Toward the we go.

“Shit,” you mutter as you veer left and move down to the noise. You really hoped this wasn’t more trouble than it was. Bandits were an issue, but you knew what your real problem was. Yourself.

You had a nasty habit of trying to throw yourself into shitty situations to help people out. Your mother called it “having a big heart”. You called it “nearly getting yourself and your old group killed too many fucking times”.

You hold the rifle close and frown under your goggles. The gang had beaten that habit out of you over the years, with words and fists alike. But they weren’t here anymore. And the only one left to stop you now was you.

You shake these thoughts off as you move up ahead, where the pollen-ridden winds are raging through the broken car windows, of which there were many. You recognized this scene - you’d seen it too many times before. Cars piled up in lines, all throughout the once crowded streets, half open and frozen in the moment their owners had seen the bombs drop and tried in vain to outrun the devolver mists. They’d all be cavemen now, hanging in the vines and caverns of the tall buildings above.

The sounds become clearer and you lower yourself to the ground, finally thankful for the shitty winds for muffling your sounds.

Just ahead, in a clearing in the street where something big had knocked many of the cars aside years ago, you saw a grey van, big and chunky, turned on its side. Behind it, a man yelling and blind-firing rounds from a pistol at the shouting men that surrounded it.

It was a sight you knew all too well. Flag-bearing bikes and cars with thick blades for bumpers surrounded the van in a haphazard semicircle, and three men leered and roared, firing rifles at the upturned van.

“Fuck,” you murmur. You should've known better. This wasn’t a fight against some dinosaurs or cavies, it was just an old-fashioned bandit raid.