Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The roads that still existed in the wasteland were straight. Straight, straightforward and uncomplicated. Straight, because you could drive in a straight line for miles and miles and miles, on and on and on, wasteland either side, ahead and behind, as far as the eye could see. No water, just desert sand and rock. Straightforward, because everybody knew that the wasteland held no drinkable water, no remorse. Uncomplicated, because everybody knew that if you stuck to the marked roads, you would die. The tribes of scavengers that had adapted to survive in that environment would pick you off, waiting for the unaware that still believed it would be safer to stick to the roads. No. It was never safer to stick to the roads.

That was why Max travelled off-road, these days. Roads were bad. Roads got people killed; friends, recent acquaintances, the innocent, wives and sprogs. Roads were fury. Max had been a road warrior once, but as the years had passed, his singular instinct to survive had sent him on lesser travelled stretches of wasteland. Better chance of survival when they don’t know which direction you are going to drive; a direction other than straight into the desert, the storm. 

Straight there and right back again had worked well enough on Fury Road, but a lot of people had died, and it wouldn't work now that Max was travelling alone once more. Avoiding the main roadways meant avoiding the towns, civilisation, the thickest density of people and scavengers and tribes, and people that would need his help and would inevitably die, or be left scathed, in one way or another, or be driven mad if they hadn’t been already. Max could maybe relate a little.

He was travelling an unpredictable stretch of sand, well versed on which areas were safe to drive over, in the car that he had managed to acquire after his last one had been taken by the fury road. He hadn’t seen a soul. The terrain was hard to navigate and the scavengers that thrived here didn’t bother to chase victims down; they just swept up after the ones that were unsuccessful in the crossing. Max wasn’t going to get collected up by the scavengers, and was making good ground. He hadn’t seen a soul. No good souls, no evil souls, no souls at all.

Which was why he was surprised when his car crested a dune, and he saw another car stranded at the bottom of it. It looked abandoned; it certainly wasn’t going anywhere. Max could have left it alone. He could have. But the idea of swiping some spare parts before the scavengers could sweep the area was too tempting.

He drove down the dune in the direction of the car. He kept a sharp eye on his surroundings; looking for scavengers, tribes, other vehicles. He had already considered the possibility of it being a trap, but this piece of wasteland was nowhere near used enough for anyone to even bother putting bait there. But the car hadn’t been picked over yet, which meant it had only recently stopped, and the drivers were likely still around.

His curiosity over the whereabouts of the car’s occupants was answered when, at about ten meters away from the car, a bullet glanced off the corner of his windshield. Max slammed the breaks with a screech and cloud of dust and ducked behind the dashboard, hauling himself across the seats, grabbing one of his concealed handguns as he went, and rolling out of the passenger side, putting the car between himself and the attacker. He swung his arms over the hood, gun pointing in the direction of the other car and the source of the bullet. Other shots hadn’t followed, which made him wonder if it had been a warning shot rather than an attack.

It did not take him long to locate the shooter, because he was mirroring Max’s own stance. A rifle rested on the hood of the other car, the man behind it aiming it at Max.

But the man didn’t shoot. And neither did Max. They waited at a standstill, guns trained on each other. Max did not know how long the tense, silent standoff lasted.

But it was broken by a dog.

Max grunted in surprise when he felt something nudge at his arm. He glanced down, and found himself looking at a pit bull dog. The dog was looking up at him with its head cocked. Max stared back.

There was another long, strange pause.

And then the other man said, “Don’t shoot my dog.”

Max snorted loudly, bemused, fixing his gaze and his aim back on the man. Max hadn’t spoken for a long time; he hadn’t had much human interaction since Imperator Furiosa and the race to the Green Place, but, during that experience and the initially-forced-and-then-willing cooperation with Furiosa, the Wives and Nux, his years of antisocial solitude had ebbed a little, and his ability to interact with others had improved, a little.

Enough that he could now reply; “I’m not going to shoot the dog.”

“No,” The man agreed, “You’re going to shoot me, and when you do, the dog will attack you for it. When that happens, don’t hurt my dog.”

“I’m not going to hurt your dog.”

“And me?”

Max shrugged with a grunt. “You were the one that shot at me.”

“Warning, man, it was just a warning.”

The dog was still nudging at Max’s elbow and Max was apparently unable to stop himself from lowering the hand not on the trigger to pet its head. But he did it reluctantly, he told himself, and believed it for all of two seconds before the dog’s tail started wagging, thumping on the sand where it sat.

Max glanced back at the other man, surprised to find himself amused. He didn’t crack a smile though. It had been a long, long while since Max had smiled. “You sure it would attack me if I shot you?” he asked. Because the dog seemed to like Max well enough, and wasn't acting particularly protective of its owner.

The man shrugged a shoulder, “You wanna find out?”

Bullets were scarce outside of bullet farms and trading towns and so Max used them sparingly, for absolute necessity; Max tried to make as few a trips to bullet farms and trading towns as possible. Plus he didn’t want yet another man’s blood on his hands if he didn’t really have to. 

“Not really.”

They descended into yet another silent standoff, but this time it was about who was going to lower their gun - rather than shoot it – first.

“Look, man,” the other man finally relented. “I don’t want trouble, honest.”

He looked like the kind of man who would like trouble. He had a face with strong features; a hard jawline, sharp angles of heavy stubble framing his face, a nose that looked like it had seen more than its fair share of breaks. He looked burly, muscled shoulders, a similar stature to Max; and as Max knew that he himself could be intimidating, this guy looked intimidating too. But action betrayed first impression, when the other man, after a minute or two more of assessment, drew up the rifle with practiced ease. He did not stand up. He did not touch the safety.

Max nodded sharply and retracted his gun, but kept it in hand.

The other man whistled, and the dog immediately and obediently took off back towards him. The man stood up cautiously, slowly, and reached out to catch the dog by the strip of soft leather collaring its neck.

Max stood too, slowly. If the man had one hand on the dog, he wouldn’t be quick to raise the rifle again. Max slowly came from around the back of his car.

Max did not trust many people. His determination not to trust or become involved with groups, or get too close to anyone else, was often tested; most recently by Furiosa, Capable, The Splendid Angharad, Toast the Knowing, The Dag, Cheedo the Fragile, the Many Mothers and Nux. Imperator Furiosa, especially. He had trusted those he had rode the fury road with. But there had been others before that; The Gyro Captain, Jedediah, the Feral Kid, Pig Killer, Savannah Nix…and all that had come before, after and in between. Those who had survived and those who had not; those that Max saw sometimes, screaming for his help, even when he was years too late to save them.

He did not know whether to trust this man. Just as the man did not seem to know whether to trust Max.

Max surprised even himself by making the first move toward further verbal interaction; “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a dog,” he said, voice rough from lack of use and the dry heat of the desert.

