Want you to love me, like I'm a hot ride, oh yeah,
    Want you to make me feel, like I'm the only girl in the world~

Gas was hard to find nowadays. Siphoning whatever was left in broken-down car wreckages, picking leftovers from abandoned gas stations, bartering with whatever survivors were left. The fragments of life before were few and far between, and all the more precious for it.

The frankensteined machine of steel was thundering down the highway, speeding past wrecks and potholes. Its rider, a beauty clad in leather hotpants and a breezy jean jacket, had her eyes set on the horizon, the skyline of a city cresting over it.

Her sunglasses helped somewhat against the wind blasting her face. Her cowboy hat did not, which is why it was resting in a box near the driver's saddle. Her headphones were a must, and not only to mute the roaring of the engines. The chewing gum she was angrily tearing apart still had a strong fake strawberry taste, helping her ground a little. Somewhere in the trunks of her beast, she had a set of protective gear, but in this wasteland, what was the point of protection? If she was going to die, it was not going to be in a car crash, that much she knew. The city, maybe. Cities were breeding grounds, there were a lot of fresh novelty critters that could kill you there. She knew a thing or two about dealing with those, too.

Approaching the city, the first crowds were becoming visible in the distance. They almost looked like fans gathering for a show, she thought. Man, how she missed concerts. A concert would do her nice. Did anyone organize concerts nowadays, she wondered as she reached down and pulled a lever. Multiple sharp and jagged metal plates, gathered from armored military convoys, unfurled and dropped in place at the front of her vehicle. Let's give those fans an appropriate greeting, she thought as she put up the windshield.

By the time she put it back down, the sun was setting. The windshield, just like the armored plating and every other exposed surface at the front of her beast, was drenched in blood and guts. She had never had a good sense of smell, so there was nothing impeding the adrenaline kick she got from the senseless violence. It felt g o o d to wind down once in a while, you know? She turned off the engines, donned on the cowboy hat and swung down from her throne, lifting one of the reinforced doors.

Man, cleaning up was always a bitch, though. Well, that was the price for crossing a city with some motha-fokin s t y l e, ya know what I mean? Far off, she could hear a screamer gathering another group, but she knew she was too far away for them to track her. The small concrete cabin off the road was positioned there for a reason.

She approached with her usual saunter, somewhat impeded by a bag swung over one shoulder. By the time she got to the rusty metal door, someone had gotten a hint and opened the viewing window. She tipped the hat at them.

"Password?"

"Baron, you son of a bitch, you know it's me. Open the door before I decide to cut your balls off and feed them to a smoker."

The eyes in the slot hesitated before it closed, and the clattering of metal locks came from behind the door. After longer than she deemed acceptable, the door opened, and a little, older man with mutton chops and a bald top, wearing a smeared apron, stood on the other side.

"You really need to learn some manners," he commented, glancing at her bare cleavage. In place of an answer, she tossed the bag into him and walked in like she owned the place. The jacket was open for a reason - part of her wanted to know whether people were taking her seriously for actually being able to survive and thrive out there, or whether they just saw a hot bod for the first time in months. Part of her was getting off to the attention.

A flight of stairs down and another heavy set of doors led her into a well-stocked and organized bunker, barrels of clean water lining one side, rations and ammunition the other. Yet another set of doors led to a lounging area, a couple tattered but functional sofas encircling a coffee table that had clearly seen better days. She plopped down in her favorite corner, inviting herself to a cookie and a cigarette from a nearby stash. The Baron finally caught up to her, closing and locking each set of doors behind him, not entirely sure how to carry the bag and still hold up to his title.

"Can you please stop smoking in here? It takes ages to get the stink out . . ." He ignored her dirty boots on his dear table, carrying the bag to a workbench further back and inspecting its contents.

"Eh, with how often you get guests here, you could use the distraction. Any news?"

The Baron sighed. She was a natural disaster. There was no way to deal with her recklessness or disregard for others, her ambivalence to the world around her.

Despite all that - or maybe just because of it -, she was the best scavenger there was. Like it or not, that was the price for her services.

"The Old Guard needs ammo, as always. Found another sarcophagus, trying to get shit rolling again. The Merchants got their hands on some weird magicky shit again, and are looking for anyone with enough expertise to help them figure out what it is and how it works - or with enough money to get it off their hands. The Hell Raiders-"

"-are spineless little bitches that can't even raid properly? Color me shocked." She took another deep pull and tapped out in the middle of the table, still not over some apparent personal beef with one of the factions.

"They attacked a Tacoma outpost."

Slowly, she took another pull and put out her cigarette in the ash tray. "Well, fuck me sideways. When?"

"From what I gather, last week. I had some issues with a couple Zs that decided to pay me a visit, so I wasn't on the waves when it happened."

"Where?"

"Belinda, there's nothing for you to-"

"That's 'Berry' to you. Where?"

The Baron sighed. He knew there was no point in her getting into that entire mess. He also knew that there was no point in trying to argue with her, yet he tried anyway.

"It was a week ago. Even those that survived would've moved out by now-"

"Well I might wanna check anyway! Who knows, maybe there's someone there, begging for a hot chick to come save them! Not like you'd fit the bill." She leaned back angrily and took out another cigarette, well aware of the effect that was having on her jacket. "Which outpost, Baron?"

He sighed again. "Guilford."

She thought for a moment, lighter raised but not lit. "Huh. That's not far from here."

"Berry, please-"

"You got some road maps of the region, right?" She got up and started looking through his stuff, cigarette unlit. "Mine go mostly in the other direction, imma need fresh waypoints for around here." She pulled out a neatly folded piece of taped-together paper, spread it on the table - carefully avoiding a pile of ashes, what kind of animal leaves that there - and started tracing out a route with a finely manicured but chipped fingernail.

The Baron took off his glasses and started rubbing the bridge of his nose. This girl. It gave him headaches. He knew well enough to keep backups of all his data, but rummaging for something as precious as a map like that . . .

She nodded to herself and started folding it up. "You're not gonna be needing this one, right? I'll have to copy it," she said, putting it away in her jacket and heading for the door again. "Well, nice chattin' with ya, keep the bag, spit in Edmund's coffee next time he comes by, and be a darling and don't feed the Zs, aight? Seeya!"

"Berry!" he shouted after her as he came up to lock the door behind her. In an unusual streak of manners, she held back and turned around to listen.

He took a deep breath. This was going to be hard. "Look, I know it's hard, but . . . she's dead, aight? Your girl's not out there." Ducking down, he barely missed a lighter as it whistled above his head and shattered against the concrete behind him.

"You keep your fucking gob shut, would'ya," she hissed at him, and left.