Rules of the Road

1. The city-states are the Law and obey the rules in their territories.

2. If you see a Rig broken down on the road, always try to help.

3. Always protect your cargo no matter what

4. Help stranded people near your route, don’t go out of your way.

5. Never trade away the cargo for a better price, adhere to your contracts.

6. Vehicles outside City-State jurisdiction with no, or dead occupants are fair and legitimate salvage.

7. Never stop moving on shifting soils.

8. Outside of the City States, homicide is legal.

9. Make sure you are safe at night.

10. Remember, fuel, water, and ammo, in that order.

Prologue

A man and his machine

The ‘fore times were long gone, no more than mere legends of civilization that once flourished worldwide. Now, people live in the Tense. It’s a tremulous time filled with terrors unseen by all walks of life, yet it’s a time of comradery as well. Whether you were a member of society or a raider leeching off it. No one made it in this world alone—save for, arguably—the Runners: those who transported everything society needed and bet their lives on their Rigs to do so.

In the vastness of the never-ending desert, a small Free Town held its ground next to the much larger stretch of the winding interstate. Most Free-Towns survived off the constant traffic that passed alongside the main roads that were still intact. Much like in the ‘fore times, the interstates were still used and maintained to keep what was left of the United States alive. This town was a small affair; its only major attraction was the gas station and diner all rolled into one. A lone wanderer walked towards the diner, his shadow nonexistent in the noonday sun.

Out front, a small sign hung from a rusty hook. It squeaked in the light, dusty breeze as it boldly advertised: "The best food you will find west of Horizon Visions!" The sign as well as the diner were chipped with age—mottled with the duress of standing against the elements—much like the townsfolk of this quiet settlement. Despite the law of the land forbidding violence within 8 miles of the town center, citizens watched from sidewalks and porches, eyes wary, as the stranger walked through town. The hazy dust filled air swirled around the stranger, pushing him towards the diner.

As the man approached, the entry door opened with a bell's naïve jingle, and a large figure stepped outside. Taking up the entire width of the door frame and stooping so as not to bash his head on the lintel, the heavyset Ork muttered under his breath about the price of gas and bullets. He lifted a dark-green hand, nearly hitting one of the sizable tusks protruding from his lower jaw as he shielded his black eyes from the morning sun. It illuminated his ragged, ill-fitting clothes. Taking a step down the rickety stairs, moving away from the diner, the door swinging shut behind him. It cut off the sounds of laughter and choppy country music coming from within. The Ork paused on his way down the steps as he narrowly eyed the unfamiliar man. The man, in turn, stopped at the foot of the stairs, at an impasse with the Ork blocking the way up.

“What do you want, runt?” The Ork bellowed, his voice a deep rumble.

The smaller man looked up, tipping back his worn ball cap, the words all but faded from the fabric. The Ork’s eyes widened, and a huge grin spread across his worn face.

“I’ll be damned, is that you, Briggs? What in the Wastes brings you to our humble little Free-Town?”

Briggs was not a man that really stood out from the crowd. He didn’t look like anyone special, he didn’t have large muscles, or tusks, or carapace-like skin. He was just a human in a world that was populated by multiple sentient species. They called them ab-humans, or ‘abs’ for short. Other than being a mere human, he stood just over six feet two. Sandy brown hair poked from his cap, and his beard looked like copper wire in all but texture. Scars poked from just under his shirt, and his faded emerald eyes were speckled with bits of brown—two features commonly mentioned when asked to describe him… Depending on who you asked. His trench coat hid most of his features, but a faded shotgun on a shoulder sling poked out. He could have hidden it from view, but when it came to Iron Statue Free-Town, it was better to show you were armed. Made for friendlier conversations.

“So, I have to ask… Hank, is it?” The Ork nodded as Briggs spoke. “I just really have one question to ask you. Is the food any good? It’s been a minute since I’ve been to town. Even more-so, I’d forgotten your name.” Briggs rubbed the back of his head sheepishly.

Hank guffawed, tilting his head back, letting his peals of laughter echo in the early morning hours of the Free-Town.

