Mad Max Villains

Mad Max Villains

You see! There is no escape! The Humungus Rules the Wasteland!

Chapter Five

Race with the Devil

(Words & Music by: Halford, Tipton & Downing)

You'd better run
You'd better run
You'd better run from the Devil's gun

The race is on
The race is on
Now you'd better run from the Devil's gun

Strange things happen
If you stay
The Devil will catch you anyway
He'll seek you here
He'll seek you there
The Devil will seek you everywhere

And when he finds you
You'll soon find out
The Devil's fire just won't go out
He burns you up
From head to toe
The Devil's grip just won't let go
~~~

A year. A goddamn year he spent in the hole. He had no contact with the other prisoners, no word about the outside. He had nothing to pass the time with so he spent solitary in his head. And for a year the vixen's betrayal played over and over through his mind. He refused to think of the sensual sex. Nor did he let himself remember the kitten's purrs and the keening look in the minx's evergreen eyes, yielding to his touch.

Never again. Never again would he ever trust another bitch laying under him. Never again would he second-guess his feelings. Never again would he give an inch to the using, fair-haired lasses. Mount and toss, that's all those sluts deserved! And death!

They deserved whatever he fed them. No mercy. Never again would he show an ounce of mercy to anyone. If someone was stupid enough to cross his path, any piece of life that dared to step in front of him, they'd die by his hand after being tortured to a slow death.

No more feeling! No more thinking! And by god's, he'd find a way out of here. He would get out of here. He refused to let that bitch bask in the freedom the minx robbed him of. Oh, he'd find that slut. He'd hunt that deceiving bitch down even if it took the rest of his life to accomplish such a feat. He would not rest until he had that cunning blond underneath him, viciously raping that body and then torturing the hellcat to death.

*****

Alexander kicked the blond out of his bed and the boy gave a soft cry, landing on the hard cement. "I'm finished with you. Get out of here."

The boy obeyed and hurriedly left the cell while trying to don his uniform.

Just then Roger entered the cell.

"Soon," Alexander whispered. "Been a year now since we out of solitary. Guards grow lax and no longer watch us like hawks."

Roger nodded his head. In a way, he was thankful the big guy no longer had a bitch. Now Alexander possessed a harem of the six most prettiest lads, taking his turn mounting each one, then sending the slaves on their way. It was the only way to live. He knew his leader learned a big lesson when it came to the blond beauties. He also knew they had no choice but to escape. They had marked their seventeenth birthdays and upon turning eighteen, they'd be transferred to an adult prison.

"Any word?" Alexander asked as he began yanking on his uniform.

"None," Roger replied since he just finished talking with their contact who always had information on the outside. "I say let it go. He not worth it. Probably dead by now, anyway."

"He's not dead," Alexander growled as he stood, zippering the garment. "I know he alive."

Roger shook his head in frustration. Dammit, if they managed to get out of here, and then spent their time on the outside hunting down Iason, they'd most likely end up back in the slammer. Fuck, he wished Alexander would just forget about the deceiving bitch.

"Someone will ice him sooner or later," Roger muttered. "He have no loyalty. He fuck over too many people. You probably not the only one who hunt him down. I bet many hunt him down right now, wanting to settle old scores."

Alexander nodded his head in agreement. "If someone ice him, that person die by my hand for robbing me of vengeance!"

*****

"Many are speculating the death of the local business man is a result of a potential serial killer," the newsman announced. "Martin Nelson, thirty, of Wyatt Heights, was found dead in his car without his pants, just like the last five murders over the past two years. These murders began in Vanna City, leading west through smaller towns and ending at Wyatt Heights. Each victim was viciously lashed with a bullwhip to their deaths and then robbed. Each victim's car was found in the red light districts, where many young female and male prostitutes congregate.

"The MFP suspect this juvenile could be responsible for the murders," the newsman continued on. Just then the blond minx's mug shot flashed to the right of the t.v. screen. "Two years ago, Iason Manning, now sixteen, escaped from Highlands Juvenile Correctional Facility after murdering a guard in cold blood. Two other accomplices were captured but Manning still remains at large.

"If anyone has any information, please contact your local authorities. Do not try to and apprehend Manning. He is considered armed and extremely dangerous."

Alexander grunted. He rose off the chair and left the t.v. room when news of the cold war came on. He gave a snort, damn idiots. They'd been hollering about a war for over five years now.

He shook his head in disgust. Bah, armed and dangerous. Serial killer. Damn news people always made a big deal out of nonsense. He already knew where the vixen intended on making his way to: the wasteland. After all those murders and instead of laying low, the stupid minx was killing his way through the main cities. The heat was on. The bitch would have to lay low now.

He almost wanted to laugh at the way the press portrayed the minx. The sassy blond wasn't some insane killer. Nor was the bitch dangerous. If they wanted to see a bastard who fit that description, they could look in his cell. That's where they'd find a dangerous animal. They were chasing but a kitten, nothing more.

And he had enough of this shit hole. He was getting out and heading for the wastelands to find that minx and murder the bitch.

Alexander Wessex was dead as far as he was concerned. A new name, a new persona was a must. And out in the wasteland, the sassy blond would be in a race with the devil.

*****

"It's everyone for himself," Alexander grunted. "You want out, then do your job and do it well."

The ten teenagers nodded their heads.

Everyone rose off the cement padding and began immersing themselves in a game of basketball. The afternoon was perfect. The wind howled slightly. The sky was overcast and there was a chill in the air - such a mood was right for what they were about to do.

Mark, the pretty blond, took his cue, clutching his stomach as he fell to the concrete.

"Get up," the guard snarled.

"Help," Mark moaned as he rolled on his front. "Help."

"I said get up," the guard repeated.

Mark still didn't get up.

The guard motioned at the other who stepped forward to assist the young blond.

Just then Terry made his move, sending a kick to the guard's gut. The man fell over Mark.

The other guard raised his firearm and Alexander snaked along the fence, coming up behind the guard as he grabbed the rifle, drawing the weapon against the guard's neck. Roger now lifted the other guard's gun, aiming the barrel on the man's temple.

The watch tower guards began sounding the alarm. More guards began moving about the area.

Alexander hurried inside since the main gate was beginning to close. Roger, Terry and Mark followed them. Rifles were being fired and the gate closed. They were back inside the prison.

Roger grinned when he saw the three rookie guards scurrying into the holding block. He raised the gun, easily firing four rounds, taking out the guards' kneecaps. The men fell to the floor, withering in pain.

"Take them," Roger hollered as he continued to struggle with the other guard.

Mark and Terry obeyed. They began dragging the guards to the cell area.

Alexander viciously pushed the guard he held into his own cell. Roger followed and shoved the other guard inside. Now the stand-off would commence. They'd bring in the good ole negotiators. He looked to Roger, casting his right-hand his malicious grin.

*****

Terry and Mark continued to walk up and down the cell block, both armed with rifles. Alexander and Roger sat on the bench. The stand-off had been going on for two days. Finally, they made some progress after blowing off the one guard's hands and tossing the appendages outside so the warden knew they were serious.

The phone rang once again. Alexander moved his eyes to the phone.

Roger picked up the receiver. "Yeah," he grunted.

"You can't keep this up," the negotiator coolly said. "You know it's a lost cause. Just set the guards free and we'll talk."

"Fuck you," Roger snarled. "Nobody gettin' out of here alive. Said twice now we want a car."

"Give me a second," the negotiator replied.

Roger realized he was put on hold.

"What he say?" Alexander asked.

Roger covered the mouth-piece with his hand. "Put me on hold. Think they're gonna do as we say."

"Many tricks," Alexander grunted. "Probably bringing in special forces. Sharpshooters."

Roger nodded his head. "Will probably fix the car. Will probably break down as we try get away."

"Will have to switch vehicles right away," Alexander gruffly noted. "Is best to leave at dusk. Not leave during morning. Dusk. Will have cover of night to hide."

Roger nodded his head.

Just then the negotiator came on line. "Okay," the man said. "It's all set. We'll have a car brought in tomorrow morning."

"Not morning," Roger growled. "This afternoon. At five o'clock. We want the car then or the guards die." He slammed down the phone.

All they had left to do was wait so they spent the better part of the afternoon walking up the cell block, back and forth.

Alexander then motioned for Terry, Mark and Roger. "Special forces will try and pick us off one by one. When leaving, go in single file. Put a guard in front and in back. The wounded guard will bring up the rear since we not have to worry about his attack. Keep the gun on the back of each guard."

