The Tale of Johnny and Jenny

At first there was white noise and blinding agony.

Focus, breathe; blink, breathe.

There was a high-pitched ringing and sharp, shooting pains in her ears as the scenes in front of her began to become apparent.

A bus full of dead killjoys: evidence of a failed attack on BetterLiving/industries. Bright sunshine cast long shadows of the rubble and bodies, making her crease up her face and blink furiously as it dried her eyeballs and stuck the dust and grit to her sweaty forehead.

Her head was pounding, throbbing from a severe blow to her right temple. She couldn’t figure out what was causing the most pain. Her body was covered too many laser wounds – a lot of them fresh but some also a few days old and potentially infected.

Her attention was drawn to the biggest wound she could see. Her thigh was torn open and putrid with pungent burnt flesh and horrible bright green glistening gel that was definitely acidic, toxic and smarting – Ghost Glitter. As she made an attempt to push herself up on her elbow her back contorted, shooting stars invading her vision and she slumped back down painfully, holding her arm which was spurting hot thick blood. She tried to control her breathing which was now out of control and making everything spin, and bile rose up the back of her throat. She retched several times, nothing but a nasty taste and a lot of choking on the dry hot air came of it. Her eyes rolled back in her head as she loosened her grip on the injuring, chunks of charred flesh sticking to her palm. She could definitely tell there was some of her bone visible and if she could have shed tears, she would’ve.

Trying to overcome the fear that now gripped her she assessed the facts. She couldn’t move. She was bleeding out in a dirty warzone in the desert with no comrades left alive and no communication equipment available.

She was going to die in a matter of hours from dehydration, shock and blood loss and the poison in the Ghost Glitter... If the Vultures didn’t get to her first.

Her thoughts were overwhelmed by pain and although she gritted her teeth something inside her lost control. Desperately she searched her tattered clothes and the surrounding gravel for anything to bring her back to the moment at hand, to cry out for help or give her a way out but it was futile. Or was it? Taking a rasping breath she grasped her emergency flair which had fallen out of her make-shift holster. With every last ounce of her strength she made a choice that no Killjoy ever wants to make. Did she draw attention to herself in a desert full of Dracs and strange Killjoys, with a tiny chance of surviving, or die a slow agonising death anyway?

The red light shot up in a cloud of smoke and sparks and her body relaxed as she span into unconsciousness.

***

The trembling silence of the desert was interrupted suddenly with the jarring sounds of a retro muscle car speeding towards a visual distress signal. An S.O.S flair had been ignited a few kilometres along the Getaway Mile. The radio was blasting out heavy rock music and a dust cloud was whipping its way along the bumpy tarmac, chasing the noisy vehicle.

The decimation that greeted them had the car skid to a halt quite a distance away and the two tall, grungy figures in a rainbow of leather drew their laser guns cautiously before stepping out towards the wreckage.

“Go careful. A S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W cleaner team will be here soon. I see dead Dracs.” The taller, skinny figure announced after scanning the scene with a scanning device held to his left eye. “There is one body still warm in there, heartbeat is irregular though.”

“Best keep the engine running then, Kobra. You stay and be my eyes; I’ll extract him.” The other figure’s voice showed clear command. He powered up his weapon and clicked his communication system on so they could talk, before setting off wordlessly into the massacre site.

***

Somebody was slapping her gently, but with urgency.

She knew this and she willed herself to speak out – tell them to piss off – she was trying to rest and recuperate. She hurt and her head was suffering from the intrusion.

Then, someone shook her whole body and she screamed as loud as she could as her eyes popped open and she felt as though she had been thrown into a white hot fire-pit. She gasped and this time she did cry, eyes unseeing with the violation of light and dust, and bile rose and dribbled out of her open cracked lips and she frothed and spluttered and convulsed in pain. With her working arm she saw she was gripping the arm of a blue leather jacket and her nails were cutting into it, knuckles white and muscles clenched, cramping.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He was shouting at her, no longer touching her and thanking his iron stomach as the smell of her burnt flesh and dried blood and fresh vomit assaulted his senses. On top of the dead bodies all around her.

“Bro, get out. Get out! I see dust clouds.” The communication device crackled and the voice pushed him into action.

He glanced around them, looking for anything to help her with her injuries, something clean for her to bite down on when he dragged her out of here. There was nothing.

“Fuck it. Bite down on that this is going to hurt like a bitch.” He unwrapped a bandana from around his neck and balled it up in her mouth. He used a few pieces of string from his holster to tourniquet her arm above the elbow and her thigh. Then he dabbed at some of her other wounds hoping they weren’t as deep as they looked before he stood up, dusted himself off and as gently as possible (there is no way to do this gently, let’s face it) pulled her over his shoulders in a fireman’s lift and started running.