THE NAME

By: Nikki 666

Wez woke before the dawn. Most likely it was the cold that woke him. This damn place was nothing more than a desert, and desert nights are always cold - even colder by the time the sun begins to rise. Not even blankets could ward this cold off. Not even tents. And he never slept in tents. He didn't like walls, any kind of them - even if they were as frail as tarpaulin or animal skin. Or maybe it was the pain in his arm that roused him?

Yesterday, when they had been on their usual driver-hunt, they'd come across that guy on the old highway who turned out a real racer. Tore through his whole crew. And one of those idiots he commanded shot his crossbow while twirling into a roadside gutter. Sure enough, he had no chance of getting that ace... but there was some sick kind of bad irony in the fact he ended up with the arrow in his shoulder.
 

Yeah, got him in the shoulder. He caught up with that road racer on his motorbike later, but there was nothing to be done without a crew. He was mad then. Oh so mad. Pulled that arrow out of his shoulder right before the racer's eyes. But the latter wasn't bothered by it at all. The racer's eyes were dead. Almost as dead as his own.

He hadn't dressed the wound, and now dull pain steadily tore through his arm. Pain and cold. The new day would bring pain and heat. Life was made of that stuff. And had it ever been different? He couldn't remember.

He began squirming out of the blankets, trying not to make any noise. The warm bundle at his side winced and froze.

"Wez?" a sleepy, unsure voice whispered.

"Sleep on," he softly said.
 

Was it just his imagination, or did he really hear a slight sigh of relief from under that blanket?

He had hurt him again this night. He always hurt him. Didn't know any other way to do it. Couldn't hold back, couldn't keep control, couldn't stop in time. So good, Wez... really felt good... thank you... I'll just take a little rest now, okay? He knew it was true. It did feel good. But it hurt too. Always. That he also knew. And he always felt guilty. And he never told him about it.
 

He didn't talk much as it was.
 

Wez rearranged the blanket so that it was a better cover. A gesture of care, so unusual of him. The blanket was really warm. Fur. A couple of months ago they had cornered a funny little couple on a speedway. The woman was still carrying around a mink coat. Her husband's gift. Both she and her generous husband must have turned to small sand-bound heaps of bones long ago... but the fur was still good for keeping you warm.
 

From under the fur came light, even breathing. He pulled the blanket up a little to have a look. Sleeping. Sleeping again. Good.
 

He sat Indian-style on the cold sand, watching the man who slept at his feet. Hazy, shimmering twilight was enough for him to see every little thing:  blond locks, tousled from tossing in his sleep, dark, thick long eyelashes dropped on his cheeks, his lips, firmly pressed together, almost anxiously. So young, not far from a boy.
 

The sky east of him was a pale shade of red. The sun was rising - in a few hours it would turn blinding white. The sand was getting warmer. And still he didn't move just sat and watched. Watching the man he thought he loved.

*****

Wez didn't know his name. The kid never told him, and he didn't ask. Others made little jokes about them when they thought he wasn't listening. But he was, and he knew the guys in the gang called his lover Blondie. Or, a longer variant, Wez's Blondie. The object of the jokes didn't react to it in any way - didn't accept the nickname and didn't take offence. As for him - he even liked it a bit. So he didn't do anything to the jokers. Not yet.
 

Humungus, their gang leader - he could call himself the Warrior of the Wasteland as many times as he wanted but that didn't make him anything bigger than a gang leader, and not the best one. If you asked Wez - Humungus, who obviously had read too much in his previous life, called Blondie The Golden Youth.
 

That was too long a name for Wez's tastes. When he needed to call up his blondie or claim his attention, he called him kid. The kid always answered.
 

At times it made him laugh. At times it alarmed him. At times it made him sad. Just to think of it - they had been together for two years... and still he didn't know the kid's name.
 

Two years... two years was a shit-load of time. Back then, Wez still could remember the War. Now he could only remember there had been the War. Two years meant over seven hundred days. And even one day could hold so many events... no, he had almost no memories of what had happened two years ago.
 

It's a wonder he never forgot that one day.

*****

They were chasing a trailer down the speedway, following it all the way from the ruins of an old miner town. Such trailers needed a helluva lot of gasoline, and drivers always had a little extra with them in big canisters. A short but rich experience had already taught them that.
 

And at the crossroads where they caught up with the trailer, they ran into another gang. Kids, they all were just kids. Not a single car in the gang, just bikes - most of them had seen better days. Shit, they had chicks riding half of those bikes. Not a gang - a bad joke.
 

