could register surprise, the drifter had already put a burst through his chest.

The other three guards went down just as fast. Slow reactions kill a man, the Drifter thought to himself. The brief gun battle had been enough to lift him from the near catatonic state. He quickly gathered up all of the guards' food and water that he could carry, and looked around.

Every which way the eye could see was barren wasteland. It looked completely hopeless...but the Drifter was a survivor. He briefly looked to the West, then shrugged, and started walking east.

. . . and immediatly tripped over his own feet and banged his head against an ill placed rock. Darkness swallowed him, and then there was nothing.

Slowly, the Drifter began to come to. Why were the lights so bright? Painfully, he blinked open his eyes. Neon orange, purple, green, pink . . . these colors assaulted his eyes. Where the hell was he? And was that a man wearing a mini skirt? Was that woman sexually harrasing that horse?

But what really caught the Drifter's eye was a huge, prominent sign with the words . . .

BEWARE THE PRECIPITATION....the bright lights and words flashed and altered themselves in an almost sentient manner.As he wiped the water from his eyes,it seemed the words had changed..he caught only a glimpse of a phrase including the words ..BEHIND YOU...( the Drifter knew there was no one behind him.He could still sense accurately that much...so he knew the sign lied) the Drifter almost felt clean as the rains fell upon him,soaking him until...until he realized the warm waters from the skies were no longer a simple warm pleasure...it was beginning to burn him.Not on the outside but from within outward.The Drifter screamed in pain.The first scream he had cried out in ages.Catching himself,he quickly found shelter under the low porch of one of the few buildings on the street.His attention was torn between the strange man in the strange dress and the sign(which once again had changed)...it now read GO FUCK YERSELF,DRIFTER GO HOME GO HOME GO HOME.The Drifter shook his head and laughed without humour.The burning sensation within his chest subsided as he unholstered his weapon.He pointed it at the foolish sign and then changed his mind and directed it at the man who wasn't sure if he was a man or not and began to squeeze the trigger then stopped and reconsidered.After a moment,he aimed and squeezed.The shot range out loud and deadly.The horse went down,crashing to the ground without so much as a wimper.The ugly woman gawked at him in surprise and anger and pent up heat."I'm savin' the only one worth savin',said the Drifter,"no way to treat a good horse."The woman screetched in a language or dialect he did not know and ran towards him.He leveled the pistol in her direction and waited.She came to her senses only moments before he again pulled on the trigger.He saw the recognition in her eyes.The recognition of imminent death.
CLICK.The Drifter knew that sound.He knew the gun wasn't empty.But it was jammed.Only the third time in the last 30 years it had ever jammed.The woman smiled in a hateful way as she again sprinted in his direction,arms wide,fingernails long and jaggedly cruel.At the last moment,the Drifter swung his arm and clocked the ugly bitch upside the head with the jammed pistol.She went down harder than faster than the horse had.The sissy in the dress only stared in fear.The Drifter's only thought was,'how do I get the hell back?'The sign had changed again.It read: