Soulforged - 1. Rovers and Refugees

Soulforged

chapter 1 - Rovers and Refugees


         The crackled road resembles a dried-out river, part of a new world landscape. A perfect white line stretches into the distance, along with a bashed metal railing, mangled and tormented by war-machines, or vehicles evacuating people, in despair. Concrete and metal seem part of nature now, in these out-lands that were once a civilized region.

He wonders how long it has been since darkness settled. He reaches into his bag for a bottle of water. Just two gulps are left. He drinks it all and tosses the bottle aside. He exhales heavily, clouds of breath misting the air before him, and lifts his legs up from the steering bar. Leaning forward from the bike seat, he turns and glides off his bike. He picks up the bottle he had thrown on the ground and stuffs it into the bag. Barely awake, he stretches and massages his lower back.

         He had camped next to a bridge. Now he climbs toward it, stopping before he reaches the top so he can see over the bridge, without exposing himself. He sees the highway on the other side. Leaning against the rail of the bridge-road, he takes a little red and white box out of his blue leather jacket. He takes out one cigar. His back to the wind, he lit up. The smoke mixes with his cold breath. The solitary man tries to enjoy it.

The cigar is only two-third smoked when suddenly, there is a noise, getting louder by the second; high-idling engines. Looking over the rail, he sees headlights approaching; two pairs, no, three. He watches this high-speed pursuit until it passes underneath the bridge. Then he runs down to his bike, puts his helmet and gloves on, and starts the new-generation steam-engine.

         Inside the boiler, a large electrically generated spark forms between two coils, setting coals on fire, while the electrical starter brings the mechanics of the steam-engine to life. The clutch is released, and clouds of light-grey steam from the exhaust are propelled from behind when the bike and its rider drive off.

         As it moves from soil to concrete, the bike’s rear shakes wildly. The first vehicle, a white truck, that looked like it used to belong to a humanitarian organisation, followed by two powerful cars. The bike accelerates and almost catches up with them. Keeping the same speed as the three, but holding back a hundred meters, his presence is not given away because his lights are off.
The truck swerves desperately, trying not to let the cars pass. The sound of gunfire can be heard. After about five kilometers the biker falls further back until he can't see what he is chasing. He kicks down a gear and throws the throttle fully open. Now that the engine is hot, the two-wheeled mechanical animal gallops insanely into higher velocity. Two more changes into higher gear, and the bike reaches about 300km/h. Steam is injected into the air in a dense thick ray. The truck and the cars are still in a fierce road battle. One car manages to pass the truck on the right. Now the truck tries to drive this car off the road. The truck swerves to the right and the biker quickly moves to the left, little time, little choice. At a huge speed difference, he passes the battering vehicles on the left. In a late attempt to stop him, the car still behind the truck swerves to the left. He hits the side-rail of the highway, the impact makes the car lose control, and the aggressor falls back, spinning, covered by the clouds of steam left by the motorcycle.

         The first car and the truck have no idea what or who just passed them, except a line of light-grey clouds seem to have formed alongside the middle railing of the highway. The remaining car swerves in front of the truck.

         After speeding away from the road battle, the biker stops in the middle of the road and turns his bike sideways to the right. He stares at the headlights fast approaching. Again he hears gunfire. Someone in the car is shooting at the driver of the truck. They are closing in fast. The driver of the car notices the biker in front of him, and accelerates toward him, either to run him down or scare him away and not lose his prey to this stranger.
A mere ten meters from impact, the bike swerves away to the right, escaping over an on-ramp, then using the off-ramp to speed away in the other direction.

Driving back, the biker comes upon the crashed car. Very carefully, he stops. He steps off his motorcycle and removes handgun, strapped to his right thigh. The car has wound up on the grass on the side of the road, facing the opposite direction of where it had been heading. The biker walks toward the car. The passenger door opens and a man stumbles out, falls onto his hands and knees, and throws up. Mostly blood. He looks up and sees a man with a black helmet watching him, a silver pistol in one hand. Without hesitation, the passenger reaches back into the car for a weapon. He immediately gets a .45 bullet in the back of his head.

         The executioner pulls the body out of the car and searches to see if the dead man has anything of value on him, before turning his attention to the inside of the car.  It was a  grueling sight; a sharp piece of metal plate had penetrated the left door window, beheaded the driver, and was now resting in his right shoulder.

         He opens his visor and moves a little back out of the vehicle, to get a bit of fresh air. He holsters his gun, leans back in, and searches the driver. There are two packs of cigarettes in his jacket, but drenched in blood. He leans further in over the body, and underneath his steel-plated fate. When he pushes the handle to open the water-tank valve, he sees a knife in the door compartment. He appropriates that as he straightens, walks back to his bike, and puts the weapon away in his bag.

         He moves his bike next to the car, takes out a tube and starts transfering the water from the car to the motorcycle tank. The empty bottle from which he drank earlier is also filled, and both the tube and bottle are put carefully away before he proceeds to search the car.