But they had balls. And enough desperation. They tried to take the trailer from Wez's crew and signed their own verdict.
 

There had been a lot of gangs like theirs before the war. Kiddie gangs. Riding stolen Harleys around the city, pretending to be tough. Back then, they might have seemed tough to somebody.
 

Now, it took Wez and his boys less than five minutes to ground them.
 

Then it was fun time. Half of the crew was cleaning out the trailer - gasoline, spares, food, clothes - while the other half took advantage of those unfortunate kiddie-bikers who were still alive and more or less unharmed. Chicks or guys - it didn't make any difference anymore. The world they lived in had turned into an uneasy place, a rough place, and everyone had to grab what he could reach. The cleaning team were grumbling about it, but they didn't really worry. They knew their turn would come.
 

Wez stood near the trailer for a while, supervising the unloading. Then he walked off. He had spotted a fine little bitch among those losers. Such a big-titted redhead. Toadie had claimed her, but it didn't worry Wez in the slightest. One good kick would be enough to take care of Toadie. In fact, it was unlikely Toadie would object. He wouldn't dare.
 

And just at that moment he heard noise and shouting from the trailer.
 

Wez darted back, quick as a lightning. One jump from the ground into the driver's cabin, another jumped over the broken seat.
 

Three of his crew, Fox, Skull and Fang, froze in the middle of the trailer, staring intensely into the dark corner. Fox had a gash on his brow, and the blood was leaking over his cheek.
 

"What?" Wez inquired, irritated.
 

"Look out, Wez," Fang hissed, not taking his eyes off that corner. "He's got a gun!"
 

Wez stepped closer. And saw what they were staring at.
 

It was a boy. One of that kiddie-gang. He must have sneaked in through the window - windows here had no glass in them, just some heavy blinds. Must have been trying to hide. Slim, fair-haired. His eyes open wide, sparkling in the dark, looked directly at the cleaners. And his hands, stretched forward, wielded a gun.
 

A German Sig Sauer. A really loud thing.
 

"He's got a gun!" Fang repeated.
 

Wez was silent. A couple of years ago, when the War still had been on, he had gotten shell-shocked. After that he had problems with his long-term memory. And yet another aftermath was that his night sight became impossibly sharp. So that now, in that stuffy semi-darkness, he could see one thing his men couldn't. Sig Sauer wasn't even cocked. The kid obviously didn't have an idea how to manage a gun.
 

Or he had just forgotten.
 

There was yet another aspect to it.
 

"His gun?"
 

"No," Scull answered in a whisper. "He was clean. And when Fox went to drag him out, he found this shit somewhere on the floor. Gave him a good slap in the face. With the handle."
 

That wiped out the last of Wez's concern. If the gun had been loaded, the driver would have kept it at hand. And if it was so far in a junk pile on the floor... Cartridges were just as rare now as gasoline was. That's why Wez preferred crossbows.
 

He stepped forward, pushing Fox aside. Leaned, grabbed the kid by the wrist and pulled him up. The kid didn't even have a chance to pull the trigger - the gun slipped out of his fingers, fell onto a heap of clothes under the window. He gave just one short scream. Then he gritted his teeth together and made no sound.
 

Wez dragged him into the daylight and stopped dead in the middle of the step, staring at him.
 

That the kid was good-looking, he had seen even in the dark. But it was only now that he saw the boy was beautiful. Nothing short of beautiful. Unbelievably so.
 

A platinum blonde - his hair fell over his shoulders in a fuzzy, shimmering wave and shone gold when it caught a ray of sunlight. An impeccable regularity of features. Fine straight nose. Full, pouty lips, firmly outlined.
 

And his eyes. Huge eyes. Hazel. For some reason it was so unexpected a color that Wez almost winced.
 

To hell with that redhead whore. Toadie could do whatever he wanted to that bitch. Wez led his gain to the trailer door.
 

"Hey!" Fox gave him a push on the shoulder. "He's mine! Was me who found 'im!"
 

Wez didn't answer. He just stretched a hand with a crossbow, and Fox shut up forever, pinned to a trailer wall by an arrow in his throat.
 

"Someone else?" Wez gave the rest of the cleaners a dark look. They looked away. Wez jumped off the trailer footboard and, pulling at the kid's wrist, made him follow.

