Mad Max Villains

Mad Max Villains

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

Chapter Twelve

Night Comes Down

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

In the last rays of the setting sun
And the past days, that's where our memories run
And all of those times still race though my mind
I'm shattered inside to find
When the night comes down
And I'm here all alone
When the night comes down
And there's no place to go
Call me and I'll wait forever
For a love that's only good
As the light starts to dim
The fear closes in and the nightmares begin
Oh no you won't be there tomorrow
Oh no, say it isn't true
Can't take this pain and sorrow
Oh can't you see my heart is broken in two
~~~

Wez had enough. He got off the motorcycle. Never was he so disgusted. Just an hour earlier they had chased down four vehicles that had left the compound, the defenders intent on finding a rig big enough to hall that tanker full of gas out of the wasteland. And now the Humungus wanted to negotiate with the people inside the compound. They held six captives whom he wanted to kill, but their damn leader wanted to use these idiots as a bargaining tool.

All the Dogs of War were present, the engines to their vehicles switched off as they all stood at attention while the Humungus spoke.

Bah, such nonsense. Only cops and prison guards bargained. Warriors fought and took. He wasn't happy about any of this. And he was ignoring the Humungus's words being spoken through the microphone. Instead, he eyed that former cop who had joined the defenders, the very same man he chased in the Interceptor two days ago.

"What a puny plan," the Humungus told the defenders from his big, six-wheeled vehicle. "This is the valley of death."

Suddenly, a rabbit escaped from a hole and Wez quickly turned, firing his crossbow and he gave a hissy laugh when he killed the harmless animal. Yeah, he'd kill anything that tried to escape out of the compound. He wished those cowardly defenders would open the steel-bus door and fight like warriors instead of hiding behind those walls.

"Don't give them the gas," the victim who was lashed to the Humungus's vehicle hollered. "Blow it up."

Wez gave a grunt since he noted it was the stupid defiant victim shooting off that big mouth again. Oh yeah, he'd shut this fucker up. The man would never speak again. He quickly turned, storming for the Humungus's vehicle and he slammed his head with the victim's, easily knocking the skinny man out. Now he gave a grunt of amusement since he probably killed the fucker. Bah, good enough for that big talker.

"Raaaah," a child screamed who appeared from a rabbit hole. The kid was dressed in nothing but fur and he released a boomerang into the air.

Wez watched the steel object fly well above his head and then the boomerang turned back around. The kid quickly backed up, catching the weapon with a steel glove he wore.

What the fuck was this all about? We're the defenders so cowardly they sent a kid to do their dirty work?

Just then the kid released that boomerang again. His natural instinct kicked in, his reflexes reacting since the sharp object was coming right at him. Wez quickly ducked. Then he pivoted and his eyes widened in alarm when he watched the boomerang strike the Golden Youth. His lover dropped to the ground.

For a moment his heart stopped beating and a roar filled his ears. Then instinct kicked in as he raced to his lover. He crouched down on the ground, gazing at the steel projectile weapon embedded in the youth's forehead. No movement. His lover lay in deathly silence.

The rage enveloped him then. The rage was so great he had no conscious awareness and it was his feelings and emotions that drove him. He drew the boomerang out of his lover's head and threw the weapon at the Feral Kid.

He didn't even notice if he struck his intended target since he turned back to his lover. He knelt down, gently lifting his mate's delicate head with his big hand. Silence. The youth made no movement. Then his eyes widened in disbelief.

The Golden Youth was dead. That fucking kid killed his rose of the wasteland.

*****

Rebel, Glory Rider, Leather Face and Ink Man lay the youth's body on the ground as they proceeded to dig a grave. All four were still shocked by what happened just a mere half-hour ago. Never did they see Wez so ballistic, so maniacal, so insane. Yet, none of them could blame the mighty warrior for losing it, trouncing on the Humungus and demanding to kill them all.

Wez's rage had been so great, the big leader had to put him in a sleeper hold. When they left the compound, the mighty warrior was still fighting to regain his breath while also mourning deeply.

Rebel placed his boot against the back of the shovel as he pushed the blade into the dirt, making the first cut for the grave. He couldn't help but glance at the Golden Youth. Death. He seen so much death during his thirty-one years and yet, the beautiful body laying oh so still bothered him. The youth didn't deserve this. Someone else should have caught that boomerang in the head; not the Golden Youth.

