Old Flame
The only sound that could be heard across the vast,sandy expanse of the wasteland was the boisterous drone of the iron horse's engine and that only by the ears of its rider, for no one else was around within miles and that was how the motorcycle riding man loved it best. The engine died to an utter quiet as the rider stopped before a dilapidated shack crafted of wood and rusted sheets of scrap metal.
The lone rover dismounted his motorcycle and went through the complicated process of opening his door while disengaging the booby traps he'd rigged around it. After this he stepped inside the dimly dimly lit by sunlight that seeped through cracks and holes in the walls. He then plopped a sack of currency from his last job on the wooden table then he he removed his gloves with the spiked bracers and his neck gaiter and goggles then off came the leather jacket, it's shoulders adorned with studded spikes and one sleeve removed so his sword arm could be free. The man who was known across the apocalyptic deserts as the Sandslayer had returned home.
He lowered his bare body which bore many scars including criss-cross ones from many duels in the white hot sun into a tub meticulously collected and filtered water. It was a pleasure to feel months of grime and sand wash away. He has been born in the wasteland and after his father died in a battle over a supply drop from the scumbags that lived sheltered in their domed mega city he had been raised by the wasteland. He made his living as an armed escort and defended the innocent as best he could with his legendary swordsmanship.
He crawled into bed. The bed was a worn sleeping bag he scavenged years ago. Beside him his sword with the spiked handguard and a dagger that looked like a smaller version of that sword lay beside him and his sawed off shotgun with them. These weapons were lined up in a perfect row. It was always so. It was some sort of obsessive compulsive habit that some psychological expert could have explained to him but shrinks did not live in the wastes. They only resided in that putrid mega city that the wastelanders called the Dome of Decadence.
He closed eyes and fell asleep. How much time passed he didn't know, for timepieces didn't exist in the wasteland (except pocket watches used in trade)but he was aroused from his sleep by the dying of an engine. His hand gripped his gun and he crept towards the wall near the door and pressed himself against. He cooked the hammer and prepared to blow away the uninvited guest.
Nobody should know about this place. His mind raced. Had an enemy tracked him here? Was he being descended upon by bandits? Mutants didn't use motorcycles and he heard an engine shut off. He could hear footfalls approaching the door and he swore at himself for not re-engaging the booby traps.
The door slowly opened and a figure entered. The figure was female. Her attire was a leather vest with spiked shoulder pads and no sleeves, a gaiter, tattered leather pants & heeled boots with spiked plates of armor on the toes. A feminine counterpart to his own outfit.
He clicked the hammer back into place in recognition of his surprise guest. She with her hair braided and pulled back in a ponytail had been here before. In fact her and the sand slayer had made love in this very edifice. She was Alexia. She was the ex wife to the grim figure who stood mostly naked with his gun in hand.
She turned toward him and lowered her sunglasses. “Well, I see you're as warm and cuddly as ever.” She said bluntly.
“You thought I was cuddly when I was hauling your posterior out of that hell hole of a combat arena!”
“Oh yes, the posterior you thought was so beautiful on our wedding night, such as it was, until you discovered a slightly unstable mind on the other end! Well that was many years ago wasn't it?”
Yes there was a history between them. She unstrapped the pump action assault rifle from her back and set down.
Her former lover stared at her through his pale plus eyes, a frown forming on the scared lips. Like him her body bore many scares but they weren't confined to her bare arms or her temples. There were deep cut scars in her mind. She stared back at him. “We are not as opposite as you believe Alexia said, “Your eyes already had a haunted look to them. They look even more haunted with each new ghost that resides in your memory.”
“What brought you back here?” he finally asked.
“I was hoping something still existed between us. It does, a butt load of tension!”
“Anything else?”
“A job. I heard some mercs are giving fits to a warlord to the south of the Green River. I thought maybe you'd like to join me in aiding them.”
“No.”
“I thought so. You don't approve of my methods.”
He moved closer to her and gestured passionately as he spoke, “Methods? Alexia I've battled Mutants, cultists, and warlords alike. I left their entrails putrifing in the heat of the sun! But not once did I ever purposely butcher them.”
“And that's why it never worked isn't it? You were much too devoted to your self appointed mission and didn't need a sadistic little sidekick screwing up your righteous reputation.
“Can at least stay the night?”
“Yes. Then be on your way, Alexia.”
That night she slept in the “kitchen.” The Sandslayer couldn't sleep. He was up, remembering. He remembered those years gone by when he wandered into Trinity, a little town in the remains of Arizona. It was hot outside of course and he decided to avail himself at a saloon. He overheard some of the patrons discussing the Death Dome. He thought they meant the mega city that overlooked the miserable landscape, that loathsome zit that dominated the distant horizon.
No, they were discussing a local battle arena. He decided to check it out. He faded into the crowd gathered for blood drenched carnage like Romans at the coliseum. A match was underway and the announcer a mockery of Elvis Presley was babbling on about the gladiators and the prize, a beautiful lady with a tanned complexion and sand hair almost like his. Something animal stirred within him. No human should be a prize in a combat arena!
He kept from his place in the stands and bloodied his sword slaying the announcer. A hush filled the arena then the hulking brute who was either not entirely human or horribly disfigured at birth from the toxicity bellowed, “Ahh to prizes for Big Boy this day. Pretty girl and chance to kill Sandslayer.”
Big Boy backhanded him and sent him sprawling. He knew he'd have to fight dirty to survive the goliath charging towards him. He slid under the brute and pointed the shotgun upward between his legs and herded the trigger. The behemoth screamed to the heavens as buckshot tore through his nether regions. He was on his knees bleeding out when a well sharpened blade sliced through cervical vertebrae, removing the head from the shoulders and ending the poor beast's misery!
The remaining gladiator didn't fare much better and went down slashed to oblivion by the Sandslayer. A riot broke out in the Death Dome and the wandering swordsman took flight with Alexia in tow.
During the two months they trekked across the irradiated sands they fell in love. Unfortunately it didn't last. Alexia became as good a fighter as her paramour thanks to his patient training. But he discovered she was too vengeful. Whatever horrors she'd endured prior to her rescue had left their mark!
She enjoyed inflicting pain on the people they fought. She would drag out their agony and death while the Sandslayer favored quick efficient kills. He'd tried to stop her one day and became the object of her fury. That was the beginning of the end of their bliss.
The sun rose the next day. Alexia departed. Neither said a word but they looked at each other and the looks said without words, “I wish things had worked out for us; I really do!”
The Sandslayer spent the rest of the day hitting the bottle which was rare. A few days later he began his wandering yet again.