It was true; most of the dogs had gone feral, living in wild packs, or had been trained as guard or attack dogs for towns – which Max made great pains to avoid unless absolutely necessary – and, of course, a lot of dogs had also been eaten.

As though following Max’s train of thought, the other man said, “Don’t eat my dog.”

Max frowned. “I’m not going to eat your dog. I like dogs. I had one.” He had had Dog, his Australian Cattle Dog. Dog had been killed by one of Lord Humungus’ Marauders.

So many that travelled with Max died. His dog, his companions, his family. His wife and child. Voices screaming at him, for him. Even now he heard their voices: "Where were you, Max?", "Max? Is that you?", "You promised to help us!", "You let us die!", "Where were you, Max?" Sometimes he could hear Dog barking. He could hear his wife screaming, their sprog...And sometimes, now, after Fury Road, he could hear the war cries of the Vuvalini, the screamed demands of the War Boys: ‘Witness me!’ and ‘Valhalla!’ and Nux shouting ‘blood bag!’ at him. "Oh, what a day! What a lovely day!" The dead did not have lovely days. Not the ones who visited Max.

“Oh yeah?” the man seemed to relax a little further, apparently appeased at just hearing that Max had once also owned a dog. “After the world went to pure shit?”

Max nodded. “It got killed.”

The man actually looked sympathetic. Like the loss of Dog was as much a loss as a friend, a wife, a child…“What was its name?”

“Dog.”

The man quirked an eyebrow, and grinned, and he looked far less intimidating when he smiled. Max could not remember the last time he had smiled like that.

“Inventive,” the man said. He patted the side of the head of the pit bull dog sitting obediently at his side. It was panting in the heat, but seemed happy. Its tail wagged at the affection. "This is Bull.”

Max snorted and threw back, “Inventive.”

The man’s grin cracked wider, a split in his lip breaking and starting to bleed. He looked a little crazy. Under closer inspection, the man looked to be a similar age to Max, and despite the strong features, there was something youthful and boyish about his face too. Maybe it was the smile. Maybe it was the eyes. Maybe it was because it had been a long time since Max had seen a smile like that, or eyes that earnest...Max was trying to figure out the other man’s pleasantness. Was he just insane? Possibly; Max had met plenty of crazy people along the road. Or was he just starving for human communication and happy to have someone other than a dog to talk to? Maybe; a life of chosen solitude was necessary for survival, but it was lonely too. Or, of course, was he just trying to put Max at ease before trying to kill him? Just as likely; Max knew that well enough. 

The other man had questions of his own. “Where you heading?”

Max shrugged. He did not answer. He did not have a destination. Just the wasteland. And the unmarked road.

“Nice car,” the man said.

Max’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. He grunted his acknowledgment of the compliment, before eyeing the other man’s car skeptically. What was it that this man wanted?

“Mine’s fucked,” the man said, seeming to pick up on Max’s suspicion. He turned to wrench the hood up. “The engine ate up too much sand and it’s choked. I’ve been trying to fix it for hours. No dice.”

Max hummed. He motioned at the car.

The man seemed pleased. “Sure man, be my guest.”

“Back up,” Max demanded, gesturing with his gun that the man should move further away from his car, and in turn, further away from Max’s car. Max was going to keep himself between his car and the man, in case the fucker tried to make a break for Max’s vehicle. And try and leave Max in the dust.

“If you sick your dog on me or make a break for my car I will shoot you,” Max warned, as the man held up placating hands and backed up enough steps for Max to deem it enough to approach.

“I’m not going to try and steal your car, man,” the man said.

Max grunted and turned to look under the hood, keeping his gun subtly trained on the other man’s thigh as precaution. The other guy had clearly seen Max’s gun and where it was pointing, but he still moved a little closer to start pointing out where the problems were. They began to communicate in singular words and grunts and hums as they inspected the damage, speaking and understanding a very similar language; the minimalistic language of the folk who had spent way too many years alone.

The other man had tattoos, Max noted, on his arms, possibly more under his shirt, but Max could not see any marks that looked fresh enough to be tribe or scavenger tattoos; they all looked old.

“It’s fucked,” Max agreed, after a few minutes of inspection of the vehicle. Parts were so rusted he was surprised it had made it so far off-marked-road.

“Fuck,” the man growled under his breath. “The scavengers will clear this out. Clear me out. I need to make tracks before I’m scavenger chow.”

“They might eat you,” Max agreed. He’d been there. Hell, he’d been a prisoner, a blood bag, an intended meal… “They will definitely eat your dog.”

“I know they’ll eat my dog, man,” the man groaned, reaching up to grip his hair, “Shit.” He stopped. He scrubbed a hand over the back of his head, clearly debating something. “Hey man,” he started slowly, cautious, “Can we do a deal?”

Max’s eyes narrowed and he backed several paces towards his own car, gun at the ready. “I don’t do deals.”

“Just hear me out,” the man said, eyes wide and frantic at the idea of Max leaving, and at the sound of his masters’ distress, Bull finally showed some of the guard-dog that had been warned at the beginning of the encounter, his hackles rising, his teeth bared in a snarl.

Max took in the man’s earnest expression, the dog. Max had really missed having a dog. “Listening,” he allowed on a grumble.

“You can pick this over,” the man gestured at his own, broken down car, “Take any spare parts you need that are in good nick. I’m guessing that’s what you wanted when you drove this way? You can have your spare parts and the extra gasoline, just, just take me and Bull a little ways up the road, just until we find another vehicle we can salvage and get on our way? We got places to be, so we won't bother you longer than we have to.”

Max stood stone still, eyes fixed on the man, assessing, calculating. Max had always been a good judge of character when with the Main Force Patrol, a lifetime ago, and in the lifetime since had been forced to become an even better one. He was wary of everyone and everything, but he had instincts, and those instincts had saved his life more times than he could count. This man, he seemed to be ok. The dog looked in better condition than him, which, to Max, spoke volumes about the man's character.

Finally, finally, Max allowed a short, sharp nod, and the man looked so relieved and grateful that Max couldn’t look at him for long.

“Let’s strip it and be gone,” Max said. “We’ve been here too long.”

He was right. Halfway through stripping the vehicle, they began to hear the distant roar of bikes. Scavengers.

“We need to move,” Max growled. “Now.”

The other man grabbed the bag he had stuffed with his and Bull’s remaining provisions, while whistling for the dog. Max, who had already taken the gas cans and salvaged the most necessary spare parts first was happy to abandon the rest, and shoved what he had into the trunk of his car, before leaping into the driver’s seat. The other man threw his bag through the open window onto the backseat, and wrenched the passenger door open, Bull climbing in first and between the front seats to sit on the backseat, as the other man swung into the passenger seat and Max took off.

The engines they had heard were still in the distance; Max could put an hours’ distance between them and the scavengers before the scavengers would even make it to the abandoned car, and by that time, Max’s vehicle would be out of sight, and the scavengers would be too distracted by taking apart the rest of the car and looking for the driver to realise that they needed to be in pursuit of another vehicle.

