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themummersfolly · 8 months ago

Text

Slipsand

Not sure I like how this one turned out; y'all be the judges of it. Octoboss, Mr. Harley, and Mr. Davidson content, featuring Mortiflyer Matt.

“Harley!”

Mr. Harley stopped in his tracks. He didn’t correct the term of address; the Organic Mechanic called people whatever the hell he wanted to.

“You been in my stash?”

“No.”

Organic eyed him suspiciously. “Sure about that?”

“Swear on me bike!” Mr. Harley raised his shooting hand earnestly. “No offence, but the less I see of you and your kit, the better. Why, what’s wrong?”

“Somebody’s been in my stash and made off with a whole bottle of distilled spirits. You find out who took it, tell ‘em I want it back.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t want you to miss your evening tipple.”

Organic bristled. “That’s an antiseptic, not a party drug! You go make the rounds in the camp, find out who’s got it.”

Technically speaking, Mr. Harley didn’t have to take orders from the Organic Mechanic. But it wasn’t a smart move to piss off the man who might be patching you up tomorrow. He went.

The Mortifiers were camped nearest to Organic’s trike, and if anyone could have snuck in and stolen from him unseen, it was them. But they weren’t the sort of people you wanted to accuse to their faces of something like that. And they’d been off since they rolled back in around midafternoon: quiet, in a way that made him uneasy. Mr. Harley decided he’d check on them last. With any luck, he’d turn up an acceptable replacement elsewhere and Organic would be content to let the matter go.

A low spur of rock jutted out from the ridge, dividing the camp in two. He hiked over it, taking the shortcut and the opportunity to avoid the Mortifiers. He had nearly reached the crest when he heard a sound.

“Eh? Who’s there?”

It sounded like a lizard scurrying for cover. He made his way towards the sound. He and Mr. Davidson could have themselves a fine little barbecue…

Something came sailing out of the rocks and clattered at his feet. At the same time a ragged voice cried out close by:

“Get lost, ya cunt!”

Mr. Harley stared at the pistol at his feet, then traced its trajectory back. The Octoboss sat in a gap in the rock, concealed from most lines of sight. His helmet lay on the ground beside him; the snarl on his face was made significantly less menacing by the bottle clutched in one hand and the way his eyes kept sliding out of focus. Mr. Harley turned to face him.

“Organic wants his hooch back.”

“Tell him to get fucked.”

Mr. Harley tilted his head to the side. “What you doing up here, anyway? Sun’s going down, you oughta be your mates.”

At the mention of the Mortifiers, the Octoboss sat bolt upright, eyes wide with- anger? Fear? For a moment he glared at Mr. Harley, trembling. Then, as if his ignition had been cut, he collapsed back with his head against the rock behind him and took a deep, sobbing breath.

“Oh.” Mr. Harley glanced around, then bent and picked up the Octoboss’s pistol. “Went sideways today, huh?”

“’S a training mission,” the Octoboss slurred. Nobody else in the Horde had training missions; but then, nobody else in the Horde had a record like the Mortifiers, so maybe they were onto something. He looked up and saw his pistol in Mr. Harley’s hands, and snatched at it ineffectually. “Give i’back.”

Mr. Harley dropped the magazine and cleared the chamber before holding it out for him to take. The Octoboss settled back and closed his eyes. Mr. Harley hunkered beside him. This close, he could see the tear tracks cutting through the grime down his face.

“Crikey,” he muttered. “I never knew you to take more’n a sip at a time. How much did you drink?”

Without opening his eyes, the Octoboss held up the bottle. It was three quarters empty; there was no telling how much had been in it. Mr. Harley studied him.

“Not trying to off yourself, are you?”

The Octoboss mumbled something indistinct but negative. Mr. Harley was beginning to wonder if he should go get some help when the other man’s eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright.

“You know what this is?” The Octoboss brandished the pistol in his face. “’S a Colt Commander 45 ACP! Gold-plated, custom grips! Given to me by Killcount!”

“Yeah.” None of this was news to Mr. Harley. “He’s got good taste, Killcount.”