“It’s better than what you’ll find out there Runner. So, eat up!” He looked around, not seeing the man’s rig. “Where’d you park the Long Haul? I’d love to see it again. I know–before you say anything. She’s too big to fit on our humble main street.”

“Not that it’s any concern of yours, Hank, but I parked it where it’ll be safe. I brought my buggy into town. Don’t want people getting any ideas about… liberating my cargo.”

Hank smiled at Briggs, then the bulk of an Ork moved aside to let the man pass.

“You stay safe out there, Briggs, you know how important you Runners are to our survival.” Hank smiled, patting the man’s shoulder as he passed by. “Keep on truckin’, my friend, and thanks again for bringing my family those weapons. It’s helped keep the town safe as of late.” Hank reached into his pocket and pulled out a tarnished star that read ‘Sheriff” and pinned it to his shirt. Briggs hit the top of the stairs to the diner and paused.

“You’re welcome, Sheriff, I’m just trying to help keep the peace. Have a great rest of your day. I’ll be out of your hair, and your lovely town, before the sun’s all the way up.”

Hank tipped his non-existing hat to Briggs, then went on his merry way. It was always good to run into a friend. Those were few and far between when it came to being a Runner.

Briggs entered the diner and found himself an empty booth to settle into. It seemed like the place was jammed with visitors. He saw all sorts of life in Free-Towns, from Scavs to Runners, to just local people. There were also more Ab-Humans than he was used to: Hunds, Wulvens, even a few Gobbos sitting at the bar. That was the beauty of a Free-Town: everyone was welcome, and violence was met with violence. So, if you stayed on your best behavior, you were good to go. Otherwise, you were dead.

Briggs took off his hat and looked at a menu, printed on a simple three by five card. It was sparse, to say the least. He waved down a waitress who came over and took his order. He tried not to chuckle as the adorable Hund woman took his order. She looked like a border collie breed of Hund; her dog ears were perky, and her waitress outfit fit her curves perfectly. He even got the gal to smile, her toothy grin making her lightly pant past her muzzle.

Briggs shook his head as she went to put his order in; even after everything humanity had done, to the world, to itself, there were always some constant factors in the Universe. Water would be wet, the Wastes would be a deathtrap, and for some reason, there would always be a woman named Deloris who worked at a diner. Briggs’s eyes wandered around the interior of the diner, and found it to be a mess of a place. The walls were festooned with lost signage from the ‘fore times’, indicating that you should buy items that were long gone, for problems that no longer existed. Who needed soap that made your shirts ‘whiter than the competition’? Did white shirts deflect bullets? He didn’t think so. Other pieces of Americana were scattered haphazardly about, but the one thing that stood out was a new piece of metal mounted on the far wall. It was a faded green road sign, with a new message painted on it.

“We all live in the ‘Tense, no sense in worrying about the past.” Briggs mumbled as he read it. It was a good message: just survive till you see the next sunrise. Seemed like a good bit of cheery imagery, in this otherwise terrible world.

Deloris came back and dropped off his order, steak and eggs. Briggs nodded his thanks and tucked into his meal. It was one of the better cuts of meat that he had tasted in the last month. He hoped that this steak was from a cow, or at least cow adjacent. Too many times he had to rely on hunting the horrors of the Wastes to survive.

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He finished his meal and left a few coins on the table. The mottled silver and bronze credit coins glittered in the rising sunlight. He had already spent enough time in the Free-Town, he had to get back to his Rig, or else he might be late for Horizon Visions. Couldn’t have that.

He waved to a few citizens, making small polite conversation where possible. He tried to be a friendly sort, until he was pushed– then it was anyone’s guess. After leaving the town, he rounded the corner of a destroyed motel, and caught sight of his little, short-range dune buggy. It wasn’t anything special; a car frame, exposed engine, and two bucket seats. Everything else was optional. There were no doors, nor a roof, but he did manage to find a large steamer trunk to hook onto the back.

Currently, though, two men were trying to hot-wire his beloved little buggy, and the law was nowhere to be seen. Briggs decided to let these thieves explain themselves, however, he racked a shell into his shotgun to let his intentions be known.