The other man relaxed finally into his seat. They had both put away their guns during their preparations to abandon the other car, but Max had another handgun strapped under the steering wheel just in case. The other man did not need to know that, and wouldn’t know that, unless he tried something.

“I shouldn’t have driven this way really,” the man spoke up after nearly an hour of silence. “I should have known the car wouldn’t hack the sand, but,” he shrugged, “Avoiding the towns, and the roadways, you know?”

Max made a low noise of agreement.

“And people say that I’m a man of few words,” the man quipped. Max wondered what people had said that and when. He wondered how many people this man had met and lost along the road. He said he had places to be, though, so maybe he still had people to go back to. Dangerous to keep company; too much chance of losing the lot of them.

Max snorted. “You are a man of few words?” he repeated, and once again surprised himself, because he was being sarcastic. It had been a long, long time since Max had said something sarcastic. Max had only said serious words of necessity for a long time now.

“Yeah,” the man said, grinning again. Maybe this man was so quick to smile because he had a dog, Max pondered. Max had always been happier in this fucked-up world with the company of his dog, too. “And you’re a man of even less.”

“So we won’t have much to talk about,” Max countered pointedly, eyes fixed on the road. Fingers ready on the wheel, just in case, just in case he had to reach for the gun.

“I guess not, man,” the other man said, sounding happy; probably still relieved at his turn of fate; no longer desperately trying to fix his car so that he and his dog weren’t left to the mercy of scavengers, or instead, to get lost and die in the wasteland. “Other than your name, maybe.”

Max glanced at him from the corner of his eye. The other man wasn’t looking at him either, eyes on the wasteland ahead.

“I’m Cain,” the man offered, prompted.

Cain. Max did not know if he had wanted to know that. Names were dangerous. Names were an attachment. Names were something to put to the faces that screamed at Max in his dreams, in his waking hallucinations.

But he had nearly been too late to tell Furiosa his, and he would have regretted that.

“Max,” Max said. “My name is Max.”

Chapter Text

The wasteland stretched on, and so did Max’s travels with Cain and Cain’s dog. They had not found any abandoned vehicles in a fit enough state for Cain to patch up, so they could not go their separate ways. During the first couple of days Max had briefly considered abandoning Cain somewhere where there were enough natural resources, but then a little voice of conscience in the back of his head, that now sounded a lot like Imperator Furiosa, had made him change his mind.

It had been an advantageous decision, it later transpired, as Cain turned out to be something of an asset.

“Gun!” Cain yelled, dropping an emptied one back into the car through the open sunroof he was standing through, shooting at the tribe of bikers and modified desert buggies on their tail.

Max reached past Cain’s legs to grab another gun from the passenger seat and put it in Cain’s waiting hand. Max was the driver, and Cain? Cain was a hell of a good shot.

Sure enough, the sound of bullets finally died down and the roar of engines behind them finally died out.

Cain dropped back through the sunroof, moving the guns aside and reaching into the backseat to give Bull the dog a fond pat on the head. He then sprawled himself out in his seat, basking in the sun again, as though he had never had to get up for a car chase and shootout in the first place.

Cain glanced over at Max, “They ain’t after us anymore.”

The corner of Max’s mouth quirked upward a tick, but he did not smile. “I noticed.”

Cain grinned widely at him, openly and easily, slinging his arm up to rest along the base of the open window.

It still amazed Max how Cain was so quick to smile and so open in conversation; in a world where it was so hard to trust anybody or anything or even yourself. But maybe that was exactly the point. Maybe Cain was way past caring. Maybe he was too far gone in this world. Maybe he was as deranged as everybody else and he just showed it differently.

The first day they had met, when Max had barely just introduced himself, Cain had asked, “So is Max short for Maximilian? Maximus? Maxwell?”

Max had been stunned. That information was not necessary. Max was so used to sharing only vital information. In fact, Max was not used to sharing full stop. Hell, he hadn’t even told Furiosa that his name was Max until right at the end of the fury road.

“Just Max,” Max had replied gruffly, with finality.

And Cain had just shrugged with that smile of his and accepted it. He rarely called Max by his forename anyway, still preferring to call him ‘man’, and maybe that was for the best. Use of first names caused familiarity, connection. Max hadn’t once called Cain by his name, not that it stopped it being there in his head now anyway; another name to add to the list. A list that was getting long now; The Splendid Angharad, Nux and the Vuvalini the latest and last to be added.

So it was a concern, making too many memories with his latest companion riding shotgun, because more memories meant more hauntings later on. But Cain apparently had a way of getting under his armour:

----

Max had been working on the car. It was the third day of having Cain and Bull as passengers, and Max had only recently decided not to abandon them, and had come to accept that it might take a while for them to find a replacement car for Cain. They stopped that evening for a break, and Max had taken the opportunity to do general maintenance on his road machine. It had been hot and humid in the early evening and he had yanked his shirt off from over his head. He hadn’t given it much thought, and it had taken Cain’s noise of shocked surprise for Max to remember the blood bag specifications that had been tattooed harshly across his entire back.

“What the fuck happened to you, man?” Cain had sounded appalled. “‘O-Plus, Hi-Octane, Universal Donor’?” he read, “What the fuck, man?”

“It not obvious?” Max had ground out, raising an eyebrow at him, “I’m a blood donor.”

Cain had gawped at him before bursting into a surprised laugh. Well, more of a guffawing cackle. A laugh of the long gone crazy. “Holy hell, Max, did you just make a joke?” He had laughed again, and the dog sitting obediently beside him had barked and howled along with him. “Shit man,” Cain had said, once he had caught his breath and calmed again, glancing once again at Max’s back, “Someone tagged you good, huh?”

Max had given a sharp nod, not particularly wanting to talk about it. The way they held him down and shaved his head and tattooed his skin, chased him as he had tried to escape his captors through the tunnels, how he had hung waiting for the War Boy he was going to lose his blood to. Being muzzled and strapped to the front of that infernal machine…

“Hey man, it happens,” Cain had said easily, and with no qualms at all, lifted up the front of his own shirt, to reveal a deep, gnarled, jagged scar that ran diagonally down from his shoulder to hipbone, like a grisly permanent seatbelt. “This happened right back in the early days. Me and my brother, we got in a crazy road chase and we got flipped in a pile up. I got sliced right across by a piece of metal. It was bad, man, and my brother, Isaac, he went insane over it something fierce when he saw me and the blood and thought I was done. He killed the lot of them that were chasing us that were left alive to kill. I nearly died from infection and it took a long time to get me right and it still ain’t pretty. But we all got scars. Some of them just say stranger things than others.” He had cocked his head and grinned. “’Lone Road Warrior’, huh? That’s a cool title to have.”