“Had,” the Octoboss choked. “He had good taste.” He started to collapse sideways. Mr. Harley reached out and caught him by the shoulder, holding him up until he could wedge himself in beside him.

“Gitoff,” the Octoboss muttered halfheartedly. Mr. Harley let go of him and he slumped against his shoulder.

“Guess this is why your boys been so quiet.”

The other man’s face knit up in anguish. “’S my fault. Only got in that rig ‘cause I told him to. He trusted me!” A sound like a wounded animal escaped his throat, then quietly, against Mr. Harley’s shoulder: “I fucked up.”

Wondering how he’d gotten to the point where he was comforting the Octoboss of all people, Mr. Harley wrapped one arm around the other man’s shoulders.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Wind’s in the west, about ten knots. There’s a squall on the horizon, looks like it’ll miss us.”

The Octoboss nodded along to Jag’s weather report. “Good flying weather.” He turned to Killcount. “You ready for this?”

Killcount tugged at the straps of his parachute. “Ready for anything, Boss.”

“Let me hear your instructions back.”

“Just like being towed. We get up to speed, I pop the chute and lift off. Steer with the brake lines, put her through some basic maneuvers, don’t try anything fancy.” A sandscreen hid his face, but his posture was relaxed. The Octoboss turned his mask over in his hands, studying his pilot.

“You comfortable with the rig?”

Killcount snorted. “You designed it, Boss.”

“That’s not an answer.”

A cocky tip of the head. “Affirm. If I was any more comfortable with it I’d be napping.”

“Right. Take her up.”

Killcount threw an informal salute and turned to the waiting sidecar. As the driver sped off, Jag cupped a hand around his mouth. “Don’t fly into the storm, wanker!”

The sail opened perfectly; the Octoboss let out a breath he’d been holding. Killcount flailed a little on lift-off, so used to the towing rig, but in short order he got his grip on the brake lines and brought the rig under control. A cheer went up from his comrades as he soared over them.

“Bloody oath, look at him go!”

“Gotta be doing almost 30 clicks, eh, Matt?”

“Piss off, he’s not doing more than 10.”

The Octoboss followed his progress across the sky. They hadn’t even been sure the rig would get off the ground; now that it had, the plan was simple maneuvers only, just to prove the concept. Killcount took the sail through a series of turns, using the occasional updraft to gain altitude. The Octoboss was already making mental modifications. A way to steer that left the hands free, maybe a fan if they could find one the right size. That would give the pilot more control over speed, too, maybe enough to run down a moving target…

The sail began to rise sharply. Killcount banked to stay in that column of air.

“Hey Boss! I caught a thermal!”

“Use it!” he called back.

Up, up, until the sail was a dot against the blue and the glare made everyone’s eyes water. Warthog leaned on his handlebars.

“He better be careful.”

It was a technique they’d discussed but never had the opportunity to try until now: gain altitude with a thermal, then glide until you found another to boost you. Solar power, the History Man called it. Shine the sun’s light on something and turn its heat into fuel.

Jag shielded his eyes with both hands. “I think he’s fouled.”

The Octoboss screwed up his eyes against the glare. He’d drifted out of his spiral, heading east. Part of the sail seemed to be deformed; they could see Killcount struggling below it.

“Lines are tangled,” the Octoboss realized. He was losing altitude fast. He eyeballed the trajectory and kicked his motorcycle to life. Wherever he landed, they needed to get to him first.

The terrain got sandier to the east, giving rise to dunes within a few kilometers. The Octoboss kept one eye on his wayward flyer, willing him to regain control over the rig. If he could make it to the dunes, he might be able to use the updraft to break his fall; if he had to, he could even skid across the side of one and land without injuring himself. He was nearing one of the low dunes now. He kicked out, managed to catch and drag his heels a few meters. A gust of wind caught his sail and dragged him through the crest, out of sight. The Octoboss cursed and gunned his engine, looking for the quickest way around.

“I don’t see him!” Warthog had kept pace with him, Jag hanging out of the sidecar and scanning the terrain. “He couldn’ta gone far, could he?”

