1984 AD
One year after the founding of Main Force Patrol. MFP is a special police force tasked with safeguarding the streets from mobile gangs.
With the wind blowing through his hair, the Dark One turned away from the window and regarded his partner behind the wheel.
“Maximillian, you know, our boys have been overseas fighting in the oil fields for eleven years now. They say the war is coming to an end. The petrol will flow, and things will settle down. There will be peace on our roads. What will you do when there’s no longer any need for us?”
The Dark One caught Max grimacing at the question before flicking on the siren and pulling onto the main road. The sun was high and bright, with a piercing blue sky hanging over gutted buildings. Without hesitation Max pulled around a line of congested traffic, nearly scraping the sidewalk as he gunned the engine. In “Population”, Melbourne’s downtown district, crowds still gathered for business and trade. To Max, it was incredible that downtown Melbourne was still busy, even with the fancy department stores and restaurants boarded up following the looting that occurred during the unemployment riots.
The Dark One smiled at the people stopping to watch their approach. He scanned the crowd with brown eyes that were very nearly black, and a thin mustache framed his thin lips. Glancing ahead, he saw a line of cars pulling around a dry goods delivery truck with its fender lying atop the crumpled bonnet of an aged sedan. Both drivers sat behind their wheels, sweating and glaring at one another while out of work laborers hung out of their tenement windows laughing. The Dark One reached for the radio.
“Dispatch, Dark One approaching Code One Non-Fatal, will supervise until local police take over. The drivers look fine. Over.”
Max finally turned back to the Dark One. “You say they won’t need us,” said Max. “But I’m not thinkin’ of retirement just yet, sir. I’m still a probie, after all.”
image [https://www.blurayauthority.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/madmax4khd_pub.jpg]
The Dark One looked his partner over. Max was young, with short dark hair and clear blue eyes. Though he may have assumed that the Dark One had only been messing with him, his response was sincere.
“Yes… I suppose not,” said the Dark One. “Your probationary period will be over soon, and you’ll be a full-fledged officer. You’re a good driver, Maximillian. Others will soon be coming off probation, too. Rupert. Charles. Young Mister Darryl. Still, you’ve probably gathered by now that Main Force officers often meet with, a-a-ah… unexpected retirement.”
Max suddenly slammed on the brakes and brought them to a sliding stop directly beside the wreck. Traffic ground to a halt, which the Dark One assumed was what Max had wanted. Max prepared to step out, then hesitated.
“Have a bad feeling?” said Max.
“Not at all,” said the Dark One. “It’s just curiosity. Anything can happen.”
Max smiled. “With you in my ear all day? All that “training”? Not likely.”
They both stepped out of their Interceptor, and once again the Dark One felt eyes turning in their direction. He glanced over at the Emporium Mall, a string of looted buildings with blown-out windows all along Bourke. In the shadow of the Mall there were rows of outdoor cooking stalls, cigarette vendors, and dingy bars protected by local tough guys. The parking lots were full of day-drinking men and rough-looking women staring at them. The Dark One could not tell if they watched him with admiration, resentment, or a mixture of both.
image [https://pics.imcdb.org/0is386/inter10010238gg.637.jpg]
He knew that even normal people pushed to joblessness and desperation would be tempted to steal, or at least strip down, a vehicle like his. As Main Force Patrol officers, he and his partner were assigned an Interceptor - a modified Ford Falcon XB sedan with a flashy yellow paint job highlighted with angled stripes of blue and red. Despite being a four-door, the short back end and bonnet scoop gave the Interceptor a sleek, dangerous look, as if she was made for speed. Speed was a necessity against modern-day thrill seekers and nihilistic gloryroaders, and in the year since their founding, the MFP had become symbols of order in a world careening toward disorder. The Dark One straightened his black leather jacket against his blue t-shirt, then caught Max’s eye.
“Stay by the Interceptor, and keep an eye on that lot across the street,” said the Dark One.
Max looked over his shoulder, his gaze finally falling on a woman with a big belly sitting on the lap of a man tapping a bottle of whiskey against his upturned bucket seat. Max furrowed his brow.
“They could be lookouts,” said The Dark One. “They’ve been watching this wrecked delivery truck, and now they could earn some favors by letting someone know an Interceptor is parked right here at their front door, ready to get nicked or stripped.”
“Ah,” said Max, nodding in understanding. “Right.”
