FOLK TALES OF THE WASTELAND
The dry crack of thunder booms through the dust storm. Folk and beasts alike are worn to bone by the blast of dry sand. They died easy, and they died fast compared to those that live; the dust is followed by the black rain. It’s sick droplets witnessing the arrival of the deluge to arrive soon. Another generation will witness death soon enough.
The buzzards hoot and crank their V8s awake as they race down from their twisted metal lookouts into the dry riverbeds below. The caravan’s rusted spiked siding no match for the raiders industrial saws.
A Dog of God walks out of the Lick in the west; he comes carrying a well-polished revolver, a tumour maligned mule packed full of honey and his true mission the Good Book. He is ready to preach and give holy mission to the blessed and punish the wicked with his revolver and fist.