Terry, Roger and Mark nodded their heads.

"Okay. The car is ready," came the amplified voice. "You are free to vacate the prison. We want the guards unharmed."

Alexander grunted, motioning with his eyes. It was now or never. Their chances were slim all would get away alive. He knew someone would die, probably Mark or Terry. Oh well, they knew the risks. He wrapped the strap of the rifle around him while he nestled the hand gun against the guard's temple. Roger pushed the other guard against Alexander's back. Terry followed their lead, and the third guard was nestled behind Roger. Mark was last with his guard in front of Terry and the wounded guard brought up the rear.

They left the main area, heading to the lead gate where the road was.

When they stepped outside, Alexander noted how far the car was, sixty steps. Now he focused his attention on the special forces team, noting where each gun man was positioned.

The air was deathly quiet, not a sound made. All Alexander could hear was their shoes connecting against the pavement as they began the walk to the car. Suddenly, the one guard tripped Mark. Then mayhem broke loose when the young blond fell over. Alexander yanked on his guard, using the body as a shield as he hurried for the car. The firing of guns filled the deathly silence.

He still held the guard in front of him as he slid behind the wheel. Roger was beside him. With tires squealing, they shot off down the road, never looking back.

"We gotta dump car right away," Alexander hollered.

Roger nodded his head, leaning out the window, still firing the rifle.

They turned off the main highway, speeding down a dirt road. Dusk was settling. Perfect. Everything was going according to plan since he didn't give two shits they lost Mark and Terry. His adrenaline pumped at full throttle. His eyes were alight as he licked his thin lips. Not since he was eleven did he feel this kind of thrill. For once he was the hunted, and he rather enjoyed this game of cat and mouse. And this time the mouse would prevail.

"Out," Alexander hollered as he yanked the car over. He swiped up the other guns, vacating the vehicle and he hurried for the cover of the trees.

Roger followed.

All that could be heard was their deep breaths as they ran through the forest, the branches and twigs whipping at their faces and arms. Neither flinched or stopped. For a half-hour they continued to run. Finally, once night had fallen, they began making their way out of the forest. They spotted the cottage and hurried to the small house.

They could see the hunter outside, no doubt taking leave from the city so he could have a nice vacation in the wilds.

Alexander never fired the gun when he silently approached the man, not making a sound. He even held his breath. Then he raised the firearm, using all of his brute strength as he slammed the weapon against the man's skull, the victim never seeing death.

Roger tossed the body over his shoulder and they hurried inside the cottage. They made their way to the bedroom, leaving the dead man on the bed. Roger made sure and covered the body with the blankets. Then they went through the dresser, quickly changing their clothes, stealing the dead man's apparel.

Alexander strode to the kitchen and began carefully removing the food from the fridge and pantry. He placed the groceries inside two plastic bags. Then he went through the man's weaponry, grabbing the knife, bullets and two rifles, along with a good helping of ammunition.

Roger had the blankets slung over his shoulder and he held the keys for the truck.

Just as they silently came, they left.

*****

Miles of dirt stretching as far as the eye could see, the hue of burnt orange and rust, covered the area. The sun beat down on the desert plains, heating the scorched earth to an insurmountable temperature. The windows were down on the truck, both soaked with sweat.

They did it. After forty-eight hours of non-stop driving, they were in the wasteland.

Alexander drove the truck with Roger riding shotgun, deftly taking in the area, watching for any sign of life. The minx was out here somewhere, hiding out in the rolling hills of the desert, easily going to surface since the bitch would never be far from any kind of civilization.

He slowed the Ford when he noted the sign. Balmertown fifty kilometers.

It was best to get off the main highway and try another town. The authorities most likely thought they would stop at the first settlement they encountered. Not a chance. They'd sleep out in the open tonight. Best to get used to this kind of living.

So when dusk began to settle, he pulled the truck over behind the rocky hill.

Alexander stepped from the vehicle and began going through the supplies.

Roger began unloading the blankets. He was beat. All they did was sleep and eat in the Ford for two days, both taking turns driving. Now he longed to stretch out his body and doze a full night. And after knowing nothing but the slave boys, his groin ached and he needed release. "Should have somehow tried to save Mark," he muttered. "At least with a bitch, have someone to fuck and set up camp."

Alexander grunted. He felt the ache too. After eluding the authorities, the stand-off, the escape, he was totally pumped, needing release as bad as Roger did. Fucking minx! The bitch should be with them right now but that manipulating slut chose another path.

Roger rolled out the blankets and he caught the can Alexander tossed at him. He used his knife to break open the tin top and he eagerly ate the processed meat. No fire would be lit for warmth. They couldn't take the chance of giving away their location. Yep, the big guy was right, best to get used to this way of living. Without the grass, trees and shrubbery to hold in the earth's natural heat, the temperature would drop to an extreme low. And with no light, there was nothing left to do but sleep. He placed the empty can in the garbage bag. Had to be careful. Couldn't leave a trail.

"Ahh," he growled in frustration, smacking his thigh as he lay back on the blanket.

"We'll find some bitches tomorrow," Alexander grunted.

Roger nodded his head. Oh sure, they could just as easily fuck, but neither had any desire to. For one thing, neither wanted to be on bottom, and well, they just didn't find anything sexually attractive about each other. They were comrades and nothing more.

"When you find that bitch, I want a piece of his ass too," Roger grunted.

Alexander nodded his head as he took a seat on his bedroll.

"Should have fucked that bitch even when he was banging The Stud," Roger muttered.

"Yeah, I know you always wanted to fuck him," Alexander replied as he gazed up at the moon. "When we capture him, have at it and fuck his brains out."

Roger snickered. "Share," he grunted, reaching over and clasping his hand with the big guy's. "Whatever mine is yours."

Alexander nodded his head. Then he rolled over. He didn't feel like thinking about that deceiving bitch and what a great fuck that hellcat had been. Nor did he want to remember his slaves and how each one couldn't compare to the minx. After knowing that kind of hot, potent sex with the slut, he knew if he looked deep inside of himself, he could admit he wanted that kind of steamy passion again. Now fucking was just like jerking off. He may as well fuck a hole in a log.

*****

The gruff, fierce looking biker raised his fist in the air, giving a hoot. He settled his arms back on the counter, watching the stripper gyrate her curvaceous body to the beat of the music. He then glanced over his shoulder where his leader sat. Big John was still chatting up that blond minx. Well, he couldn't blame the leader. That long haired, blond beauty was hot enough to turn a straight man onto men. And he was loyal to Big John, second-in-command after all. If Johnny wanted to mount a man, he didn't give two shits. After all, the big brute was the toughest man in town. Nobody could shake down Big John.

He decided to check out what the leader was up to, so he picked up his beer and strode over to where Big John sat with the minx.

He cocked his brow, taking in the leather pants that outlined every lean muscle the minx possessed. In a way, he sorta wished the blond honey wasn't wearing that long, black, satin jacket. With a body like that, the bitch should be showing off the nice ass. And, he rather liked the slant of those green eyes, sorta cat-like, feathered by long, thick lashes and tilted, black brows. Shit, this bitch couldn't have been any older than sixteen, if that. What an exotic beauty.

"Fifty bucks," Iason softly said as he struck the match, bringing the burning flame to the tip of the smoke. He puffed on the filter.

"Let's go," Big John growled. Then he glanced to Fingers. "Take care of business. I'm busy for the rest of the night, and no disturbances."

Fingers nodded his head as he again eyed the sensual blond.

Iason picked up the tequila and he downed the shot, then puffed again on the cigarette.

Big John rose, motioning for him to follow.

So Iason slid around the curved booth, legs first as he pushed himself out. Big John strode ahead and he mounted the stairs. Iason placed his delicate, long fingers on the railing, still taking drags off the cigarette as he followed the biker.

His green eyes were narrowed and he could feel the bull whip caressing his right side. The quirt hit against his chest, while the snake whip hugged his left hip. Big John opened the door and Iason stepped into the room. He carefully eyed the desk, a chair, dresser, double size bed and television. "Money first," he coolly said, gazing at the open window.

Big John cocked the trigger to his .38 Special. "Don't think so, bitch. I sure ain't gonna pay what you can give me for free." Hungrily, his eyes raked over the delicate form. "And if you're as hot as you look, I might just keep you around and keep porking ya."