He sat on his haunches, shaking his head. Why did he care? Why should he care? Why should what happened just moments ago bother him so greatly? After knowing Wez for nineteen years, not once did he see that neanderthal show anyone compassion or sympathy. Not even that vicious minx had been capable of touching something deep inside his mighty comrade.

But the youth was so goddamn special. Only an innocent angel was capable of taming a man driven by animal instinct. Only a fair-haired golden youth could unearth tender feelings in a maniac who only knew hate. Only a gentle being could find a speck of sanity in an insane mind. And only a delicate rose could find humanity in an inhumane, sadistic killer.

And it bothered him greatly. Always, he had been slightly in awe when he'd watch Wez and the Golden Youth ride. Many times he'd stare at the chain and collar, wondering if it should be you-know-who wearing the symbol of possession since he always thought it was the Golden Youth who captured Wez, not vice-versa.

Now, all gone, swept away in a second. The youth never suffered. He knew the death blow had been instantaneous. Maybe it was best the pretty lad died this way? Quick. No torture. No looking death in the eye - fast and over with before one knew what happened.

"Away," Wez snarled as he approached them.

Rebel glanced up. He nodded his head, motioning for Ink Man, Glory Rider and Leather Face to join him so they could give their comrade some time alone before they buried his lover.

Wez heard them stalk away and then he sat on his haunches, gazing at his Golden Youth. He entwined his fingers with his mate's. He loathed seeing that deep cut in his lover's forehead. He couldn't stand it that the Golden Youth would no longer be with him.

The pain was immense. Dammit. If only his mate would have remained on the Kawasaki, none of this would have happened. And he was so angry. Angry with his Golden Youth. How many times did he tell his mate to stay the fuck on the motorcycle? God, all he ever did was order his lover to stay put. And the one time the Golden Youth did not listen, it cost the rose of the wasteland that innocent life.

"Golden Youth," he shouted as he began beating on the sand with his fist. "Golden Youth!

"You wake up!" he hollered. "Wake up! I not say you can die!"

Silence.

Goddammit, how was he supposed to go on? How could he go on after being loved by the Golden Youth? He didn't want to go on. Right now he wanted to kill everything and everyone in his path. He wanted to torture and kill the Humungus for daring to try bargain with the defenders in the first place. None of this would have happened if it wasn't for that idiotic leader. The Humungus caused his lover's death.

And he wanted to kill that Feral Kid. He wanted to kill the defenders. He wanted to kill that former cop. He wanted to kill everyone.

He wanted every goddamn human being on this earth to suffer the way he was suffering right now.

They took his Golden Youth. Oh God, his Golden Youth.

He brushed his fingers against the silken skin. In time this body would no longer be beautiful. The delicate flesh would disappear, drawn back into the earth.

Now came the tears, big droplets of water flowing from his eyes that never swirled up from his soul before. He drew his lover into his arms, cradling the delicate body against his chest as he gently rocked his mate. He pressed his lips against the silken skin.

"Wake, Golden Youth," he softly pleaded. "Wake. Your master wants you to wake."

He gazed down at the deathly white skin, the rose colored lips looking so cold. The tears dripped from his eyes, falling on the youth's silken flesh. His fingers petted the satiny golden mane as he hugged his mate tighter.

No, he couldn't do it. There was no way he could just let go. How could he leave this place now? He couldn't leave. His soul belonged here. His spirit belonged here. His heart belonged here. Everything about him the youth unearthed could not leave because the rose of the wasteland possessed all his feelings.

Like hell he'd leave his lover in this desolate place all alone. He always told the Golden Youth from day one he was the master and protector. And now he would kill everyone responsible for his mate's death. He always swore he'd defend his lover's honor and he would not stop until every person connected to the events that led up to his lover's death died by his hand. Once the fight was finished, he'd come back here, properly bury his mate and spend the rest of his life caring for the Golden Youth's grave. He would die here.

*****

He gazed up at the nighttime sky, looking at the stars twinkling against the black veil above. The bonfire cast shadows against his face and the hiss, popping and crackling of the burning wood was the only sound made. All were asleep, the defenders and the marauders.

Just he was wide awake, leaning against a rock, the thick fur covering his strong body. A day now. Been a day since he lost the Golden Youth. He realized this was how he measured time now: by his lover's death.

Again, he glanced to where the tent used to be, gone now, burned up in the bonfire. He never bothered with a tent until he met his Golden Youth and now that his mate was gone, he had no desire to sleep under the canvas lining. What for? So he could lay alone and gaze at the spot where his lover formerly slept?