Both men’s heads jerked towards him, all four eyes going wide. One of them dropped a pry bar, which clanged onto the side of the buggy, then rolled onto the pavement of the parking lot. One of them was an Ab-Human, a Silvannis. Briggs hadn’t seen one of the lizard folks in a long time. The creatures’ features were a mix of lizard and human, with neither one getting the upper hand. They were one of the more resilient races that could withstand the scorching heat of the Wastes. From their pointed snouts to the cobra-like hoods framed their faces, they were truly an alien-looking race.

Briggs walked up calmly to the two vandals. His beloved shotgun leveled between them. He stopped just outside of arm's reach.

“Gentlemen, how may I help you on this fine day? Perhaps you need a ride outside of town?” He moved the barrel of his shotgun back and forth between the two offenders. “Maybe to a shallow and early grave?” Briggs intoned, conversationally.

Both men looked at each other, their eyes silently communicating the peril they found themselves in. Briggs picked up on it, he moved his shotgun slowly back and forth between the two of them. The robbers didn’t recognize the make of shotgun Briggs wielded, but Briggs knew it inside and out. His shotgun was the closest thing Briggs had to a lover, a confidant. Briggs heard stories about people naming their weapons that they treasured the most. However, after ruminating on the idea, Briggs worried that even more City-State dwellers would look at him with worried eyes. If he started calling an intimate object, “The Destroyer,” or something similar, he worried that no one would ever do business with him again. Luckily, his shotgun was a Benelli Model Eight, or an M8 for short. It was one of the few shotguns the ancients made that was both pump-action and semi-automatic. He had taken years to make the gun his own. It had a Picatinny rail system that ran alongside the sides of the gun, ending just short of the barrel. He’d thought about changing the iron sight into something more technologically advanced, such as a red dot or a refactor sight. In the end, he kept it simple, but it was a step up from just a BB soldered on the end of the gun. These iron sights could be adjusted to go as far as two-hundred yards. Though he doubted that he could even hit something that far away, and with any, accuracy. At the end of his gun, it was festooned with two aftermarket additions. There was a tactical light attached to the left side. The barrel was outfitted with a two-inch extender meant for breaching doors. Most of the time, if you just buried the barrel of a shotgun against a door frame and fired, all that you would get would be a semi-opened door and a ruined shotgun. That was not the case with Briggs’s gun. This gun had seen much of his time on the road, and the amount of people he had sent to an early grave was beyond count. His gun was the one constant in his life, and it never failed him.

“Ok, look, I know what you’re both thinking: Two of us, one of him. Easy pickings. That’s where you’re wrong, my friends. Now, I don’t want to kill you two. For all I know, both of you could be upstanding citizens. But…” He looked at the human raider first, then at the Silvannis. “Do either of you know the rules of the road?”

Both men shook their heads vehemently, neither one of them taking their eyes off of the shotgun. The gun’s menacing aura couldn’t be ignored. The chipping on the blued metal showed off its battle-scars.

“That’s a pity,” Briggs said, tutting. “Because if you did know the rules of the road, then Number Six might have spared you this undue encounter. So, I will just paraphrase it for you, since you both seemed to be in a bit of a hurry. Rule Six simply states, ‘If there is no occupant, or a dead occupant, outside of legal town limits, then that vehicle is deemed ‘Legitimate Salvage’ and can be occupied by a new owner.’ Now, as you both can see, I am neither dead nor is my buggy outside city limits. Which makes you both…bandits.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” the Silvannis hissed, “you know that you can’t kill anyone in a Free-Town. It’s a neutral space, where we all can trade and live. We’ve done nothing wrong.”

Briggs watched the two men; the human was the first to make a move, his left hand going for something behind his back. Briggs’ face cracked a smile, cold and sad, then squeezed the trigger. The boom of the shotgun echoed into the sky, and all around the motel. The human bandit’s chest exploded into a blossom of bone, blood, and viscera. He pointed the shotgun at the Silvannis in a smooth motion. Briggs didn’t even blink.

“Now…before you think that you have a chance to rush me, I’ll let you in on a little secret. This is what’s called a semi-auto shotgun. Meaning, among other things, I don’t need to pump it to put another shell in the chamber. It’s just ready to go. It’s a great little tool for dealing with roadside–nuisances.”