He gave the crossroads a thoughtful look. The business wouldn't be over in at least an hour. To try all the youngsters they wanted... to rip everything off the trailer so that only a ragged skeleton would be left... He definitely had some time. And he didn't know why, but he just didn't want to lay the kid in front of them all.
 

He led him to his bike. His captive didn't resist, didn't try to tear free. He must have been aware he couldn't make good time on foot if set against Wez's bike.
 

"Sit down."
 

The kid settled at the back of Wez's bike without a word of protest.
 

"Hold on."
 

Delicate, long-fingered hands carefully but firmly lay on his waist.
 

Wez started his bike, turned it around and rode back along the speedway in the direction they came from. That miner ruins were a ten-minute ride away at most.
 

The town was named Douglas. Douglas Mines said the banner that lay on the roadside. A road sign, all bullet holes. The town had been put to ruins back in the times when people had thought they could afford to waste their ammo like that. Now it was yet another ghost city - there was a lot of them in modern day America. Windows broken, walls falling apart. These houses couldn't shelter anyone anymore. Neither from their enemy, nor from rains. But there was no-one to hide from enemies in Douglas. And it had been a long time since it last rained. A really long time. And these ruins still could give you some shade on a sunny day.
 

Wez steered his bike beside one of the houses that still had roofs.
 

"Get off."
 

The kid got off and stopped two steps away from the bike, staring at his own feet. The air was hot, hotter than hell, but he was shivering. Wez shrugged and switched off the ignition.
 

They entered the building. Stale coolness smelt of moss and crushed bricks, but it felt good after the burning of midday sun. Tiny specs of dust did weird dances in the stream of sunlight coming through the window. Cobweb hung in the corners like ripped lace. There were writings on the walls, but they were faded, unreadable.
 

Wez pushed the captive to the wall. The kid pressed his back into it. Unmoving. Barely breathing. Scared. No surprise. How old was he? Sixteen, seventeen? Wez must look an old horror-movie monster to him. Tall, huge, his shoulders twice as broad as the kid's. Red mohawk. Wild coal-blackened eyes. A crossbow fastened to his forearm. Wez knew he looked scary. It was his purpose.
 

He rested his hand on the wall - his big palm near this snow-white hair. The kid started. Tried to press deeper into the brickwork. Wez put his other palm on his chest, opening the small, leather vest. The heart under his palm was beating wildly, as if it belonged to a captured rabbit. The palm slowly traveled downwards. This body, so deceptively delicate - there were steel cables of muscle under the smooth tanned skin. Now they all were as hard as stone. The kid was tense as an overstrained string.
 

Wez stroked his stomach, feeling the warmth his body gave off even through the glove. The kid drew a deep hissing breath. In his mind, Wez wondered lazily what this babe used to be before the War. A surfer? A model? A rock band singer? He had a tattoo on his shoulder, but Wez had no desire to figure out what it said right now.
 

His palm dropped to the black-leather-clad thigh. Stroked it. Moved on to the butt. Screech of leather on leather. The kid grew deadly pale and bit down his lip. Ah, what the hell. Wez didn't have that much time. He tore at the zipper of his captive's leather pants.
 

The kid broke crying.
 

Wez didn't know why he even paid attention. They all cried. Then screamed. Then died. Why would this one be different?
 

But, apparently, he was different. Because all of a sudden Wez felt off. He stopped messing with his pants. Looked him in the face. The kid was biting his lips, tears were running down from his eyes, leaving long wet trails on his cheeks, and he didn't even try to wipe them off. Just looked at Wez. There was even more fear in his eyes now.
 

When he spoke up, Wez almost jumped up. He hadn't expected him to.
 

"Don't... don't get mad... please..." desperate whispering between sobs. "I didn't want to... I won't... here... here," he finally began wiping his tears off with the back of his hand. "Here. I'm sorry..."
 

Sorry?!
 

Wez pulled him closer. Gave him a hug. Just a simple hug. The one you could give to a child. To a friend. He didn't know why he was doing it. But it helped - he felt easier.
 

The kid snuggled up to him. Crazy. Wez stroked his hair awkwardly.
 

"Just don't think I'm trying to..." the kid muttered to his neck. "Shit, no... I understand it all... that's the name of the game... the rules... don't get mad... I just..."
 

"Hush," Wez said. "Hush."
 

He kept on stroking his hair, his shoulders, his back. Clumsy caress, the best he could do. He wasn't used to doing it. But the kid seemed to be calming down. He stopped trembling, soon he stopped sobbing as well. It was only his breathing that was the same. Heavy, troubled. Raspy.
 

