We’ve been doing these for a year now, and while Raymond doesn’t always get them finished it is getting easier to write something. This is what we created based on this stimulus.
Tell us what you thought of this one, and don’t forget to check in at the beginning of each month to see new challenges!
Wolves Of War
Orange rocks rise from a sea of red sand, a vast emptiness. A rust stained river of black highway cuts through the ocher void. Standing on the beach of an desert island a figure seemingly made of leather and metal, strapped with weapons. Lounging on the sand nearby a working dog, wrapped in armour and sporting a gas mask.
Human peers through salvaged binoculars, pressing them against the war mask that hides them from the world. Down the path, riding the river the cuts the sea; a patch work car. A small body riding on massive wheels, rusting exhausts and a towering engine block. It’s ultramarine paint job stands out against the red sand, and contrasts against the green plating of the figure and the dog.
“Mayhem.” The sound scratches it’s way out of the their throat and the dogs ears twitch in the olive sleeves. The hound scrambles to her feet, shaking the rusty dust from her studded coat. Through the tinted lenses of her gas mask she looks to her partner. The human silently checks the sawn-off before tapping the motorcycle that sits between them. The cracking faux-leather of the seat flakes as Mayhem jumps aboard. The masked man unclips the mask from the dog, stuffing it into a pouch along with their binoculars. They climb aboard the machine, sliding their shotgun into a stained piece of plastic pipe bolted to the front of the bike. Hands grip the controls tightly, triggers squeeze and pedals kick.
The tired old motor sputters and creaks to life as the two roll gently forwards. Beneath the twisted skeletal war mask, scarred and tattered lips whisper. “Cry Havoc…” The scream of the engine rips through the empty sands as the pair bolt forward, turning sand into cloud. The blue car spots them and knows they’re in for a fight. Rusted old long arms jut out of the side window as the couriers within try to land shots on the riders.
Weak bullets, barely able to fly splash of the thick plates of the rider. Mayhem’s claws dig into the seat as they close the gap. The rider pulls their weapon, emptying both barrels into the side of the car. Steel needles shredding the thin metal of the door, and cutting into the flesh cowering behind it.
The bike hits tarmac as man, dog, and machine curve to fall in line behind the blue beast. The shotgun is slammed back into the pipe, as Mayhem clambers up the riders back. Paws grip tightly, legs loaded like springs. The space between car and bike closes to almost nothing and canine launches itself up into the back window just as the crew within are starting to recover from flechette storm. A man loses a throat, someone’s hand follows. Rider screams up the side of the beast..
The engine roars as the rider pulls a pistol from their waist, one hand still on the handle. A high pitched klaxon blares from the front of the bike. Mayhem is already scrambling out the nearest window. The rider just manages to spot the dog as it get’s ready to leap back onto the bike. The klaxon sounds again, followed by a voice.
“We are Havoc and Mayhem, we do not want your cargo. We do not want your fuel. We are the last children of the WarWolves. All we want is your lives.”
As the words snap off a hail of bullets eject forward from Havoc’s pistol shredding the cab of the Blue Beast and whatever remains of it’s crew. Mayhem leaping from the vehicle into the nearby sand. They have done their duty, they have avenged another of the fallen.