Now he fiddled with the hairbrush, pressing the bristles against his nose as he inhaled his mate's scent. Why? Dammit, he'd been over this a hundred times today. Why did the Golden Youth get off the fucking motorcycle? If he knew his lover had left the protection of the bike, he would have ordered the gentle rose to sit that ass back down on the pillion. And the youth would have been safely hidden behind the Humungus's six-wheeled vehicle. When the Feral Kid released the boomerang, it would have been the Toadie who would have bit the bullet.

He now glanced to where the big Kawasaki was parked. He had no desire to ride that motorcycle again. How could he? No longer would the youth's thighs spoon his hips.

I love you. Wait for tomorrow. Why did he wait? Why didn't he just tell the youth that day they mated in the sand? Now the Golden Youth would never hear him declare his feelings.

This wasn't anyone's fault but his own. He killed the Golden Youth. He never should have abducted the genteel lad when the rose had only been fifteen. What chance did a delicate creature stand in this vicious wasteland? How could one so fragile be expected to survive? He swore to always protect his mate and he failed.

Now he thought about all those soft feelings the youth unearthed from his black soul. Gone. Dead with his Golden Youth. He had no desire to find those feelings again. Why? The only person he wanted to share those beautiful emotions with was dead. Yes, his last gift to his lover - kill those who brought down his mate in the most senseless way. He owed this to his genteel, obedient Golden Youth. And then he'd die too, whether a warrior's death or suicide - he didn't care how he met the grim reaper. He did not deserve to live after costing the rose of the wasteland that innocent life.

He failed his Golden Youth.

*****

Iason stood with his boots firmly planted in the sand. He wore his black cloak with the big hood and a scarf wrapped around his face since he detested all this dirt. His sunglasses were lifted, placed on his thick hair as he peered through the telescope. "The tracks are northwest," he quipped. "Many tracks. Take me closer."

Vashta nodded his head and assisted his lover back into their sand runner. He gave the engine some gas and patted that silken thigh. "You think it's them?" he asked.

"I'm not sure," Iason replied as he reached for his cigarettes while lowering his sunglasses. "God, how can anyone stand living out here? I hate this fucking dirt!"

Vashta chuckled as he shifted gears and the big vehicle picked up more speed.

Iason rolled his eyes. Then again, this wasteland was only fit for animals, the hygienically challenged and the insane which his ex-lover fit to a tee. No wonder why Alexander liked roaming out here.

The other sand runners followed with two motorcycles beside them, riding as their guard. Iason scrunched down, attempting to light the cigarette but the whipping wind kept snuffing out the matches. God, he loathed this place. Again he tried to light the tip and this time he succeeded. He lifted the telescope once again and peered through the narrow site.

Nomads.

"Hurry up," he shouted.

Vashta stepped on the gas. He then motioned for the other vehicles to take down the fleeing vehicles. All the sand runners picked up speed and raced after the nomads.

Iason sat back in his seat. This wouldn't take long. Their engines were far more powerful and their weapons superior. It would be just a matter of time before they disarmed the fleeing cars. He watched the sand runners crest the rise and then disappear from sight. All he could see was the puff of sand swirling upwards.

"Perhaps it's Alexander?" Iason pondered. "This is proving to be easier than I thought."

"We'll find out in due time," Vashta said.

He crested the rise and realized it was only two vehicles. The sand runners were at a stand still and the guards surrounded the four people.

Iason noted the captured nomads all wore white, along with equipment once adorned by football players, from the shoulder padding, chest plates and knee pads. Well, this was interesting. He guessed one wore whatever they could scavenge when living in this desolate place.

Vashta slowed the vehicle and then finally came to a full stop. He switched off the engine, keeping his crossbow trained on the four prisoners. Two were men and two were women.

"We mean no harm," the one man shouted. "We just managed to get away with our lives."

Vashta walked around the sand runner and he held out his hand, assisting Iason down from the big vehicle. The guards still stood at attention, weaponry trained on the nomads, ready to fire when given the signal.

Iason pushed up his sunglasses and removed the scarf as he lowered the hood off his hair.

Even though they were frightened, so scared for their lives, the two women couldn't help but gasp in awe as they watched the breathtaking blond man approach them. Goodness, the magnificent blond couldn't have been any older than twenty-one, yet it was apparent he commanded these huge men just by the way all the guards looked to him.