Wez made him back away a bit. Looked in his tear-rimmed eyes. Touched his platinum fringe, soft as finest down. Traced the wet trail snaking down his cheek with the tips of his fingers. The kid sighed. But he didn't look as if he was going to cry again. Wez patted his shoulder. Touched his neck. Let the point of his fingernail wander down his throat to the place where a thin small vein was pulsing madly.
 

The kid sighed again. And threw his arms around Wez's neck.
 

Wez stood stock-still for a second.
 

"Alright," the kid said. "Come what may."
 

And put his face up for him.
 

Wez kissed him. Trying to be cautious - and, probably, still too rough. The salt of the tears. The burn of whisky. And, so sudden and wrong, a heady taste of desire.
 

Wez had his left arm around the kid's waist, his right one up, his fingers in this blonde hair. Platinum silk. Gathered the tears from his face. Another kiss on the lips. On the chin. On the neck. On the collarbone. Hardly aware that his kisses kept getting harder. The kid's breathing was shallow, his fingers dug into Wez's shoulders. For Wez, there was no stopping now. His hand snaked back down and started kneading the kid's buttocks. The kid gasped but didn't flinch back. Wez pressed him closer, sliding his vest off his shoulders. It wasn't that easy with only one hand free, but the kid helped him, squirming out of it. Then moaned, shivered, arched, his hips pushed towards Wez. Wez growled, covering his chest with bites and kisses.
 

"Who could've thought," the kid breathed out. "Who could've thought..."
 

Wez wasn't in the mood to go asking what surprised him so much. He was pretty much amazed himself. He acted just inexplicably. And he felt good.
 

"Strong... you're so strong..."
 

Wez was almost afraid the kid lost a rib or two to his bear hug. Yet another kiss. This time it was returned. A kiss back - not a skilled one, but so damn hot. This was yet another thing Wez had grown unaccustomed to. It took him a lot of effort to tear himself from these lips, swollen after his rude kisses, from this body, lithe and feverish.
 

"Off," he said, his voice hoarse, pointing at the kid's pants.
 

The kid nodded. Unzipped. Paused. Wez wasn't hurrying him. He saw the kid was still afraid. The fear changed a bit, but it was still there.
 

The kid looked up. Such dark, dark eyes.
 

"You're going to kill me after this, right?"
 

It wasn't really a question. Wasn't even a reproach. Wez's answer wouldn't change anything - the kid already began to slide the pants off down his legs.
 

But Wez answered anyway. Before he could even give it a thought.
 

"Wrong."
 

And then he knew what he said was true. He wouldn't kill him. Definitely not now. Not today. Not soon. Maybe...
 

Maybe, not ever.
 

"You won't?" such a wild splash of hope in these eyes. A wonder they fit in his face, these eyes, so big, so wide...
 

"Won't. Off. Come here."

He came up to Wez. Helped him undo the lace-up crotch. Put his palm on the bulge in his pants. Drew another sigh.
 

"Y'know, I'm still scared... Stupid, huh?"
 

"No."
 

"Wez?"
 

Right, he had heard his name. There, in the trailer.
 

"Wez," Wez confirmed with a nod. The warm palm below his waist was driving him crazy.
 

"Wez... you... please... please try not to hurt me too much, okay?"
 

He wanted to fulfill this request. Wanted to fulfill it every given time. But he never managed to.

*****

The sun could drive you crazy. It didn't shine. It seared. Like an eye of Lord burning with fury. An eye of the ancient God, who got little worship now because only few had any memories of him, let alone faith. All He could do was let all the anger, pain and despair he had in him out in his stare and, day after day, pour it out onto the people who had killed him.
 

A god damned state. It used to be called Texas, Wez remembered with an effort.
 

He let Blondie talk him into hiding from the burning sunlight under a tarpaulin tent. Blondie had found some soap, water and a razor somewhere, and now he was busy with Wez's hairdo. Trimming the mohawk, shaving the rest of his head clean. The razor blade was pretty blunt, scratchy, but Blondie was doing his best to be careful, and Wez put up with that. To keep his hands busy, he stripped his crossbow and was getting it in order. Routine work distracted him. Calmed him down. It was just what he needed.
 

Because he was mad.
 

For how long had they been staying here? For how many days had they been sitting on their asses in the middle of this wannabe desert, making a driver-hunt raids every now and then? For how many weeks had they been watching, helplessly watching those dickheads safely sheltered behind the walls of their refinery?
 