         The passenger seat is moved forward, pressing against the driver’s head. In the back of the car he finds a machine gun, a shotgun and ammunition on the floor. Also a plastic box with some primitively baked bread, and some cans of soda and beer. He puts the ammo, the box, and the cans into a bag he found on the back seat, and takes the bag and the shotgun out of the car. Quickly, he gears up with his new-found items.

         The biker walks to the front of the car. With his left foot he kicks the front of the hood just above the radiator. After several very hard kicks, the locking mechanism breaks off and the bent hood swings open. He checks out the boiler-unit, and feels that it's too hot. Impossible to take out the coals within the next half hour. Pitty, his motorcycle can use them, but he does not want to stand around the highway in plain sight.

Ready to leave the crash site, he wonders which way to go. The way the car and the truck went, or back? He drives off two meters, then with the rear wheel spinning, swings the bike around and rides toward the previous battlefield. A modern battlefield that is dimensioned to a ten meters wide concrete strip, and the length is the time of conflict. Slowly he goes on his way.

         When passing the off-ramp he earlier used to escape the road rage, he comes to a stop between the two ramps. Here the highway overpasses a secondary road. Standing at the edge of the highway, he glances over the road underneath, then allows his eyes to follow it toward the horizon to the right. As far as the darkness permits him. Why didn't the assaulted truck use this as an escape route?

         Still wondering which way to go, suddenly he hears the rumble of engines again. It's coming from the right. He drives behind a billboard on the side of the highway, hanging over the road below, shuts the engine down, steps off and seeks a vantage point.

         A bunch of vehicles are moving toward the highway intersection. One car, an old army truck and two motorcycles. The car and truck break away to their right, using the on-ramp, following the highway where the pursuit went. The motorcycles go left, in the opposite direction over the off-ramp toward the crashed car. None of them notices the lone man standing in the middle.

This highway is not a place to be right now. The biker moves off the highway, on to the secondary road. Logic tells him to move south, away from where the vehicles came from. None the less, he moves north, risking an encounter with other road pirates.

Alongside the road are many various building. In better days, they used to be giant stores, gas stations, apartment buildings, little factories. Now they are all abandoned, blasted to pieces by artillery, missiles or other means of destruction. Plundering gangs or refugees were their last visitors.

         He knows this road, remembers it from long ago. It leads to a big city. But that's not the destination tonight.
Ten kilometers further, he slows down coming to an intersection. On his left is a stock-house. He drives besides it and parks his bike behind a bush. He dismounts and reaches in his bag for a can of beer. Weak light immediately draws his attention, moving light. From the upper floor of the storage building, through a window. Whoever is up there probably heard the biker’s arrival. He must check it out. A garage port present on this side of the building beckons. He tries to lift the door up, but can't get it higher than one meter without making too much noise. One look inside, then he crawls in. A big dark storage room, with steel stairs rising to an office above. With his gun ready he sneaks across the room, then quietly up the stairs.

         At the top of the stairs is the door to the office, but no handle anymore. This door has once been kicked in. He pushes the door open with his left hand, his right hand brandishing a handgun, waiting for a target to appear. He shoves the door and it swings wide open. In the corner sits a woman clutching a girl, both of them trembling. He takes one step into the room. A crowbar swings at his head, well, his helmet. Instinctively, he ducks and spins toward the attacker, grabbing the crowbar with his left hand and, backhanding it like a tennis player. Holding the bowed end of the crowbar, he pulls his attacker nearer.

         A scared man in a ragged sweater stands in front of him, panic and despair in his eyes. With a violent shove of the crowbar, the man falls backward and loses his grip on the bar. Five meters away, the woman screams, and grabs the girl more tightly. The fallen man, places his hands on the floor and looks up fearfully at the invader. Then he glances back at the woman and girl, and looks around, searching for a way of defense.

         With his handgun still pointing at the ceiling, the biker walks to a table in the middle of the room, not losing sight of the scared man. Three candles on the table, but only one is burning. Feeling confident, he puts the silver gun away, in the holster strapped to his right thigh. He reaches into the pocket of his black and white camouflage pants. Then his hand retracts and moves to the table and a lighter lights up the other two candles.

Sensing the extra light, the woman looks toward the middle of the room, staring at the stranger. The girl looks too, tears in her eyes, crying silently. The man on the floor, his fear slowly fading, keeps a suspicious watch over the biker. He gets slowly to his feet.
"Please, we don't have much for you to take. What can we do for you so you’ll leave us in peace ?"
Giving the biker wide berth, the man walks around the biker who was still standing in the middle of the room. Toward a suitcase in the corner opposite to where the women are sitting. The two men keep staring at each other. The man of the house, well, this old commercial building used as shelter, kneels down, opens the suitcase, and takes something out. Then he walks to the table in front of the biker. He places a can and a large bottle of water next to the candles.

         But the biker turns around and walks out of the room. The girl, her tears dried-out and faded away in the dirt on her face, stands up. Young and curious, she takes some steps forward. The woman stands up, runs to the man and hugs him. Meanwhile the biker walks down the stairs, and goes outside to his bike.