Iason wasn't fazed. It's why he wore the long jacket. His hand rested on the bull whip. Carefully, he unhitched the handle from his belt loop while he freed the long strand and let the whip uncoil in his hand. He gave a giggle, glancing over his shoulder, carefully calculating how far the biker stood from him. "Okay, sexy. You win. I'll get undressed." He gave a wink, turning his head back to the window.

He waited for the breath and he knew the biker relaxed somewhat. Quickly, he turned and he snapped the whip. All the biker heard was the whistle of leather and he dropped the gun as he fought for breath, the whip laced around his neck, cutting off his air passage.

Iason smiled sardonically, cocking his brow. He tugged harder on the whip and the biker fell to the floor, choking as he struggled to reach out.

"Not a chance, fucker," Iason hissed as he withdrew his snake whip, remaining in the same spot. He cracked the tip and sent the coil across the man's back.

No screams came as Big John continued to struggle for air, but his body slumped from the lash of the whip striking his backside.

Over and over, Iason sent the whip across the man's back, not stopping until he had the spine and rib cage exposed as the flesh, blood, and muscles covered the floor. Finally, he stopped. He snapped both whips, running the strands along the bed sheets, ensuring his precious weapons were clean. Then he gave a tug and quickly wrapped up each whip, tucking them safely back inside his jacket.

He stepped forward then, careful to avoid the mess on the floor, smirking as he gazed at what was left of the big biker. He dug around and unearthed the keys to the huge Kawasaki Z-1 1000 outside. Then he grabbed the wallet, tucking the wad of cash into the breast pocket of his coat. His delicate fingers laced around the .38 Special Big John dropped. He turned then, heading for the window as he placed one boot on the sill, making his escape.

*****

Roger finished shaving the last of the hair along Alexander's skull. Now he began working on the long strip he left down the middle. He cut at the edges, leaving about two inches in length. "Just have to color," he growled.

Then Roger took a seat in the chair and Alexander began working on his comrade's hair, slicing off the overgrown strands with quick chops. He began focusing on shaping as he ran the blade closely along the skull. Just like Roger did, he left the strip down the middle. He began edging at the long locks, sheering the hair down to two inches like his own.

Earlier, they had sawed off the shotguns so they'd have quick access to two firearms at once.

Roger stood and he chose the blue dye as he shook up the color and then began working the cream into his hair. Alexander did the same, but he decided on the deep red hue, the color so intense it was close to burgundy.

Once the color was set, they turned to their outfits they robbed from that store when they had gassed up the truck.

Both donned the black, studded groin straps. Then they stepped into the black, leather chaps, each fastening the belt. Next came the metal chest plates and the shoulder padding. Both worked the long, fingerless, thick, leather gloves up their arms. Finally, they fastened the colorful feathers along their shoulder pads.

Alexander reached into the old felt jacket and withdrew the news clipping he tore out when lifting the paper at the store. His eyes narrowed and he gave a vicious laugh, gazing at Iason's mug shot along with the article. He placed the clipping into his pocket.

Then he turned and looked at himself in the full-length mirror. Scary, damn scary. Just what he wanted. The wild, sadistic outfit matched the crazed look in his eyes and the sneer on his lips. Yes, such an ensemble was as wild as this wasteland.

"We set," he growled. "Mohawkers! Long live the Mohawkers, bringing death to the wasteland."

Roger snickered, slapping his comrade on the back, nodding his head in agreement.

"Roger is dead," Alexander gruffly stated.

"Is Rebel," Roger announced. "Rebel of the Wasteland."

Alexander grinned. "Wez," he hissed. Yeah, he liked that name rolling off his tongue, so much like the powerful surname he always liked, Wez the Wessex.

"Come," Wez grunted. "Is time to leave. We find others. Many others. Together, we rule the wasteland."

They turned, leaving behind all presence of Alexander Wessex and Roger Bragg in the shack. When they stepped outside, it was Wez and Rebel of the Mohawkers who emerged into the wasteland.

Next Page - Chapter Six

Note: "Mad Max" is a trademark and copyright of Kennedy-Miller Entertainment/Warner Bros. George Miller, Byron Kennedy and Terry Hayes (Kennedy Miller Entertainment/ Warner Bros.) hold copyright to the Mad Max Trilogy.
This story is created for fan fiction purposes only. Some dialogue was taken from the script to keep this tale true to the original movie.

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