Heavens, even the big, brunette male seemed to bow to the slim, sinewy minx-like youth.

"We mean no harm," the man again repeated. Lord, he was slightly thankful they came across such civilized people in this wasteland. He sensed them to be civilized by their mannerism, well-groomed attire and defensive stance.

"Of course you don't mean any harm," Iason mocked. "What harm could you bring to anyone?"

The man's jaw slackened, not sure how to react to that response.

"Marauders," Iason said as he took a puff on the cigarette. "I am looking for marauders led by a man who has a dark-red mohawk and his second-in-command has a blue mohawk. Everyone in their crew has a mohawk, all powerfully built and tall. They all ride motorcycles. Do you know anything about them?"

Now the man's eyes widened. "Why are you seeking them out?" he sputtered in disbelief.

"Did I say you could ask questions?" Iason hissed as his eyes narrowed. "The mohawk bikers, who are they and where are they? Answer me." He then reached into his cloak, withdrawing his .38 Special from the chest belt as he cocked the trigger and took aim between the man's eyes.

The man's eyes widened in fear. The other male gasped in alarm and the two women tried to stifle their screams.

"I meant no disrespect," the man calmly stated. "I was just taken by surprise since they are holding a compound I come from under siege. For over a week they've tried to break through our barricade. Two days ago we were asked by our leader to find a vehicle but we couldn't since those maniacs chased us. We managed to escape with our lives. We cannot go back. It's too dangerous."

"For a week he's held your compound under siege and he cannot break through the perimeter?" Iason asked with amusement. He still trained the gun on the man as he gazed at Vashta. "Maybe this is a mistake seeking him out? Heavens, if he can't get through a perimeter guarded by these incompetent fools, I am led to believe Alexander has lost his touch."

"The red haired man is one of the strongest warriors," the man noted. "Very sadistic, totally insane. He rides with a golden youth seated on the pillion. I think he took the poor thing captive since the youth wears a chain and collar. I've never seen the beautiful, blond lad get off the bike. He just sits."

Now Iason burst into a fit of giggles. "He rides around with a bitch on the back and this golden youth does not have an inclination about self-offense? Oh heavens, this is priceless. What kind of ass-whipped fool did my once strong, courageous lover turn into?"

"General Manning," the one guard said. "May I ask why we are looking for these marauders? Admiral Ramses expects us back with the harvest. I don't believe . . ."

Iason turned the gun on the guard and fired, shooting the man straight between the eyes. The guard dropped to the ground.

The two women shrieked and the two men both gasped. Goodness, the blond minx thought nothing of shooting one of his own just because the guard questioned?

"Just remember who's in charge," Iason hissed as he glared at the guards. "Do your jobs and nothing more. Am I clear?"

All the guards quickly nodded their heads.

"Now, where is this compound?" Iason asked as puffed on the cigarette, staring at the man.

"Two days ride, northwest. Just follow our trail and it will lead you to where the marauders are," the man sputtered.

"Well, seeing how Alexander is taking forever to take over a pitiful guarded compound, I guess we do have time to engage in some extracurricular activities," Iason noted as he gazed at Vashta. "Strip the dead guard of all his weapons and clothing. Kill all four of these imbeciles. Take their clothes, meaningless weapons and pathetic vehicles as well."

The men and women began screaming.

"As you wish, General Manning," Vashta replied.

Iason cocked his brow. "Feel free to rape the women. I'm not so cold that I would withhold a chance for you wonderful, loyal hunks to expand some energy by amusing yourselves.

"If you need me, I'll be in the back of the sand runner. Vashta, come with me. You know killing always makes me horny." He turned on his heel and sashayed away.

"Wait," the man cried out. "Please."

Iason ignored him. Ah, how he loved sending people to their deaths and enjoying a good fuck while listening to his victims scream while being tortured.

Actually . . .

"Buzzange," he sweetly called out. "Rape the bitch at the back of my sand runner. I want to watch while Vashta fucks me. Use my quirt and whip her to death."

The girl began screaming as Buzzange began dragging her to the back of the vehicle.

Vashta was used to watching someone slowly die while he fucked the minx so he just sauntered to the back, eager to mount his cunning bitch.

*****

Wez lay deep in the dirt, trying to find some kind of coherency. The grande chase, pursuing the Mack truck driven by the man named Max surfaced. Yes, now it was all becoming clear. After the Golden Youth's death, the fierce warrior had surfaced, the merciless devil without a soul, wreaking havoc on the defenders of the compound.

