“Where there’s smoke, there’s salvage.” –desert proverb
Rex knew what he was likely to find beneath the black pillar pinpointing the aftermath of a battle: wrecked vehicles and charred corpses. Ammo, guzzoline, food and water, bullets and explosives were rare, but they could be found in the more intact vehicles ... intact being a relative term in a place like this. Scrap metal was the only reliable haul from the smoldering graveyards, not a resource in short supply like the rest.
He rode along the low grounds, keeping out of sight and somewhat muffling the growl of his motorbike. He parked in a gully, using a square of sheet metal he ripped from a fender to set the kickstand on. It kept the bike upright on the loose sands. One hand hastily unslung his rifle as the other rummaged blindly through his ammo bag on his left hip. ‘Where are my bullets?!’ He threw the bag to the ground, confused, and then gave it a good shake. Four rifle rounds were left. He checked both of his guns for ammo, each coming up dry. “Fuckin’ fantastic ...” he cursed under his breath.
He knelt down and chambered his last four rounds, gently seating each round into the rifle. He crawled on all fours up the steep wall of sand to take a perch over the wreck site. God forbid the place was crawling with looters. Four bullets did not, a clean sweep, make. He finally settled in to make some observations and possibly crack a shot off. There weren’t raiders at least ... but there was activity. Survivors it seemed. It certainly wasn’t a common sight in a wreck this bad. He felt he should head down the dune and help them; they sure as shit needed it. “Don’t do it Rex ...” he muttered again, shifting his posture up and away from the sights of his rifle.
“Ah fuck it,” he swore again as he stood up and slung the rifle across his back. With a half-stumble he fell back and slid down the dune towards the wreck site, rather than walking downhill on loose sands. It was faster and safer. “Hey!” he shouted out as he approached the area, “who’s not dead?!”