Watching them burn their gasoline.
 

Yes, those bastards just burnt it! They had so much of it that they used it to load their flame-throwers! The flame-throwers that reduced to ashes anyone who dared to step too close to their dead cars barricade.
 

And they just watched.
 

For how many days?
 

Not only Wez, whose memory was week, but also all the others had lost count already.
 

When they had run into that refinery in the middle of the wasteland, they had thought it a piece of cake. No shit - gallons and gallons, tons of gasoline! Wez couldn't imagine that much gasoline in one piece! And the people who lived there, they were no warriors - except two, maybe three. Almost no weapons, too.
 

The only bad thing was that they had already built their barricade and loaded their flame-throwers, because the gang of Humungus was by far not the first one who had tried to take away their treasure.
 

If Humungus kept fooling around, it was going to stay this way forever.
 

Wez had tried to convince him this morning. They were running out of fuel, he had said. The wells were getting dry, he had said. There wasn't enough food for everybody, he had said. Enough sitting, enough watching. They had to get inside. Flame-throwers couldn't defend the whole perimeter all at once. So many useless losers had joined the gang in these recent months - why not just put them in the front? The refinery guys would be busy burning them, and the rest of the gang could make a breakthrough in the meanwhile. Those punks hardly had any other use anyways.
 

But no, it hadn't been a 'yes' he had gotten. It had been yet another portion of nonsense. "They are going to run out of their supplies. They won't be able to hide behind their barricade for much longer - when we don't let them even hunt for rabbits. Soon they will be ready to negotiate. And then - then! - our time will come." Bullshit. Wez had seen what was there, behind the walls. They bred their own rabbits. And chicken. And they had a waterhole. Not a half-dry well, but a good, deep borehole with sweet clear water. They could stay inside till the end of times. And the way things looked, they were going to do just that.
 

Wez hadn't tried to argue. He wasn't particularly good with words. And he couldn't solve the problem the usual way. Humungus was huge. Surrounded by guards. And on top of it, he had a gun that shot explosive bullets. You got one in the shoulder, you could kiss your arm goodbye. Wez was afraid of that thing. And wasn't ashamed to admit it.
 

So he had just turned and left. As always.
 

He made a low growl, recalling this all. Strained the string so hard it almost gave way.
 

"Scratched you again?" the voice at his ear sounded worried.
 

"No."
 

Soft, melodic laughter. Long fingers tousled his mohawk.
 

"Well, I'm done. I... glammed you out."
 

Something cold touched the back of his head and he winced.
 

"Oops. Sorry."
 

Wez turned to look. It was the chain that hung from the dog collar Blondie had around his neck. Wez smirked. Grabbed the chain. Made Blondie bend down to him and gave him a bite on the earlobe.
 

"Owww," Blondie drawled softly and laughed again.
 

It took Wez all he could to resist the temptation to pull the kid's pants down right here and right now.
 

The chain was a restage of the past. A remnant of older times. When Wez had just brought him into the gang, Humungus hadn't had much trust in him. "I see you got yourself a pet. That's fine, Wez, but be so kind, keep him on a chain. I'm not sure your pet doesn't bite." That had pissed Wez off so fucking much, he was going to leave this flock of losers. Go away. He had hunted for himself before, he knew how it was done. He was a survivor type. But the kid hadn't let him. He had gotten the collar and the chain somewhere and brought them to Wez himself, the same evening. Wez remembered that when he had been fastening the chain to the collar (Blondie had knelt down before him and lifted his hair from his neck for his convenience), he had felt a lump in his throat. In that moment he had begun to understand that something had changed in him. Something had broken... no, something had been fixed. Like setting a bone that had been put out of joint - it hurt, but you knew that everything was going to be alright after that.
 

Wez really used to fastened the other end of that chain to his belt. The chain was long enough, and Blondie never left Wez's side anyway, so it never was a problem. And then it was no longer necessary. Humungus admitted that the Golden Youth wasn't dangerous. For their crew, that is. For everyone else he had that bat Wez had given him. Pretty much like a baseball bat, but longer and flatter on end. A hit with the edge of it could break a grown man's spine. Blondie already knew how to do it.
 

These days the kid mostly fastened his chain to his own belt. Or just left it to hang loose. Like now. Wez had come to like it. The chain became him.
 

"Let me go, will ya, Wez? I need to give the razor back, okay?"
 