The man named Max managed to slip off under the cover of night to find a rig big enough to haul that fat tank of gas. When Max came back with the big truck, he had pursued that fucker and he almost seized the compound if not for those incompetent Smegma Crazies and Gayboy Berserkers. Then Max had tried to slip away in the morning. He had chased down that fool in the Humungus's vehicle with the Toadie, Rebel and a Gayboy Berserker. The Interceptor had crashed when he launched an old pipe on the front windshield, causing the black-on-black to roll.

He thought Max to be dead when the Interceptor exploded, booby-trapped and the Toadie had set off the fuse. So he had left with Rebel back to the camp. But good ole Max had lived and some fool driving a gyroplane had picked that cop up at the wreck.

Then come that morning, the defenders were off in the big tanker, and the Dogs of War had chased them down the highway. During the road chase, he had killed the Warrior Woman and the other defenders riding on top of the rig had also died. He recalled Rebel being sucked under the big rig, crushed to death under those heavy wheels.

Many had died but his own lover's meaningless death was for naught now. He avenged his golden haired mate. He had been on the front of the big Mack truck, ready to throw the Feral Kid from the rig when the Humungus's six-wheeled vehicle met them on the crest. He had managed to leap off the truck just in time when both vehicles collided. Everyone was dead, everyone but him.

His wounds were great. And it was now time to crawl to his lover's side, lay in the shallow grave and sleep the eternal sleep beside his mate.

How far was he from the camp? He had no clue since that chase down the highway had seemed infinite. It didn't matter. He would not rest until he lay next to his Golden Youth.

*****

His chest was scraped almost raw but he didn't care. Gone was his metal chest plate and shoulder padding to protect him but he continued on, dragging himself across the wasteland. He would not stop. How much time had went by? He wasn't sure. Maybe he was even delusional from all his wounds?

Finally, he came upon the shallow grave where the Golden Youth lay. His mouth was parched, so dry that his tongue felt like cotton. His body barely gave off any perspiration since he was so dehydrated. He tried to focus his vision but he was seeing triple. Yeah, he could see three Golden Youth's.

"Master?"

Ah, he must be dead. He swore he could hear his lover's sweet, gentle voice. He nestled closer to the body, savoring the feel of the silken flesh.

"What happened?"

So damn dizzy. Who the hell was talking? Oh yes, it was his mate. "I cost you your life," he managed to say through deep breaths. "And now I join you."

*****

It took all of his strength to remove the shallow grains of sand burying his mate. But now that he had rested at least a good day, the power was slowly filling his body again. He just stared.

Speak. I know I hear you when I first come back. Speak. I not imagine things. I know I heard your voice. Speak!

"Speak!" he roared.

The thick, long, black lashes fluttered. Now his heart filled with immense pain when he watched his delicate lover fight so hard for life. Such a struggle. And it tore at him since he could not fight this battle for his Golden Youth. But the pain making the youth's face contort with agony did not faze him. He could not show sympathy. His lover must fight. The Golden Youth had to fight. He needed this delicate angel.

"Fight," he growled as he shook his mate.

Now a soft, gentle moan.

"Your master is here," he barked. "I need you. Fight and wake. Now! Is an order, Golden Youth!"

The breathing was growing more shallow and the lids no longer fluttered.

"I said fight," he hollered. "I survive truck collision. I crawl across the desert to be with you. I not eat in three days. I almost die but I fight for my life so I could be with you. Now fight, Golden Youth. I never forgive you if you just give in and let death call you!"

Silence.

"I said wake!" he roared, slamming his mighty fist on the ground.

"Where are we?" came the gentle voice. "Are we dead?"

Oh God, the elation filled his soul. He placed his hands to his face, the tears almost springing forth again. His gentle rose lived after all. Yeah, such a quiet strength, so powerful yet hidden was the fierce courage of his Golden Youth.

He reached for the water he scavenged from the Humungus's tent and began running the cool liquid over his mate's mouth. Now came the coughing and sputtering as his lover became fully coherent. The big, blue eyes widened, staring at him.

He could see the fight to remain conscious in those sapphire eyes. So weak. He knew his lover was dying, such a fight to retain any kind of life in that lean, delicate body.

"You will live. Not let you die. You not die. I not say you can," Wez grunted.

Then he reached forward and entwined the delicate fingers with his.

Next Page - Chapter Thirteen

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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