         The three people above stand at the window, staring at the biker at the side of the building. The biker opens the garage port fully, and the high pitched noise of the worn out mechanism fills the building. He mounts his bike, starts, and drives into the storage room. A space to park under the stairs. He closes the garage port. He reaches into his bag for the plastic box. Slightly opening the lid, he reaches in, breaks off a piece of the bread, and eats it quickly.
With his bag over the shoulder, he goes up the stairs again.

         Upon his return into the room, the inhabitants all stare at him with curiosity. The stranger walks to the girl. She keeps very still, trying to look through the blackened visor of the black helmet, trying to make eye contact with the biker. This still anonymous man takes out a can of cola, and hands it to the girl. She grabs it eagerly, and takes two steps back. The man and woman are also offered cans. The woman takes a can of cola, and the man a beer. The girl steps further back, sits down and opens the can. The cola sprays over her face, as it had been shaken during the journey in the bag strapped on the motorcycle. She takes a first drink. With the sleeve of her shirt she wipes her face clean. Most of the dirt comes off. A pretty face shows up from underneath the dirt.
"Thank you," stutters the man. -"Yes, thank you," the woman says.
The biker walks toward the table and lays on it the plastic box from his bag. He picks up the can of food from the table and lifts it a bit in the air, directed at the couple. The man nodded. "Yeah, it's yours to take." The biker also takes the bottle of water under his arm. While he closes his bag, with the given can and bottle under each arm, the man in the ragged sweater starts to talk.
"You're not with them ?"
The biker turns toward the man.
"You're not one of Feanor's Warriors, or his scouts, are you?" Unspoken is the understanding that this is no rover.
But this trader keeps silent.
"Where are you from ? Are you with another gang ? Are you a retriever from a settlement ?"
After ten seconds of silence, the blackened visor lifts up to reveal piercing young blue eyes surrounded by aged skin. Bright eyes stare at the refugees.

"I'm not part of anything, anymore. And I am from here and thousands of kilometers around."


Feeling that he has shown enough courtesy by answering two basic questions, he walks out of the room, the bag back over one shoulder, the can and bottle in each hand. He goes down the storage room, to his bike, sets the objects in his hand by the wall under the stairs and puts the bag on the seat. He picks up the bottle again, puts it away in his bag, trading it in for a can of beer. This place will do for a camping site.

         At last the helmet comes off. A sigh of relief, as he swirls his head in a circle and bows it forward, a ponytail sliding up against the collar of the blue jacket. He pulls the entire ponytail from underneath the jacket, and lets it hang down his back. It had been irritating the back of his head for a while now, pulling on his skull with every movement he made.

         He sits down with his back against the wall, opens his beer. The taste of it relaxes his entire body. He puts the beer aside and turns his attention to the can of food he had received. He rotates it with his fingers. Ravioli. The middle finger of his free hand lifts the clip, and tears off the lid. After he tosses it aside, he unzips his jacket, from the right shoulder to the offset middle at the bottom. Reaching into the inner pocket, he fishes out his fork. Now dinner can begin. As he chows down on the ravioli, the spoiled taste of the cheese within keeps him from eating it too fast. The occasional sips of beer help a lot.

         The sight of shoes coming down the stairs interrupts his cold meal. The man above has gathered his courage and has come down to introduce himself.
He holds the can of beer in his hand and walks around the stairs to see the biker continuing his meal. But he stops at the sight of this motorcycle.

         It's different from any he had ever seen. A classic it isn't, more like a high tech dream. Many features amaze him.
Aside from the armored plates at strategic points, a three-barrel canon above the front wheel and the absence of a regular front fork stands out. Normally, like a bicycle, a fork attached to the top front of the frame holds the front wheel. This wheel is linked to the frame in a similar way the back one, with a big U-shaped swing-arm. Only the front swing-arm's U-form is a bit more bent out. Probably for the front wheel to turn. He takes a step forward, for a better view. Behind the armor are a couple of tubes running to the wheel and to the weapon above it. A single suspension shock behind the front wheel in a rare way of construction attached to a piston underneath going horizontally to the frame. And there are two more pistons on the inside of the U shaped swing-arm. Stepping to one side, he checks out the rear of this mechanical animal.
No chain? No sprocket? Just more tubes running to and from the axle of the rear wheel.
The wheels seem to be hydraulic-driven, both, back and front.
There’s a wide steering bar like a dirt-bike, a dashboard with several buttons and switches, and a high sporty windscreen. This windscreen covers a little display-module. That display-module has no use anymore, it's cracked and broken.
The bike is dark grey, and on each side of the fuel tank is an image; a flashy purple tribal, tribal slash logo.

That logo within the tribal…, he knows that image. Finally he turns his attention to the biker finishing his meal. He takes a good look at the face that’s roughly shaven , some parts smooth, several patches showing a light beard. His hair is slicked back, and bound into a ponytail with large black curls, turning gray in places.
Disbelieving, he gulps down his beer, and shakes his head in denial.
"My name is Jake" says the man in the ragged dark blue sweater. He is wearing filthy blue jeans. His hair is grey and not combed, locks of it pointing every which way.
He continues, "You seem familiar, stranger. I think I know about you."

Thank you jc_hall for the great edit.

"Soulforged - 2. Recognized"