Is that what it said? Max had never been able to look at it before. He had no idea what most of it said. Lone Road Warrior. Huh. Well, he supposed it wasn’t wrong.

“Yeah, yeah,” Max had grumbled, not sure what to make of Cain’s story. Oversharing was what it was. Oversharing was bad. Max was learning too much about Cain. The more he learnt, the more it would hurt later. He had rolled his shoulders self-consciously and got back to work.

He had tried to ignore Cain edging nearer for a closer look at the scrawled words.

“’Keep muzzled’, huh?” Cain had read another line of it, and shit, did it really say that too? No wonder they had clapped that metal bracket round his face. “You a mad dog, Max?”

“I think we know who the mad dog is here,” Max had said, “And it isn’t Bull.” Causing Cain to cackle again. The kind of hyper laugh and manic smile that had often reminded Max of Pig Killer, who he had met and escaped the Underworld of Bartertown with.

Max might have eventually bitten the bullet and asked Cain to read the whole lot of the tattoo to him, so he could actually know what words had been written permanently into his skin. He might have. Maybe. But if he did that wasn’t for anybody to know.

----

“So where to now?” Cain asked, lazily reloading the guns, still clearly pleased with himself for shooting out their pursuers on only two guns’ worth of bullets.

“We keep on to your destination,” Max said.

When it had become clear that they weren’t going to find any kind of near semi-functional vehicle lying around any time fast, Max had just decided to drive Cain towards the ‘place’ that Cain claimed he had to ‘be’. Then Max could just drop him off and leave, and rid himself of too long a time in company. That had been a week ago, and even that felt like too long. It was becoming familiar. And familiar was bad. Familiar was regular hallucination fuel and nightmare content.

Cain vowed that they were getting close though, and true enough, when a rocky range came into view on the horizon Cain whooped and hollered aloud, and ruffled Bull’s ears as the dog panted happily close to Max’s ear.

Max would miss that dog.

Bull was sweet natured and obedient and had been immediately trusting of Max. It wasn’t often that someone immediately trusted Max, apart from maybe Cain, but it had still taken him several hours longer than his dog.

“Thanks man,” Cain thanked him, for the hundredth time that week. “Me and Bull, we appreciate it.”

As if hearing and agreeing, Bull huffed and lopped his head over the back of the seat to rest on Max’s shoulder.

“I know,” Max said.

He knew. He knew them now. He had to get rid of them quick, and alive, or the nightmares of them might never leave him.

***

They reached the base of the range the next day and Cain directed Max up a complex trail, barely wide enough for the vehicle; the only safe way up and down.

“We’ve been holed up here for a few years now,” Cain said. He said ‘we’, a lot, but had never actually indicated how many, or given any names. He had mentioned a brother, Isaac, once, during the conversation over tattoos and scars, but he had never actually said whether his brother was still alive or not. “It’s been safe so far. And we’ve dealt with anyone that’s discovered it…take a right here, sharp.”

Max did as instructed, handling the narrow trail with expertise. Because despite everything, Max could not deny that they made a good team. Max was the driver, and Cain was the shotgun who was a real good shot with a gun. If Max had had a weapon man riding shotgun when he had been chased down the last time, he wouldn’t have ended up pinned to a table as blood bag information was etched into his skin in blood and ink. But no, now he was getting sentimental. A rider riding shotgun was not a good idea. Max had to drive this world alone. It was what was best for whatever remained of his sanity.

“Stop here,” Cain instructed excitedly not long later, and when Max stopped the car, Cain swung himself out like a rocket, bouncing like an excitable puppy as the actual dog bounded out after him. “Come on, Max,” Cain urged, with a big grin, slinging his gun up onto his shoulder.

“Cain?” a voice shouted from somewhere nearby, and Max peered out suspiciously through the windscreen, eyes narrowed against the bright light of the sun. “That you?”

“Yeah, bro, it’s me! I’m back! Come on out!” Cain called out into the distance. He turned back to the car, “Max, you good?”

Max twitched a shoulder in a stiff shrug, hand drifting to the gun strapped under the steering wheel. Just in case.

“Cain?” the voice came again, and soon enough its owner appeared from behind a crop of large jagged rocks. The man had shaggy dark hair and was tall; a couple of inches taller than Cain, which meant he was at least four inches taller than Max. He had clearly not liked the look of an unfamiliar vehicle, so was armed, gun in hand, and when he spotted Max in the car behind Cain, the weapon went up again.

Instinctively, Max responded to the threat, yanking the handgun out from under his steering wheel and rising out of the car, weapon up and at the ready. Max and the man stared at each other, eyes hard and focused, expressions determined, guns at the ready.

“Who’s that, Cain?” the man demanded.

“Woah, woah, guys!” Cain protested, holding up a palm to each of them as he stepped into the firing line. “Isaac! Max! Stop! It’s all good. Alright? It’s all good.” He was looking from one to the other of them imploringly. “Trust me, Isaac! Isaac! Come on, bro, please,” he turned to the man – Isaac, his brother – hands still held up, placating. “Without Max I wouldn’t have got back here. Ok? Put the gun down.” He turned back to Max. “Max, this is my brother Isaac, I told you all about him, right, man?”

Actually, Cain had mentioned that he had a brother called Isaac all of once, but Max had to assume that every time Cain had said ‘we’ about the place he had to get back to, Cain had been talking about himself and Isaac. Max had heard a lot about the ‘we’, so he gave a short nod of acknowledgement.

Isaac’s arms made an aborted movement and the gun lowered a fraction. Max watched him like a hawk, and Isaac did the same, and Max lowered his gun a little more each time that Isaac did. It took many long seconds, but finally, through the thick tension, both of them had their guns hanging at their sides.

“Fuck’s sake you guys,” Cain blew out a breath. “Thought I was gunna get shot up then.”

“You’re ten days late, Cain,” Isaac said, tone reprimanding. But then he strode towards Cain – gun and Max forgotten – and dragged Cain into a fierce embrace. “I really thought you were dead this time.”

“Yeah, sorry about that, we got a bit held up,” Cain said sheepishly, as Bull leapt up to lick at Isaac’s hand. “The car started giving up and then broke down. Luckily, Max was driving past. Without him we really would have been dead this time.”

Isaac pulled back and took a hold of Cain’s face, turning his head this way and that, eyes scanning him, reassuring himself that Cain was unharmed. Max observed this, still cautious, determined to stay detached.

Isaac’s dark gaze found Max again over Cain’s shoulder. It took a moment for Isaac to build up to speaking to Max directly for the first time, allowing a “thanks” for not leaving his brother out in the wasteland to get picked up by scavengers.

Max grunted and shrugged a shoulder in a ‘no big deal’ gesture. Isaac watched him steadily, shrewdly, for a moment longer, before releasing his brother and stepping back. Cain was looking incredibly pleased that Isaac and Max had not shot each other, and had actually communicated directly with each other.