Fear rose in his chest. The wide trough between the dunes looked empty. There was no way Killcount could have regained altitude, his sail was almost fully collapsed. The Octoboss rolled up onto a rise in the sand, trying for a better vantage point. There, a few hundred meters away, a movement on the surface of the sand caught his eye. At the same time Jag called out:

“I see him!”

Slightly ahead, the Octoboss accelerated towards the movement. It was human, all right, a pair of arms, struggling at the surface of the sand. Had he landed so hard he’d been buried? And where was the sail? As he got closer, it looked less like Killcount was under the sand and more like he was beyond the edge of it, as though the ground fell away in a-

“Sinkhole!” the Octoboss yelled. He skidded to a halt, motioning frantically for his men to stop behind him. He leapt off his bike and ran forward, throwing himself flat when he felt the sand start to shift under him. Killcount’s fingers were barely visible over the edge now. He shimmied to the edge, reached out to grab his hand, and felt the ground give way, dropping them further into the pit.

Something heavy landed across his legs and he heard Jag’s voice yelling to hang on. He shook sand from his eyes and found himself staring at Killcount. The other man scrambled at the slope. His sandscreen was gone and his eyes wide. His sail was barely visible in the bottom of the pit, filling with sand as it dragged him down.

“Boss!” There was terror there he hadn’t heard since they were teenagers. “Help me!”

Killcount’s hands were just out of reach.

“Lower me!” At the same time, he unclipped his cape and flung it forward. “Grab it!”

A vibration ran through the sand: the rest of the crew pulling up. More of the slope gave way. Killcount screamed as he slid further out of reach.

There were shouts behind him, someone yelling for grappling hooks. The weight on his legs was replaced and he felt himself lowered another meter, two meters. A glance over his shoulder: it was Matt, holding onto a grappling hook with one hand and the straps of the Octoboss’s shin guard with the other.

“Keep going!” he yelled to someone up top. Another meter down. The Octoboss snapped his cape to get it back within Killcount’s reach. This time he caught it by one corner. His legs were already buried to the knee.

“Got him! Pull away!”

Somehow, Killcount got his other hand into the fabric. The Octoboss pulled with everything he had, even as Matt pulled him up by his gear. Motorcycles revved. They were barely gaining ground.

“Don’t let me go!” Killcount’s hands were beginning to slip on the fabric. “Please, Boss!”

“Hang tight!” The Octoboss could barely turn his head. “Hook up another bike!”

“The chute!” Matt yelled. “It’s pulling him down!”

“Killcount! Lose the chute!”

“I can’t let go!”

“Do it!” Turning again, as best he could: “Slack! Slack!”

He slid forward a few centimeters, enough to give Killcount a proper grip with one hand.

“Unclip! Killcount, you’re caught by your chute!”

Killcount looked back at him: panic-stricken, the eyes of a trapped animal. But he obeyed. Holding on with one hand, he fumbled with his flying harness, kicked free of it.

“Pull! Pull!”

A rumble ran through the sand. Killcount lunged, caught the Octoboss’s hand. He had a glimpse of his face, full of horror, and the entire wall of the sinkhole collapsed. Sand filled the Octoboss’s eyes and ears and mouth, dragging him down.

When his head cleared, he was facedown on the desert floor, coughing violently while someone pounded him on the back. His hair hung loose in his face, and something was hung up around his left boot. He realized it was his shin guard.

“Matt-”

Whoever was pounding on his back stopped.

“All good, Boss,” came the ragged reply behind him.

He managed to push himself up to his elbows. His arms and chest burned. “Killcount?”

The cape hung limp in his hand. He blinked sand out of his eyes. At the other end of it lay nothing.

“He’s gone,” said Warthog beside him. His voice shook. “We tried- if it wasn’t for Matt here, we’da lost you.”

He stared, dumbstruck, at the hole where his pilot had been- his best pilot. His friend. To die in a crash was one thing. To die like this, sucked down, choked, crushed-

There wasn’t anything we could do.

It shouldn’t have happened, it was a freak chance, a bad dream-

There wasn’t anything we could do.

He’d had him by the hand, they’d almost been out-

There wasn’t anything we could do.

How long did it take to die, drowning in sand?

