...the trek took most of the morning. Walking a bike that weighed near 350 lbs over mostly loose sand and scrub ground was a fool's errand, a slog worse than running in knee-deep mud. Remember mud? heh. When he crested the last rise of the dune concealing the smoke (or what remained of it) he gave a low whistle. Whatever had happened here, he had missed it. And for small mercies, he was thankful. At least half a dozen shapes lay half-buried in the sand. Vehicles burnt and twisted from a fight that looked to have taken the lives of many. Other, smaller lumps in the sand dotted the scene. Bodies. There were no tracks left to examine, but reading the lay of the vehicles, Rig could tell that some vehicles had escaped destruction. That was good. Good for them that rode those vehicles. Bad for them that got left behind. 

He flicked the spade end of the kickstand down, and after another thorough scan of the horizon, got to work. First, the vehicles. Digging out the remains was tough going, and the ones that had burned, he mostly ignored. Not much worth salvage there. There were two vehicles that had crashed, and begun to burn, only to have the fires snuffed by the storm. These, he focussed on. First was a buggy, its engine and transmission smashed and ruined. Even so, he managed to retrieve two bottles of useful life-blood. A plastic water bottle-worth of ATF, and a canteen of oil. Thirty-weight, by the taste. The driver had been picked clean, but the driver's seat was another find: still (mostly) covered in leather, the black, stitched pelt was freed to get folded and placed in his pack. The second vehicle offered up its distributer, and though the alternator looked good, Rig deemed it too cumbersome to carry. So it was left, along with some salvaged wiring, in a tin, buried in a spot he could find in the future, if it came to that. 

Next, the bodies. This didn't take long. Most had burned, or were picked clean. Certainly, there was nothing left of use, really. Sure, he could have added a belt, or a pouch, but he had what he needed. The biggest find was a pistol, discarded, its barrel bent and blackened. This he stripped for small parts: screws, springs, the trigger assembly, all of which went into a tin he kept for barter or his own use down the road. 

The second-to-last body, he pulled mostly free of the sand and began rifling mechanically through its pockets, when he recoiled at a sound. This one, clung to life. If barely. He drew his pistol, levelled it at the form. Stood there a full five minutes. It was barely alive. Unconscious. He holstered his piece, dragged the form clear of the sand. Male, female? He couldn't tell, the head was shaved. He flipped the unconscious form over, dragged it into the shade afforded by one of the wrecks. Either it would live, or it would die. 

He spared the form another look, then went back to his bike to retrieve that fouled plug, and set to work cleaning it. It seemed, he was staying awhile...