“We have so much to tell you,” Cain told Isaac, and that was dangerous; Cain referring to himself and Max as ‘we’. It was too much like friends. It was too permanent. ‘We’, like Max was going to be storytelling as well. Even if Max had wanted to speak – which he most certainly did not and would not - it wasn’t like he would have gotten a word in edgewise with Cain there anyway. “But tell me how you are,” Cain clapped his brother on the shoulder, “And how are the dogs?”

Isaac gave a nod to signify that all was well. Isaac seemed about as willing to talk as Max was. It was little wonder Cain seemed to be the kind to want to fill at least some silences; if he didn’t, Max doubted the brothers would share many words at all.

“Dingo’s had her pups,” Isaac said.

Cain lit up even further, “No way! When?”

“About three weeks ago now,” Isaac said, expression a little admonishing; ‘Yes, you’ve been gone that long of a time’ it seemed to say.

Cain did not look chastened for long. “How many pups?” he asked.

“Four,” Isaac said, “All survived. I’ve named two. Left the other two for you.”

“Yes!” Cain grinned, “Thanks brother.” And then Cain turned to Max, “Come on Max, I’ll introduce you to our little pack of dogs.”

Cain whistled and Bull immediately arrived at his heels. Max did not move. He and Isaac had returned to a battle of mistrust, neither willing to be the one to break the stare they had started.

“Max!” Cain insisted, and Max finally looked away from Isaac. “Come on, man!”

Max glanced back at Isaac, but Cain’s brother had moved aside to let Max past, and so Max cautiously followed Cain into the outcrop of rock, very aware of Isaac following behind them like an intimidating, volatile shadow.

“So, you really didn’t bring this guy to feed to the dogs?” Isaac asked.

Max felt his hackles rise, his nerves lighting up.

Cain barked out a laugh. “Don’t worry man," he said to Max, "We don’t feed people to our dogs.”

“Not often,” Isaac said. Dark humour, a threat, or a disturbing truth? Whatever it was, Max did not like it. Because truth was, the dogs had to eat something, right?

“Ignore him, man, he’s being an asshole.” Cain grinned back at Max over his shoulder. “I would only have fed you to the dogs if you actually had tried to eat my dog.”

Max only just refrained from rolling his eyes. “I wouldn’t have eaten your dog,” Max said, reaching out to pat the head of Bull, who had decided to walk at Max’s side.

“Didn’t say you wouldn’t try to eat us though,” Isaac pointed out flatly.

“Max ain’t a cannibal, Isaac, jesus, man, calm down,” Cain complained. “If he was, he would have eaten me days ago, right Max?” Cain glanced back at Max over his shoulder with an easy smile.

Max was about to make a dry remark – something he had been doing with a disconcerting increase of frequency, lately – that actually, if Max were a cannibal, he would have waited to get Cain back to his ‘base’ where there would inevitably be more people to eat. But firstly, Max never spoke that many words. Secondly, he doubted that would go down well with the on-edge Isaac. Not at all.

“Human isn’t in my diet,” Max said. “And neither is dog.”

“Good,” Cain said, with conviction; maybe with the intention that Isaac could not counter it. “Because our dogs are too cute to be eating.”

Between the rocks emerged a sheltered cave-like entrance and Cain led Max into it without missing a beat, pointing out where he and Isaac lived when they weren’t out scouring the wasteland, and also, as he went, pointing out a handful of dogs of various breeds by their names; which were equally as ‘inventive’ as Bull, who still strolled at Max’s heels:

“So, we got Fox, Cattle, Sheep, Kelpie and Stag…” Cain pointed them all out. “And that there at the back is Dingo.”

And Cain had actually given Max grief for having had a dog called ‘Dog’?

Cain seemed to be thinking the same thing as he shrugged sheepishly, “We aren’t the most inventive either.”

“Speak for yourself,” Isaac commented, brushing past both Max and Cain, uncomfortably close and challenging, in Max’s opinion.

Isaac moved to the back of the cave area and stood next to Dingo; the mongrel dog that had had the puppies. Now that Max was listening for them, he could hear the quiet whines and squeaks of pups. Max and Cain joined Isaac and looked down at the little puppies, wobbling about on unsteady legs. It had been a long, long time since Max had laid eyes on anything so innocent, so…no, he was not going to think of something as cute. Nothing about this apocalyptic hellscape was cute.

“I called these two Coyote and Jackal,” Isaac pointed out the puppies in question; one sandy-furred like its mother, the other much darker. “The other two are yours.”

“Oh well,” Cain exclaimed, immediately crouching down to scoop up the two pups he had to name. He held up the greyish one. “This one is a Wolf for sure! And here you go Max…” Max could only blink as Cain deposited the last mottled-furred puppy into Max’s hands. He was so surprised that he almost fumbled before managing to steady and cradle it more gently than he had held anything in years. “You can call this one ‘Dog’ if you like, after the one you lost.”

Max knew he should say no. Because Cain was saying ‘you can call it’, like Max was going to replace the dog he lost with this puppy. It implied Max was going to be staying. And he wasn’t. He couldn’t name the damn puppy. He knew if he did – if he let it happen – he’d grow an attachment. And an attachment was something else to lose.

All he had to do was give the puppy back to Cain, walk out of that cave, get back in his car, and leave. Easy. He knew how to quit while he was ahead. He had plenty of experience at it. He had walked away after Furiosa and the others made it back to the Citadel. He could have stayed a while, recuperated, restocked, lived, worked, helped them rebuild, build something for himself. Stayed somewhere relatively safe for a while. But no. Max travelled alone. And he quit while he was ahead. Lone Road Warrior.

Max looked at the squirming, three-week-old puppy in his hands and somehow found himself nodding in agreement to naming the puppy ‘Dog’. So that, at least, was a failure. But he could still give Dog back to Cain, walk out the cave, get back in his car and leave. He could still do that. He stepped forward and deposited the puppy back in Cain’s hands. He managed that much.

“I got to get going,” Max said.

Cain looked surprised, “No man, you don’t have to – it’s getting late. You don’t want to be out in the waste after dark.”

Max shrugged, “Do it all the time.”

“No, but you saved me, man. You got me and Bull out of there, and you brought us back here. The least we can do is put you up ‘til morning, give you something to eat.” Cain turned to look at his brother, “Right, Isaac?”

Isaac regarded Max, with a steadiness that was unnerving when the last of humanity had become so unstable. Max could tell that Isaac wasn’t half as keen on the idea as Cain, but that he was grateful enough to Max for saving his brother that he would ultimately grant Cain’s request.

Isaac finally voiced that allowance by saying, “Good job we got a good supply of meat and roots.”

Cain grinned at Max, “Stay for dinner and a decent night’s sleep at least? Then you’ll be more than set to go tomorrow.”