Max leaned against the Interceptor, taking in the scene while his partner approached the wreck. He could hardly hear their conversation over the boys laughing from the tenement windows.
“Here’s what happened, officer!” the delivery truck driver shouted from his window. “He come flying out of that parking lot, and-”
“I’m not the man to tell it to,” said the Dark One. “I’m MFP. Just here to make sure nothing bad happens until police and a wrecker arrive.”
“Wrecker’s already here!” the driver said, his face red with exasperation.
“Speak of the devil,” said the Dark One, turning to see, at the end of the street, a dusty wrecker with chipped white paint stopping before the Sun City Credit Union. The Dark One motioned, but the driver hopped out and disappeared within the credit union without a glance in his direction.
“What’s that?” said the Dark One. “Is that Barry in the cab? I wonder why he…”
“Bleedin’ Bronze.”
The Dark One heard the sedan driver mutter the insult under his breath. Turning to look at him, the Dark One saw a small man in a button-up shirt with a combover pressed against his moist head. The man’s mouth fell open, embarrassed at having been overheard. The Dark One strode over to him and leaned against his open window. The driver sat facing forward, swallowed, then looked up at him. Again his mouth fell open, for a cold smile lingered on the Dark One’s face. His casual posture and smile would have seemed polite to anyone looking on, but as the driver looked into the Dark One’s black eyes, he saw something frozen and distant. A sort of inhuman cruelty kept in check only by great effort. The driver’s gaze strayed to the revolver hanging at the Dark One’s hip, and then to the bronze badge on his jacket. Despite the brooding heat of the sun, a chill ran down his neck. Then the Dark One casually tapped the roof of the sedan, breaking the tension.
“A little patience, brother,” said the Dark One, smiling amiably. “All is in order.”
Looking again to see that his friend Barry was sitting in the parked wrecker, the Dark One motioned to Max.
“Stay here, Maximillian,” said the Dark One.
Max nodded and climbed back into the Interceptor. He watched the Dark One making his way down the street, then he turned back to keep an eye on the gathering crowd.
* * *
Barbelon entered the credit union with Curleque behind him. Seeing a security guard with enormous mutton chops watching the line of customers, Barbelon immediately started to turn back. Curleque grabbed his arm and pulled him close.
“Easy, Barbie,” Curleque whispered without moving his chapped lips.
Pretending to scratch his nose, Barbelon muttered, “Th-they have a guard, Curl. We can’t…”
“That’s what I’m here for, Barb.” With a stiff smile at the lunchtime crowd turning to look at him, Curleque added quietly, “Go on, then. Just like we planned. For the Nightrider!”
image [https://i.ytimg.com/vi/-hQt3Wcywhw/maxresdefault.jpg]
Barbelon’s heart was hammering in his chest, and he could feel the sweat pouring down his face. With stiff, awkward steps he approached the lines of customers. Though he had always thought it was a bad idea for Curleque to accompany him, since he looked like a biker nomad with his rough face, wild curly hair, and long dirty jacket, Barbelon had to admit to himself that he stood out, too. He had put together a suit in order to blend in, but his pants were too tight, his jacket was enormous, and with sweat plastering his hair to his head he looked like he had been digging ditches all morning. He was convinced that the guard would draw his pistol at any moment and unload on him. It took every ounce of his willpower to face front, and not stare at the guard with his eyes bugging out.
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Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Curleque standing near a young lady in a gray dress - probably a typist or a clerk - trying to fill out a deposit slip with him breathing down her neck. The rough nomad pulled out a brochure on checking accounts and pretended to study it, then adjusted the gun hiding under his long jacket. Barbelon’s stomach turned a backflip as he wondered how Curleque could be so bloody obvious, and yet not even break a sweat.
The line moved, and when Barbelon turned to face the front, he saw his uncle staring at him. Joseph Grassman, his mother’s brother, was a manager of the credit union, and while he looked the part in his neat gray suit and red bowtie, his face was a beet-red mask failing to hide the anxiety bouncing around in his head. Barbelon looked away, and his uncle did the same. They did not acknowledge one another.
image [https://images2.imgbox.com/46/f8/2jzdKk2N_o.jpg]
Barbelon noticed one of the tellers, a cute girl with red hair, glancing at Mister Grassman uncomfortably before turning to her next customer. Barbelon guessed that Grassman most likely did not make a habit of hanging out behind his employees, and was making them nervous by doing so today. Barbelon reasoned they would be lucky to pull this off, what with his uncle raining sweat on his employees, and a wild, stinking nomad staring people down while thumbing through brochures.