Both men stood there, waiting for the other to make a move. Then Briggs moved. He slowly pulled the shotgun to his chest and shouldered it. Looking at the Lizard folk, he jerked his head sideways, in the universal sign for ‘Get Lost’. The man looked dumbfounded, then ran towards the town square. Briggs shouldered his shotgun, its mounted sling letting the weapon slide back into the folds of his trench coat.

Now alone, Briggs walked up towards the still-cooling body, and with a grunt, flipped him over onto his stomach. There was a revolver tucked into the man’s pants. He removed it easily and opened the cylinder with an easy flick of his wrist. The six chambers held only half as many rounds, and one of them was already spent.

You gotta be kidding me, what was going to happen if you fired twice and ran out of luck? Throw the stupid thing at me? He had seen most of what the Wastes had to offer. It still shocked him to the core that Scavs in general were just so…stupid. You had to think of every possible scenario when it came to robbing, or stealing. In this case, he thought that two bullets would be enough to secure himself a grand payday. Instead, all it secured him was an early grave.

He tossed the revolver into the steamer trunk, then stripped the man of all his worldly possessions. He left the naked corpse for the vultures, or, if the Free-Town wanted him, for composting. It was a coin toss on what would find him first.

A quick flick of his keys and the buggy roared to life. Briggs noted, with some humor, that the steering column was still in one piece. Those would be thieves hadn’t even been able to get at the buggy’s internal wiring. Chuckling to himself, he left the parking lot and headed outside the Free-Town, the sound of the engine shaking the morbid thoughts of the bandits from his mind. Life was hard out in the wastes. You learned to compartmentalize thoughts about the dead real quick. He maneuvered the buggy around the burnt-out and weather-beaten wreck of a car– or at least it looked like a car. Before long he was already by the last vestiges of civilization and was out in the unforgiving sands of the Wastes. The scenery didn’t change much—buildings and streets were replaced with sand, shrubs, small hills, and lots of rock. Briggs pushed the buggy hard and felt the wind whip in his face. Sand and dirt scoured across his weathered skin, his hair and beard flapping in the wind. It was a harsh feeling, but so was the rest of the world, harsh and unforgiving. He rounded a large bluff, driving into the shadow of the monument to nature. In this shadow-filled abyss, he’d parked the Long Haul.

A sense of relief washed over him as his Rig came into view. The Long Haul always gave him a sense of coming home. It stood over thirty-five feet in height and seventy feet long. Then there were the extra trailers he had made and some for hauling. When combined, the length was somewhere close to two hundred and thirty feet in length. His Rig and its two extra trailers looked like several greenish-gray bricks sitting in a line, like something you would find hauling ore out of a strip-mining operation. It was more than just that; with its powerful engine, it could haul more weight than anyone could fathom, and it wasn’t even the largest Rig out there. It filled him with a sense of pride for all the work he had done. His rolling fortress, his Rig, his… Long Haul.

Briggs pulled the buggy toward the third car. The buggy bounced on the uneven ground as the shade from the underside of the trailer washed over him. Reaching up towards the driver’s door, Briggs started to enter an eight digit sequence into his ramp opening transmitter. The transmitter was nothing special, it was a Numpad he had repurposed off an old ATM. Once the internal chip recognized the proper code, it sent a short signal out to the ramp opening receiver. The hydraulic ramp descending to allow him entry into his makeshift garage. When his buggy cleared the top of the ramp, the front wheel tripped a small laser sensor. The sensor triggered the same hydraulic mechanism that then allowed the ramp to close. Safe. Efficient. Easily handleable by one man. After bringing the buggy to a stop, he turned off the engine and strapped the vehicle down for transport. The yellow and orange ratchet straps were pulled tight to avoid any shifting during road travel. Once that was done, he moved on to stowing all his gear and emptying the steamer trunk.

After reaching the driver's cab, his Rig roared to life, scattering smaller wildlife around it from the sudden noise.

“Back to work,” Briggs intoned to himself. He did not want to be late to Horizon Visions, and he had to make up some time.