One night. Max could allow himself one night. He reasoned it would be difficult to navigate his car back down the rocky range in dying light without Cain there to navigate. With a narrow trail that tight and sheer, Max would need daylight to save himself a tyre, or the whole vehicle.

That decided it, in the end. He would stay one night. And he would leave first thing in the morning.

Max grunted his admission and Cain’s grin grew wider. He clapped Max on the shoulder - something he had done enough times in the days they had travelled together that Max no longer jerked back on instinct - and said, “Cool, man! I’ll show you where stuff is before it gets dark!”

As Cain put the puppies down carefully and walked away, Max glanced at Isaac, judging whether the older man would want Max knowing the ins and outs of the brothers’ permanent home. Isaac was regarding him silently.

“He always…” Max said gruffly; never one for words, he trailed off and let his tone say the rest – ‘he always like that?’ – because if Cain was always like that, Max couldn’t fathom how someone could still be that easy-going and friendly in a world like this.

Isaac grunted. “With people he trusts.”

Max watched Isaac, and Isaac watched Max. Isaac grunted again and gestured in the direction Cain had gone, in a way that asked ‘well, you gunna follow him or not?’. Despite Cain being more talkative, it was the untalkative Isaac that Max found easier to understand. Maybe because Max and Isaac were more similar in manner than Max would care to admit.

Max nodded once and followed Cain. Despite Isaac’s allowance of Max seeing more of where they lived, Max was still wary enough of him to keep his guard up; he was just no longer wary enough to feel the need to check over his shoulder.

Cain, on the other hand, had already become a different story. After days of travelling together Cain trusted Max, and Max…well, he trusted Cain. But that meant Cain was dangerous. Dangerous to Max. Because Cain had become another person to care about. Another person to lose. It was why Max had to leave in the morning. No exceptions.

Oblivious to Max’s internal berating of letting this happen again – of letting people into his life and therefore his head, again – Cain showed Max how two people, seven dogs and four new puppies lived permanently on a mountainous rock formation in the middle of the wasteland. He showed him how they collected rain water, the toilet situation, where they had worked the land to accept and grow root vegetables, the cooler parts of the cave where they stored food and water. He told him about how they scavenged and hunted food; mainly reptiles, rodents and birds.

When Max asked how they kept all the dogs fed, Cain replied that the dogs got priority on any meat, to the point that Cain and Isaac would not eat meat if there wasn’t enough for both them and the dogs. That spoke more positively to Max about the brothers’ characters than anything else could. He remembered doing the same thing when he had Dog – his Dog – he had sacrificed first-dibs of meat and forced himself to not finish all his food so he could give Dog the scraps.

Max had good instincts about people, and he could tell from the health of their dogs that Cain and Isaac, as crazy and insane as they might be, were good people at heart. Good people like Furiosa and the Wives were good people. Because despite Max's long-running question of who exactly was more mad, him or everyone else, he was still finding a few people who were like him; who tried to be good, even if they were goddamn crazy. Broken and driven to it thanks to this new world that did its best to burn the tenuous holds they all had left of their sanity. Here, in this cave, he could tell he was surrounded by like-minded people. Lost-minded people. And that made them troubling people, because it is very easy to like like-minded people. So, Max had to leave. Sooner rather than later.

Cain had said they didn’t feed human to their dogs, but that didn’t mean they never had. Max asked Cain if they had ever fed the dogs human, and Cain got uncharacteristically quiet and fidgety and admitted there had been a desperate time or two, when they had fed human meat to their dogs.

“I know what I said before; that we don’t. And it’s true. We don’t. But once or twice we…look, we’ve never killed people for the dogs,” Cain was quick and frantic to explain, “But once or twice there were people that attacked us, people we had to kill to protect ourselves, and then they were dead, and we knew the dogs were hungry, man, and there weren’t, there weren’t nothing else we could feed them at the time. We can survive on plants but the dogs, the dogs can’t. And before, when we’ve had no meat and been desperate, we've used bodies as bait for birds of prey, you know, before we bury them. So, the dogs could eat bird rather than people but, those birds can be crafty. They wise up. And by that point there sometimes wasn't no other option. But it’s only happened once or twice and we never – like I said before, you ain’t here to be dog food, man, if that’s what you’re thinking…”

“Cain,” Max said sharply to halt his tirade, and it worked, because Cain stopped and stared at him, wide eyed, “I get it,” Max said. Because he did. Hell, he had seen things a thousand times worse than someone feeding their dog the meat of a human that was already dead and gone and not much caring anymore.

Cain's anxiousness over Max judging him quickly shifted as something else caught his attention; “That’s the first time you’ve ever called me my name,” he said.

Cain sounded pleased about it. Max was not pleased about it. Bad. That was bad. Max had vowed not to get familiar like that. He had to leave.

“Don’t get used to it,” Max muttered.

Cain just shrugged, smiled his manic smile, and said, “Sure thing, Max.”

***

That evening they ate a meal of lizard meat and mashed root vegetables. It was the most substantial meal Max had had in…he couldn’t even remember. Pieces of lizard was also fed to the dogs, who sat with them as they ate. For a social situation, Max found it actually bearable; Isaac also being a man of few words, and Max was already used to Cain’s sporadic filling of quiet moments with random chatter that was largely in the form of monologue, not expecting his brother, or Max, to actually input actual words into the conversation. The dogs also helped put Max at ease. They kept much of his attention, because it was a long, long time since Max had had a dog keep him company. 

Eventually, Cain announced he was beat, laid out on the floor of the cave and went right to sleep.

“I’ll take watch,” Isaac said. Cain had told Max during his ‘tour’ of their home that Isaac would take watch overnight, preferring to sleep during the hotter hours of the day, when he could hide away in the cooler parts of the caves.

Without another word Isaac stood and left the cave with his slouching stride. At first Max was too wary to sleep, to let his guard down, knowing Isaac was awake and alert right outside. There was also Cain, sprawled out and snoring, but Max had snatched sleep regularly over the past week in Cain’s presence, so had already learned that Cain was as oddly genuine as he appeared to be and wouldn’t be waking up to attack him. The dogs Cain had told Max were called ‘Sheep’ and ‘Cattle’ were asleep with their heads resting on Cain’s legs and stomach, so Max doubted Cain would be moving any time soon. And with Bull padding up to flop down beside Max, and Max better fed than he had been in a while, he eventually did go to sleep, with the vow he would leave first thing in the morning.

***

Max woke in the early hours of the dawn. He slowly and silently stood up. The motion disturbed Bull and a couple of the other dogs, but they settled again quickly. Cain was still unconscious; no doubt feeling safe enough in his home to sleep properly for what was surely the first time since he had left it.

Max decided not to wake Cain; to startle a man awake in this world was a stupid thing to do. And Max decided not to wait to say goodbye. It was better not to say goodbyes. It was better to slip off into the waste, the crowd, the distance.

He stepped out into the cool morning air of the wasteland.