The sun was fully down. The Octoboss sat slumped against Mr. Harley’s shoulder, eyes closed. Mr. Harley had placed the bottle with its few remaining swallows out of his reach, but allowed him to keep the pistol; unloaded as it was, it seemed to comfort him.

Boots crunched on the path over the ridge.

“Mr. Harley? Love? You up here?”

“Oi!” he answered back. A moment later Mr. Davidson came into view.

“Organic said you was looking for- oh. Looks like the two of you found his missing bottle.”

The Octoboss let out a huff that might have been a snore. Mr. Harley motioned with one hand: he’s drunk. Mr. Davidson grimaced.

“Pissed as a newt, ain’t he?”

“He had a bad day.”

“He’ll have a worse one come tomorrow. Organic won’t help him with that hangover.”

“Don’t think it can get much worse than losing one of your mates. ‘Specially the way his lot hang together.”

“Poor bastard. Well, what do we do with him?”

“’M right here,” the Octoboss mumbled into Mr. Harley’s jacket.

“Good on ya,” Mr. Davidson replied. “Can you stand up? We’ll walk you back to your boys.”

The Octoboss mumbled a reply.

“Eh? What’sat?”

“Said jus’ leave me here. They don’t need t’see me like this.”

“You’ll freeze to death inside an hour,” snapped Mr. Davidson. “Bloody hell. Suppose he’ll have to rack with us.”

“’At’s alright. C’mon, mate, we’ll make sure you’re safe.”

“Least until you sober up, then Organic’s gonna have your scalp.”

The Octoboss was a couple of centimeters taller than Mr. Harley, but significantly lighter in build; lifting him to his feet was like manipulating a particularly wobbly set of disjointed tent poles. Mr. Harley got one arm over his shoulders, and Mr. Davidson got the other as well as the horned helmet. Slowly, they picked their way back down the path.

“This here’s the tricky part,” Mr. Davidson said near the bottom of the hill. “You get him back to the bikes. I’ll let his boys know where he is.”

“Don’t tell ‘em ‘bout this. ‘Bout…” The Octoboss blinked, his train of thought having apparently skipped the tracks. “Jus’ don’t. Or I’ll have t’kill you.”

Mr. Harley and Mr. Davidson exchanged glances.

“You throw up in my bedroll and Organic’ll have to stand in line to scalp you,” Mr. Davidson replied.

“Don’t throw up when I drink. Never have.” The Octoboss sagged against Mr. Harley. Mr. Davidson made an annoyed snort and headed off toward the Mortifiers’ camp.

“We’re not gonna narc on you,” Mr. Harley offered. “They don’t need to know anything else but you’re alright. After what happened today, they don’t need more worry.”

At the mention of his men, the Octoboss got quiet.

“Can’t face ‘em,” he mumbled. “Keep seeing Killcount. Should been me in the chute, it was my fucking idea…”

“Killcount was a good fella. I’m sorry he had to go that way.”

Dim firelight showed fresh tears on the Octoboss’s face. “Rode with me since we were kids. ’S my best flyer.”

“Yeah. And we’ll remember him when we see you flying. You’ll remember him when you fly.”

They were back at the little campsite. Mr. Harley eased the Octoboss down onto his own bedroll; he’s double up with Mr. Davidson tonight. The Octoboss sat cross-legged, staring at the dirt in the darkness.

“I keep seeing him down there. I keep seeing his eyes. He trusted me.”

“Yeah, he did. They all do, your Mortifiers.” Mr. Harley crouched in front of him. “You’ve always done right by them. So here’s how you do right by ol’ Killcount. When you see him, you reach out, tell him he can rest and you’ve got it from here, and you close his eyes. And then you get up, and you do what you can for them that’s still with you. Savvy?”

The Octoboss stared at him, slightly cross-eyed, before closing his eyes. He swayed in place a little, and for a moment Mr. Harley thought he wouldn’t answer.

“Savvy,” he said at last.

#octoboss #mr harley #mr davidson #wasteland husbands my beloved #the mortifiers #the mortiflyers #mortiflyer matt #original mortiflyer characters #grief #angst #hurt/comfort #alcohol abuse #fanfiction #fanfic #mad max #furiosa a mad max saga

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