Wez reluctantly let the chain slip out of his fingers. Lazily watched Blondie duck, get out of the tent, head away. Narrowed his eyes, trying to see whose tent he delivered these blunt riches to. Toadie. Sure enough. Toadie had it all. Wez kept guessing for a few minutes what it was that Blondie paid the little fucker with. Then grinned. The most likely answer was nothing. Toadie knew whose boy it was. And he had always been kissing Wez's ass.
 

In a second Blondie appeared at the entrance of Toadie's tent. Headed back. Singing something softly. He had once told Wez that he really had been in a rock band before the War. A little teen band, playing Cheap Trick and Van Halen covers. Wez didn't remember anything of Van Halen or Cheap Trick, but he loved to hear Blondie sing.
 

But the kid stopped all of a sudden. Froze in the sand, staring in the direction of the refinery. Wez tensed, alarmed.
 

"Hey Wez, take a look!" Blondie called. And just that second far-off rumble reached Wez's ears.
 

He ran out of the tent. Looked where Blondie was pointing.
 

There were too little clouds of dust near the refinery. They were moving away from the gates fast, heading for the old highway.
 

Two cars?

They had sent out scouts, right?
 

Two crews at once?
 

It had been long since they had last gotten so cheeky. Wez had been missing this.
 

"Grinner!" he yelled, darting to his bike. "You and two other cars! Any cars!"
 

Grinner, who had run out of his tent (and apparently jumped off his woman) on hearing the yell, was quick in the uptake. He rushed to the cars, calling up the crew. He was a smart one, that Grinner, though no-one would have thought so at first sight. The first sight of his half-shaven head with low heavy brow, his massive neck and his invariable idiotic grin had led enough people astray. Quite a few guys would have lived much longer if they hadn't trusted that first sight.
 

Blondie was already near Wez, hastily fastening his chain to his waistband.
 

"Get on the bike, kid."
 

The roar of motors behind his back. Wez turned around and, while Blondie was settling behind him, gave the two cars that were following Grinner out of the campsite an appraising look. Two Berserker couples. The Berserkers had joined the gang about six months ago and if you asked Wez, they were the only useful people the gang had acquired lately. They drove little dune buggies in twos. One driving, the other shooting. Weird folk they were, clad in leather head to toes in such weather, never taking their helmets off, but who was normal nowadays? When they had just appeared, there had been thirty of them, and they had brought in fifteen buggies. Now ten buggies and twenty four Berserkers were left. A very low death rate for the modern times.
 

"Ready, Wez."
 

Not wasting any more time, Wez wheeled out on the road and scudded forward to intercept the scout car that was closer.
 

The chase didn't last long. Now, these guys were no racers. And when one of the buggies started to catch up with them, one of the scout car drivers panicked, made a few bad mistakes and turned his car upside down without any help from the side. The second car was still trying to get away, but it was losing speed - some Berserker had busted its tire with a lucky shot. Wez gestured to one buggy to keep chasing it. He himself steered his engine at the broken scout car, near the second buggy. In a second Grinner and his Harley joined them.
 

Hands snaked out from under the broken car. Then a head and shoulders appeared. A scout in a baggy formerly white overall scrambled out of the wreckage and broke running. The Berserkers, wailing and yelling and hooting, abandoned their buggy and dashed after him.
 

Wez got off his bike, leaving a short instruction to Blondie: "Hold it." Called up Grinner and together they dragged the scout car driver out of the mass of twisted metal. The guy was alive and not too badly crippled. Could be of some use. He didn't lose his consciousness, was wide awake; looked at Wez and Grinner with fear and hatred. Wez could deal with that. Just a couple of weeks ago they had caught some idiot on a light bike - and it had been that guy that Wez totally couldn't deal with. He had pity in his eyes. No fear, no hatred. He didn't answer any questions, he just kept preaching some crazy sermons. That made Wez so mad that when Humungus decided they didn't need that preacher, Wez tied him to the back of his bike by his ankles and took him out for a good ride in the wastelands. The land was sandy there, tough and hard, rocky in some places, and definitely rough, so the holyman stopped preaching almost at once, but kept screaming for much longer. Wez stopped only after he realized the fucker hadn't been screaming for some time. Actually, by that time he hardly had anything to scream with. Blondie got scared then, buried his face between Wez's shoulder blades and refused to look back, but Wez was glad he had done it. Pity! As if his mates were any better. The fuck they were. Angels had left this Earth long ago.
 