The person in front of Barbelon pocketed his money and left, and the red-haired teller smiled and gestured for Barbelon to approach. His heart slammed against his ribs as he stepped toward the counter.
“What can I help ya with, sir?”
Barbelon did not respond, but removed a sweat-slick piece of paper from his pocket and slid it across the counter. He stood as still as stone while the teller turned the paper around and read it.
PUT MONEY IN BAGS
SAY NOTHING
I HAVE A GUN
The teller’s mouth slowly parted. When she lifted her gaze to Barbelon, she saw him pulling two thin, ratty duffel bags out of his inner jacket pocket before subtly pushing them toward her. He took a deep breath as their eyes met.
“Oh, my God! We are being robbed!” said Mister Grassman, sounding as if he was reading a line from a play he had memorized. Conversations stopped abruptly, and Mister Grassman spread his hands awkwardly. “Please remain calm, everyone,” he continued. “If we go along with this young man’s demands, I’m sure he won’t do anything rash. Doris, would you please?”
The teller looked back at Grassman, her face flush with fear. She nodded, then took the bags and leaned under her counter. Barbelon’s ears burned. Turning to look at the customers standing in line, he was satisfied to see them quickly turn their gaze toward the ground. He began to wonder if they might just pull this off after all. He let out a deep breath.
Then he heard a familiar horn honking outside.
“Bronze is here!” Curleque shouted loud enough that Barbelon nearly leaped out of his skin. The nomad’s eyes bugged out, and following his gaze, Barbelon saw that he was right - a Main Force Patrol officer was crossing the street and stalking toward the entrance with a determined gait. His dark, wavy hair tossed in the breeze. Barbelon’s mouth fell open.
“Oi, here now!” said the security guard. “Let’s… let’s not… get worked up, like…”
Curleque turned wild-eyed toward the stammering guard. Barbelon had spent a lot of time thinking about what could go wrong during a bank robbery, but even in his worst nightmares he would not have imagined a Bronze appearing out of thin air within seconds of the teller reading the note. If Barbelon was hoping that Curleque would be able to smooth things over, he was dreadfully mistaken, for his teammate flung open his long jacket, revealing a sawed-off Baikal double-barrel shotgun hanging from a thin rope tied around his shoulder. The guard went for his pistol as Curleque took aim.
“For the Nightrider!” Curleque screamed, then pulled the trigger.
* * *
“Oi! Wreck’s down the street!”
Barry jumped in alarm, then sighed when he realized it was only the Dark One pulling his leg. “Me mate’s not on d-duty, Dark One,” said Barry, leaning out of the passenger-side window of the wrecker. “We were just c-comin’ out for a b-bite…”
image [https://www.tafce.com/images/e/ec/Underground_Mechanic_-_Edited.png]
The Dark One nodded as if he was not really interested in the details. He knew as well as anyone else that wreckers worked in a union. He could only imagine a world in which wreckers raced to get to wrecks, eager to be the first to strip an auto down before the next guy.
The Dark One leaned against the window and looked Barry up and down. Barry was an MFP mechanic, with wild, greasy hair, and a toothy, unsettling grin. Nevertheless, the Dark One always enjoyed seeing him.
“Bartholomew, what’s this I hear about a bunch of new V8s?”
Barry’s smile disappeared, and he looked around uncomfortably. “Don’t kn-know anythin’ about it, mate.”
“Like hell! I heard…” The Dark One winced at the sound of a car horn honking, most likely thanks to the wreck down the street. “I heard Macaffee on the phone talking about some brand new V8s we just acquired, but I didn’t see anything in the garage! Tell me straight, now, Bartholomew.”
“Not brand new - they’re j-junkers,” said Barry, immediately dropping all pretense of secrecy. “But we got three babies with p-potential, if we can scrape together the r-right p-parts!”
The Dark One rubbed his chin, considering the matter. Suddenly feeling the hairs on his neck stand up, the Dark One turned and saw a young man with pink hair staring at him as he tapped on the horn of his baby blue 1976 Mazda 818 coupe. Though the pink-haired youth looked away, the Dark One had already caught the intensity of his stare. His blood suddenly ran cold.
