➥ "AND HE WAS HERE WHEN THE BOMBS DROPPED." | MAD MAX AU | OTA

[nestingdevil]

They all know what it means when it starts. The thudding drone of bass from deep in the recesses of Vacant City, the too-deep sigh of bone-dry cogs choking with protest. The melody grows as more and more come to the call. With their instruments of choice, let it be a wrench in hand or a couple of long, plastic pipes they've saved for such an occasion. The noise hums harmonious as the seconds pass and from the lowly hull of a not-so-vacant ship, a red glow begins to hum.

It's Finders Day.

Misshapen cars, trucks and motorcycles swing in black-steel cages - like starved victims of a medieval torture room. The procession causing chrome and steel to strike angrily at the late-night sky; a consistent blue-black with metallic grimaces. Those who reside in Vacant City know who they belong to, but unlike many of the self-crowned kings of the Wastes, there's an understanding here. A residual nod that each and everyone shares:

Monsters came in all shapes and sizes in the Wasteland. But some were far more giving than others.

Flares ignite down below in a flurry of red-hot pink and carbonizing smoke. Finders Day always comes at the Crow's Hour. When supplies are minimal, but the prospects are high. It could be the next day, a month from now, longer - but it always seems to fall whenever one very signature car disappears in the morning haze. Gone for hours, it seems, then back again. With the same uttered promise that far too many have heard before:

"Nothing wrong with too much hope now, is there?"

Ragged families scurry out of their makeshift homes towering up above and small children leer dangerously on jagged pikes of gnarled wire and iron. It is a spectacle to uphold, that's true. But not just for the line up of steel horses or the quickly-smeared oil paint that comes in feverish excitement. It also means food, water, liquor, and anything else those of The Devil's Nest gang can get their hands on.

Which usually is plenty.

Cages bang loudly on sand-soaked metal planks and chains fall with the weight no longer holding them. In hypnotizing flutters of flares, there's movement; not unlike shadowy fish schooling upon an inexperienced swimmer. Roofs are banged, doors are torn open. And the roar of engines starts quickly, nearly deafening out the constant rhythm wafting in from no where and everywhere all at once.

A squad of cycles, cars, and one, lumbering truck head the procession. A pack of wolves composed of red-peppered chrome and dust-caked wheel-wells. Angry smoke and diesel lifts into the tight enclosure, temporarily blocking out the white-wax wane of a late moon.

No one knows the exact story and the rumors have been endless. Told by campfire, whispered in the shadowy depths of a half-holding building. "They were here when buildings rose and people lived. They were here when you could see yourself in a million mirrors and never look once. They were here when food was in a great safe and you could have your fill."

"And he was here when the bombs dropped."