The Berserkers had caught the runaway and now were dragging him back. He kept kicking away like crazy. After one of such desperate jerks his white scarf fell down from his head...
 

... and Wez, seeing the loose mass of thick auburn hair, realized in amazement, that it was a she.
 

A chick.
 

They sent out a chick?
 

Had they all gone insane or what?!
 

A young chick, on top of that. With a pretty decent body. The Berserkers, who discovered the prize Lady Luck had given them, were tearing her overall off. The driver guy squirmed on the ground, trying to get up, and Grinner gave him a kick in the face. He didn't squirm anymore.

The chick was screaming. Pretty. Big tits. Wez looked back at Blondie, a bit embarrassed. The kid was staring at him. Staring hard. Shit. He looked at the captive again - although there wasn't much to see, a Berserker's body covered most of hers. He wouldn't mind taking part in the fun, but... He looked back again. Still staring, little bitch. Not taking his eyes off for a second. Gloomy. Wez felt the stirrings of irritation inside. He had never fucking married him, had he? He had never swore monogamy either!
 

The Berserkers were already through. Grinner kept glancing at the chick, too, but he didn't dare to rush in before Wez. And Blondie kept staring. The stare was almost plaintive. Begging. He wanted to get away from here. Wez sighed. Returned to his bike and got on it. Blondie dug his fingers in his left side - his right hand was occupied with the bat.
 

"Your folk is out too long," Wez said to the Berserkers. "Catch up with them."
 

The Berserkers jumped into their buggy and sped off.
 

"You," Wez nodded to Grinner. "Keep watch."
 

"There are two of them!" Grinner protested. "I ain't got no spare pair of eyes!" He obviously wanted to have some fun with the babe there and was not sure (reasonable of him) that the second captive wouldn't act up. "You want me to march around them or what?"
 

Wez cringed. So much useless, useless talk. He raised his arm and with two shots pinned the driver to the remains of his car by both shoulders. The man shrieked. Well, this should keep him in place.
 

"Keep watch," he repeated, getting his bike started.
 

He followed the Berserkers' buggy onto the highway, but then turned in a different direction. Blondie took his hand off his waist. Was holding on to the seat. Wez had taught him to ride like this, so that he wasn't in his way while Wez was shooting. He could feel the strain in him now. Could feel it with his back. Irritation burned its way back into him, turning into something sharper this time. Into something with an edge. Wez stretched his hand back, tore the chain off Blondie's waistband and fastened it to his own belt. Near the buckle. The jerk almost made Blondie fall off the bike at full speed. Now he had to press closer to Wez. But he didn't put his hand back on his side.
 

Underage motherfucker.

He had made Wez quit the party. So it was he who had to take care of the consequences. Such as Wez's erection - which didn't make motorbike riding any easier.
 

He was heading to a small half-ruined building a couple of miles north of the refinery. It had been a gas station once. Now the building, thoroughly cleaned out by marauders over the years, turned into an empty box. Like a spam can made of brick, iron and wood.
 

Wez drove his bike inside, running his wheel over a fallen road sign that said EAST TEXAS 2 MILES. Stopped. Unfastened the chain from his belt. Got off. Blondie remained sitting. He dropped the bat, he was clawing at his dog collar and gasping. Wez brushed off all sympathies.
 

"Get off. Now."
 

Blondie looked up at him. Oh, so now we were scared! Not a single muscle in Wez's face moved. Blondie hanged his head and got off the bike.
 

"Undress."
 

Blondie didn't try to play for time by undoing the multiple clasps of his vest. He understood everything right. Unzipped his pants, slid them down, stepped out of them.
 

"Boots, too."
 

A surprised glance. But he didn't say a word. Took off his heavy boots. Now he was dressed only in his vest. He didn't look at Wez anymore.
 

"Bend over my bike."
 

Blondie hanged his head even lower. Turned his back to Wez. Bent over the leather seat. Froze.
 

Wez walked up to him slowly, his steps loud and heavy. Blondie's shoulders twitched at every footfall. Wez undid the lacing of his pants, watching Blondie's skin, smooth as a child's, creep. Blondie swallowed hard.
 

Wez gave him a light slap on the ass. Felt the thrill that ran through his body. No, no lover games this time. He put one hand on the kid's hip, steadying him. With the other hand he settled his painfully erect cock against the tight opening. Blondie swallowed again. Wez grabbed a fistful of his platinum hair and pushed into him.