“The bank’s being robbed,” said the Dark One. His words were immediately followed by the demonic bark of a shotgun blast. Barry leaped in his seat and turned toward the credit union, then froze with his arms bent awkwardly. “Gimme the CB, Bartholomew, quick!” said the Dark One, gesturing impatiently at the wrecker’s CB radio.
The credit union’s double doors were flung wide and Barbelon stumbled out with a full bag in one hand and a .44 Magnum revolver in the other. Like a tidal wave Curleque rushed out in a frenzy behind him, with one armed wrapped around his hostage, Mister Grassman. The nomad’s wild eyes immediately fixed on the Dark One.
“Bronze!” he shouted, voice cracking as he leveled his sawed-off at the Dark One.
With preternatural reflexes the Dark One dropped behind the cab of the wrecker and flung open the door. Barry stood staring down the barrel as if frozen, and offered no resistance when the Dark One grabbed his ankle and jerked him half out of his seat just as the shotgun roared, spiderwebbing the windshield and sending up a spray of diamond mist.
“We have to go!” Barbelon shouted. “Let’s go! Come on!”
As Barbelon pushed against Curleque, the big nomad easily pushed him aside. “You’re with Pinko!” he growled, motioning toward the pink-haired man laying on his horn. “I’ll watch after Grassman!”
Barbelon shared a look with his uncle before Curleque dragged him in the opposite direction, his gun leveled at the wrecker. The Dark One drew out his handgun, then hesitated when he saw Curleque dragging a hostage with him. With nowhere else to take cover as Curleque rushed across the street, the Dark One climbed inside the wrecker with Barry, who was currently lying across the seat covered in glass, his eyes glazed over, staring at the roof of the cab.
“You alive, Bartholomew?” said the Dark One.
“I d-don’t know!” said Barry.
The Dark One pushed past Barry and squeezed in behind the steering wheel, watching the two criminals splitting up in two different directions. Young Barbelon in his rumpled suit climbed into a bright blue two-door with the pink-haired man sitting behind the wheel, while a brown four-door pulled up beside Curleque. A woman leaned out of the driver’s side window, her black hair waving wildly as she screamed at Curleque. She fell silent when Curleque threw his bag of money into her face.
“Shove over!” he said, flinging open the driver’s side door.
“I’m being taken hostage!” Mister Grassman cried. Curleque let him go so that he could open the rear door, and the Dark One noticed that the bank manager did not take the opportunity to run when Curleque released him. Finally the wild nomad grabbed Grassman and shoved him into the back seat. Grassman held the door open and leaned out, shouting, “Please don’t shoot, I’m not involved with these people!” before Curleque shut the door on him.
Curleque fell into the driver’s seat, then peeled out without bothering to shut his door. The Dark One’s heart dropped when he saw the other car, the baby blue coupe, tear across the street in the other direction.
“I-is it over?” said Barry. “Juh-Juh-Jesus…”
“Get up, Bartholomew, and get in contact with MFP Dispatch!” said the Dark One, starting the wrecker and throwing her into gear. “And strap in!”
* * *
Max’s attention was pulled away from the man arguing with him when he heard the tortured wail of shrieking tires. He cracked open the Interceptor’s door and set one foot on the ground so that he could get a better look, then watched in disbelief as a baby blue two-door barreled toward him. Approaching the traffic jam created by the wreck, it turned, tore across a small parking lot, then raced over the sidewalk.
Max waved at the people gathered on the street, shouting, “Move! Move!” as the coupe revved its engine. People ran leaping out of the way, and Max locked eyes with the driver. The pink-haired man leaned against the steering wheel, smiling slightly as he tore past. A man in a rumpled suit sat beside him, gripping a bag of cash as if it were a life preserver.
In a moment of cold horror Max heard a dull impact, then saw a couple hit the ground as the coupe raced past. In a wave of dust and papers a man lay on the ground, his teeth gritted in pain, while a young woman lay motionless beside him, the hem of her dress waving in the breeze. Max’s jaw clenched shut. The sound of the engine grew dim, and was replaced by crying and screaming.
“Maximilian!”
Max turned at the sound of the Dark One’s voice, and saw him waving from the window of a wrecking truck.
“You get that one! Follow that one!” the Dark One shouted. He suddenly peeled out, racing in the other direction.
Max flung himself into the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut. Activating his siren, he shifted into gear and jerked the wheel. The tires screamed as he tore away from the wreck, determined to make the offenders pay.