“You going, then?” a voice asked.

Max had been prepared for it. He turned to find Isaac sitting outside the cave entrance, his long legs folded to his chest, and a long-range rifle propped against the rock face beside him.

Max grunted a ‘yes’.

Isaac watched him with his inscrutable eyes, “Cain will be disappointed.”

Max shrugged. It wasn’t his problem. It would only become a problem if Max stayed, allowed himself to become attached (more than he had already unexpectedly had to the man he had driven the unmarked waste roads with for a week already), and then lost again.

“Cain gets antsy,” Isaac said, “It’s why he likes to go out for the long scavenge drives. He misses human interaction. He was always outgoing, before. I’m not like that.” Isaac cocked his head slightly, the movement eerily similar to the dogs he spent all his time with. “Other than Cain, you’re the first human I’ve spoken to in years.”

That did not come as a surprise. Isaac was even more antisocial than Max, which was a mean feat. In fact, Max was pretty sure that in the last two minutes Isaac had spoken more words directly to Max than he had for the whole rest of the time Max had been at the cave. Max had come across people who had gone outwardly and inwardly batshit crazy from a long time in isolation – hell, he had come across people who had gone batshit crazy in company, too – but Isaac seemed almost eerily normal, or at least, as accepting of his descent into madness as Max was of his own, which probably meant he only seemed normal to someone like Max.

Apparently, Isaac was more openly contemplative in the morning too, because he continued to be unusually chatty by asking, with a distant look on his face; “Do you remember the first time you killed without remorse? For revenge?”

Max remembered. Toecutter and his gang. For what they did to Jessie and their sprog.

He grunted an affirmative response for a reply, but did not share. That story was for Max, his nightmares, the ghosts of his Jessie and his sprog, and for whatever painful hell Max had hopefully sent Toecutter and his gang to.

“I remember mine,” Isaac said. He wasn’t looking at Max; staring off over the wasteland. “Cain and I, back at the start of all this, we got chased down; got in a real bad wreck.”

“Cain told me,” Max said, “I’ve seen the scar.”

Isaac hummed. “That day – those men that ran me and my brother off the road – that was the first time I killed for anything other than defence since the world went to shit. They ran us off the road, caused a pile-up. They didn't check any of the cars for supplies or anything; they did it for fun, just because they knew they could, and that they would get away with it. I can still hear them. Laughing and hollering. I took one look at Cain and thought he was dead, and something came over me, some...some insanity at thinking I’d lost the last person on Earth I gave a damn about. So, I climbed out the wreck and I slaughtered all those men in revenge for what they did. It was only when I went back to the car that I realised Cain was still alive. But for weeks that wound tried to kill him. It got infected. It was real bad. I couldn’t face this world without him so I vowed to do whatever it took to save him."

Max knew all that, because Cain had told him, but Max learned that there was more to the story.

"I found a small community that had a huge supply of medication," Isaac continued, "and I traded everything we had left to save Cain’s life. But after they took that, they wanted more in return for the medication to help Cain. Sadistic, selfish fucking bastards. They wanted to take my arm. No reason for it that I've ever been able to understand. As a humiliation tactic, maybe; for entertainment. To show they had power over me. To make me less of a threat…” Isaac scoffed, “Like that would have made me less of a threat.”

Max thought of Imperator Furiosa. No, the loss of a limb could never make someone like Furiosa or Isaac less of a threat. It would only make them stronger.

“I killed the leaders of that community too – men drunk on the power they had over others, because they knew what lengths people could go to help their loved ones, that many people would do anything. That was the second time I killed out of revenge, without remorse. I killed them, kept my arm and took back what I’d originally traded. Most of the people left in that place were there for the same reasons I was, so I didn’t take anything else from them other than what medication Cain desperately needed. I don’t regret what I did, but that’s why I can’t stand being around people. People who abuse others because it makes them feel powerful. People who use this fucking mess as an opportunity to gain rather than help others. People who use the excuse of the fucking apocalypse to turn sadistic.”

Max stood in silence. Isaac wasn’t looking at him, and Max wasn’t even sure if Isaac even recognised that Max was still there. Either way, Max found it awkward, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to share his own experiences.

“The dogs?” Max asked instead, to change subject.

Isaac looked at him then, “We picked up strays along the way. Rescued some from becoming food, or being mistreated, before we found this place and isolated ourselves. Cain used to go out on scavenge runs sometimes and come back with one he’d find wandering the waste. Back in the early days, anyway. There’s less around these days. He hasn’t come back with a stray in a long time,” Isaac’s mouth quirked, “Apart from you. First time he’s brought back a human stray.”

Max snorted incredulously. “I rescued him,” he made a point of reminding him.

Isaac huffed in amusement. “Fair.”

“He’s a good shot,” Max decided to tell him, “A good person to have riding shotgun.”

It was more than clear that the thing Isaac cared most for in the world was his brother, so Max could actually see the moment Isaac warmed to Max a little more; a smile that actually reached the very corners of his eyes.

Shit; Max was going soft. He blamed Furiosa. For breaking down all his long-constructed barriers. He had been doing so well alone for so long but then…

“He is,” Isaac agreed, “Thanks for bringing him and Bull home.”

Max made a vague sound to communicate that it was alright, and started to head towards where he had left his road machine. He had to leave, because staying there any longer with Isaac and Cain would be foolish. Max had learned that hard lesson before.

“So, if you aren’t a stray,” Isaac said from behind him, “Does that mean you got something to get back to?”

Max stopped, shoulders hunched, “Not really.” He didn’t have anywhere to go back to. There was no going back. Just the waste and the off-track road ahead.

“And you’re really going to leave?” Isaac asked.

Max turned to look at him incredulously. Despite Isaac's sudden, random decision to tell Max a story, Max hadn't really figured Isaac actually liked him so much as was just tolerating his presence for Cain's sake; “You’re really suggesting I stay?”

Isaac shrugged, “I didn't tell you all that for no reason. I was telling you that I have encountered some terrible humans since our world ended, Max, and I already know you aren't one of them. You aren't the kind of person to extort, to try to gain power, to do bad things just because there aren't any rules anymore. And I can tell you never stay in one place very long. But I'm letting you know if you did want to stay somewhere, for a little while, to not have to constantly be driving, in danger, not knowing where your next meal is coming from, for a little while, then you are welcome to stay. You saved Cain. You brought him home. Letting you stay here one night doesn't feel like enough to thank you for being selfless in a selfish world. I want you to know that not everyone left is dog-eat-dog. Cain and I, we're not." 

"No, but you're very chatty all of a sudden," Max said defensively, because he didn't like the uncertain urge that was building. The little Furiosa-sounding voice he now had in his head was questioning why he didn't take a chance; it might be different this time. That there was some element of hope worth clinging on to, that things could be better. That this could be Max's 'green place'. 