Blondie didn't make a sound. Just breathed out sharply through clenched teeth. Wez moved his legs farther apart. So tight... he must've hurt him. Again. But this time Wez didn't really care. He was pissed. At Blondie, for slipping into an offended bride mode. At himself, for being bothered by that. At that fucking bitch, who turned up at such a wrong time. He was pissed at everybody. But he had only Blondie at hand.
 

Well, not exactly at hand.
 

He didn't really want to punish him. Nothing like that. All he needed was a quick fuck, to get rid of that burning want. Soon Blondie started to moan. Wez had been expecting him to. He moved faster. Faster, harder... yet faster... hot, tight... moans... screams... Blondie screams... calls his name... louder and louder... and he's not so lifeless beneath him anymore, he's arching, he's pushing back... faster... "Oh WEZ!"... fine shudders in these muscles under his hands... long, shameless yell... the heat around him gets even tighter... clamps down... again... again... Wez growls, gasps, screams, feeling a painful, labored orgasm filling the slim body stretched underneath him... and he comes, too, with a scream-growl-moan, feels the heat pour all out of him, splash out, running out...
 

Over.
 

Wez swayed. Had to hold on to Blondie to keep his feet. Blondie sighed. Wez backed away, slipping out of the hot tight trap. Leaned against the wall. Laced up his pants. Fastened his belt.
 

Blondie straightened up with an almost inaudible gasp. Bent down clumsily, found his clothes on the floor. When he turned to pick up his boots, Wez saw a thin dark streamlet creeping down his thigh. Blood. Sharp regret ran through him. But he couldn't undo anything he'd done. So he kept silent. Once more.
 

Blondie got dressed. Put on his boots. Wez watched him with unease. He had never treated him like that before. Not that he was worried...
 

Blondie met his stare. Gave an insecure smile. Wez, holding back a sigh of relief, smiled back. Blondie turned back to the bike. Took a piece of cloth out of his back pocket. He always had it with him - hadn't been the first time they got the bike dirty, and it could really ruin the leather.
 

Wez sat down on the floor and watched Blondie as he was cleaning his bike. Wiping off the dust, the dirt. Wez's cum. His own blood.

He had never felt more like shit than now. As far as he could remember.
 

"Y'know," Blondie said very softly without turning around, "at times it seems to me you're going to be glad if somebody kills me in the way."
 

Wez gritted his teeth. Blondie looked back hastily.
 

"Hey, don't get mad again. I just said something stupid, big deal... "
 

Did he really think so? Did he?! And Wez had never thought that Blondie might just... get killed? What would it be like... here he is... here he's not? Had Wez ever really been aware how much he had gotten accustomed to it? To not being alone at night? To someone talking to him like this, not expecting him to answer - or guessing what the answer could be by the slightest change in his expression, his posture? To that constant reassuring warmth behind his back?
 

And the kid thought that...
 

"I'm sorry," Wez said in despair. "Sorry."
 

Surprise - oh no, astonishment - in these dark eyes was like a slap in the face. Like a knife to the flesh. Like an arrow to the bone. It hurt.
 

"Sorry."
 

"Oookay," Blondie said, perplexed.
 

"Come here. Please."
 

Blondie gave another smile. A real smile this time. Came up to him, cautiously sat down on the floor beside him. Wez pulled him close. Hugged him. Blondie put his head on his shoulder.
 

Could this be the way the kid usually felt? When it hurt, hurt so badly, but at the same time it felt so good you wanted it to last forever...
 

"If you get killed..." Wez searched for words desperately. "If you get killed... there'll be no me."
 

"Wez..."
 

"Yes," Wez buried his face in that blonde, blonde hair. "Yes."

Because the thing that would be left would be no longer him.
 

"Thank you."
 

Wez bit his lip. Drew a sigh. And asked:
 

"What's your name, kid?"
 

Blondie backed away a bit to look into his eyes. And Wez realized that the kid had been waiting for that. Waiting for two years. For over seven hundred days. For all these uncountable hours. Waiting till he cared enough to ask.
 

Good, hurt. Hurts good.
 

"Jimmy."
 

A few letters. A few short sounds.
 

A name.
 

"Jimmy," Wez echoed.
 

Hair. Eyes. Smile. Now he knew how to call this all with a single word.
 

He would remember this name.
 

Remember, even if he had to carve it in his own skin.
 

Remember forever.

 

*****The End*****