Isaac regarded him flatly, because it was clearly taking him effort to talk this much, and he knew Max knew it. "If it helps you make up your mind. There's a practical reason for you to stay as well. It’s the middle of the dry season, water’s running low, but we know a source of natural water, a few miles that way,” he pointed into the distance. “Normally we take a vehicle each, a couple of the dogs, load up on as much natural supply and water as we can. Bring it back here. It can be dangerous with scavengers out, and with Cain’s car gone, we’ve only got the one. Cain tells me you’re a real good driver. We could use an extra car and a real good driver. If you stayed a few more weeks, help us out, we’ll have more than enough supplies for you to take plenty with you on your way; after the worst of the peak of the dry season is over. By then the puppies will be old enough too, and maybe if you decided you wanted to take Dog with you…we could maybe come to an arrangement.”

Max knew he should leave. He should get in his car and leave. Instead, he stood still and tense and torn. Harsh practicality warring against a riskily wishful vision. He missed his Dog – his old Dog. He missed all the people he had met and lost along the way; even if they did insist on haunting his days and his nights. The idea of having a puppy, a dog, with him on the road again, it was the most tempting thing in the world. But he couldn't.

“Being relied on,” Max finally said, the most vulnerable he'd been since Fury Road, “Having something – or someone – rely on you, knowing you’re the one responsible for them…and then losing them. Not being able to save them. It’s happened to me too many times.”

“Then you don’t have to take a puppy,” Isaac said simply, “I just figured from what I saw of you with the dogs yesterday; you're good with them. Maybe if you stayed a couple of weeks, you might change your mind…”

“It’s not just the dog I’m talking about,” Max interrupted shortly, to make Isaac understand; it wasn’t just Dog the puppy that Max didn't want to feel responsible for losing, but Isaac and Cain too.

“Me and Cain?” Isaac clarified, “We’ve lived this life for years. We look after ourselves and each other. You don’t have responsibility for us, man. If we die, that’s not on you.”

“It doesn’t always work like that,” Max said, because Max’s ghosts were indiscriminate.

“I know,” Isaac said.

“Hey!” a voice interrupted, as Cain appeared at the mouth of the cave, followed and surrounded by the multiple dogs of all breeds and shapes and sizes. He visibly brightened when he noticed Max, “Hey, man! You’re still here! When I woke up and you weren’t there, I thought maybe you’d gone.” He smiled at him, “You thinking of sticking around a bit longer? He’d be welcome to, wouldn’t he Isaac?”

Max looked at Isaac. Isaac shrugged. He'd said his piece. He'd let Max know it wasn't just Cain who would welcome him staying for longer. It was ultimately Max's decision now, whether he stayed or left.

Since he’d arrived, Max’s world-worn instinct had been telling him to leave, but as Bull trotted up and nosed at Max’s fingers until Max petted his head, Max’s long buried desire to rest, just for a little while, rose unchallenged.

“Maybe for a couple of days,” Max finally allowed.

***

Three weeks later, Max was behind the wheel. There was nobody riding shotgun.

And there were five dirt bikes on his tail.

Max swerved, sand flying up in a golden arc behind his road machine. The bikers followed, sending a hail of bullets after him.

There was a sudden crack of a gun and one of the bikers jerked and dropped off his bike; a second shot and the second rider hit the sand.

As the third bike rounded to the far side of his vehicle, Max glanced over to the car driving parallel to his own. Isaac was behind the wheel of the other car, and he sped it up so that Cain, who was standing up out the sunroof, could get a decent shot over Max’s car. Max rolled his eyes and abruptly turned the wheel enough to ram into the side of the third biker, knocking him off. As Cain hollered over to him for being a show-off, Max looked through the rear-view mirror to check on the Australian Kelpie and Fox Terrier dogs sitting on his backseat.

“You two good?” he asked them.

Fox and Kelpie didn’t look the least bit anxious by any of what was going on. Kelpie actually ‘ruffed’ as though in affirmative response.

As Cain put a bullet in the fourth biker, who had sped up to get ahead of them, Max spotted the fifth and last rider in his side-view mirror, riding past Max with intent towards Cain, who was still facing the way of the fourth. Max pulled the handgun out from under his steering wheel, and with one hand on the wheel, leaned out of his open window to shoot the fifth rider before they could take aim at Cain.

Cain noticed what had happened, and sent Max a salute of thanks, laughing uproariously as he victoriously dropped back down into the other car. Max sped up until his and Isaac’s cars were driving side by side. Isaac sent him an idle ‘ok’ hand gesture from behind Cain, who was grinning widely and reloading his gun; just in case, since they had dealt with all of their pursuers quickly and efficiently.

As Isaac intentionally accelerated to encourage Max into a race to their destination, Max saw the Australian Cattle and Sheep dogs watching him through the back window of Isaac and Cain’s car. Max could not help the slight uptick of the corner of his mouth at recalling Cain jokingly declaring that they should call themselves ‘The Road Dogs’; three road warriors with their pack of dogs.

As he and Isaac raced their cars over the wasteland, Max also could not help but think of Nux shouting 'oh what a day, what a lovely day!' 

Max had been so wary about allowing himself to join other people again, but a couple of days had become a week, and then a couple of weeks, and as the days passed, something in the back of his mind kept reminding him that he was becoming less and less urgent about moving on, and that was dangerous. But Dingo’s puppies, which were at that moment safe back at the cave with Dingo, Bull and Stag, were now walking properly, padding around with their overly large feet. Max was currently spending hours a day playing with Dog, Wolf, Coyote and Jackal. And it was making it harder to want to move on just yet.

He had also realised pretty quickly that he could rely on Cain and Isaac – they didn’t need help or saving (despite his initial meeting with Cain) – just like Furiosa hadn’t needed help or saving. But just as Max had wanted to help Furiosa regardless, because he had seen the good in her, he had also decided to stay a bit longer with Cain and Isaac for the same reason. Max suspected maybe the brothers - especially Isaac - knew it wasn’t them that really needed help; that needed somewhere quiet, for a while; somewhere that provided a safe haven filled with dogs and puppies; somewhere to stay, for just a little while.

The longer he had stayed with Cain and Isaac, the more he had even been haltingly opening up to them, telling them stilted tales of things he had witnessed. Of Furiosa, the Fury Road, the Thunderdome… Cain had listened with awe and earnest sympathy; Isaac with a quiet understanding of why Max is who he is, now.

Max hadn’t stayed with Furiosa and the Wives, and afterwards he had found himself wondering every now and again what it might have been like if he had. He hadn't told Furiosa his stories, but he wondered what she would say if he had.

This time, Max thought, he could allow himself this moment of relative tranquillity, fun and belonging (as warped as this world had made what those words meant).

This time he could stay. Just for a little bit longer. Just for a little while.

He had to appreciate this moment while it lasted.

Because in Max’s world of fire and blood, it never took too long before the sand was pulled out from under him.