The roar of the engine soothed him. The long, desert road stretched for miles, seemingly never-ending as he drove along the Faustralian highway, kicking up dust and dirt. Looking over his left shoulder, he saw the Blue Hoofer nestled in the pile of blankets he had set out for him. An empty can of dog food sat next to it, a spoon long forgotten dropped carelessly inside the now dry canister. It was the duo's lunch, started by the stallion, and finished by his companion, just like always.
Keeping one hoof on the steering wheel, the stallion reached a leg back and patted the dog's head, its fur dry and greasy, a minor consequence of the lack of a proper washing in weeks. The stallion smiled, turning his attention back to the road ahead. The highway was easy on the stallion; it was straight, wide, and seemed to have been untouched in ages. The latter was a blessing; untouched meant no thugs. Grinning, the stallion glanced over at his fuel level, a constantly rehearsed practice of his since day one. His smile faltered, however, when he noticed the white arrow on he fuel gauge, pointing a little bit to the right of the large, white E on the far left side. His grip on the wheel tightened; he would have to find more petrol.
This usually difficult task proved easy once he spotted a large group of wrecked cars about three miles ahead in the road. Pushing the gas pedal a little harder, he sped toward it, praying in the back of his mind that he wouldn't run out before he reached the cars. He didn't, instead rolling toward the wreckage with four gallons to spare. Pushing the brake pedal with a loud grunt, the Pursuit Special screeched to a halt. The stallion sat idly, breathing calmly and surveying the wreck.
Five heartbeats later, he reached to his left and grabbed his gun, pulling the hammer back and opening up the middle of the shotgun. The back end of an unspent shell stared back at the stallion from the left barrel, the right remaining empty as he reconnected the two parts and opened the car door. The dog excused itself as well, jumping out the left window and joining the stallion as he trotted toward an overturned car. Looking it over, he turned to his left and gave the car a hard kick. If it was overturned, the gas would've leaked out ages ago. The clip clopping of his hooves made itself noticed as he tuned his ears to the road behind him; he thought he had heard something, but upon examination up the road, he spotted nothing. Turning back to the wreckage, the stallion went back to a dust-covered big rig, the tanker marked unusable by the large hole in its side.
Bringing a hoof up to the rig's cargo, he knocked on its side. An echo met him back, and the stallion could swear that he saw fuel inside. A large, tried frown on his face, he jumped up to the hole, grabbing it and hoisting himself up. Looking through the hole, he groaned. The tanker was empty; not a single speck of fuel was to be seen.
Dropping back onto the road, he saw a buggy to his left and quickly ran over to the fuel dripping out the engine. Looking around in a panic, he found two small bowls and a large plate, battered by the desert, but still usable. Sliding them underneath the still leaking engine, he breathed heavily. The day was usually always this hot out, but today's heat was a different story. It felt as if Celestia herself were bringing over a hundred suns and shining them directly on him. Wiping his brow with a free hoof, he turned back to his companion, who was face deep in a can of dog food. Trotting over to it, he patted its head. It barked its thanks and pointed its head toward the overturned car he had bucked not five minutes ago. "G'boy," the pony said, crawling underneath the car to scrounge for remaining supplies. The car was empty, save for a few cans of food and a shotgun shell, and the stallion suddenly pondered if his luck had changed.
Taking a seat next to the canine, he reached for the side of his left boot and pulled out his knife, swinging the blade out and planting it underneath the lip of the can. Slowly, he opened it, and with a defiant sigh, he pulled a spoon off his belt and began to dig into the food. The food was at least a few years old, but nevertheless it was food. Nodding his head, he dropped the spoon inside the can and found his gun. Opening it once again, he placed the shell he had found into the right barrel, closing it with a smile.
Picking up the can of food with a hoof, he holstered his shotgun and trotted back to his Pursuit Special, reaching through the window to put the canister into the passenger seat for later. Turning back to the leaking buggy, he walked toward the now full bowls and plate waiting for their insertion into his engine. Carefully biting the side of the first bowl, he wobbled to the side of the Pursuit, pouring the petrol into the receptor. He repeated this process twice more with the other two makeshift containers.
Closing the receptor with a makeshift plug, he reentered the car, closing the door. His canine companion vaulted through the left-rear window, crawling back under its blanket to take a well-deserved nap. The stallion, watching his dog, smiled again; he needed a rest as well, but he had to get to a safe place to hide the Pursuit first. Stamping on the gas pedal, the stallion rode off toward the setting sun, kicking up dirt all the way.
As the Pursuit traveled aimlessly along the highway, the stallion scratched the back of his black mane idly, eyelids growing heavy as he involuntarily yawned. Fighting to stay awake, the stallion yawned yet again. Celestia dammit, stay awake. Stay awake. he silently yelled to himself, every instinct in his mind joining in. The late night fought back with more effort than the stallion's mind, and he soon found himself driving off the right side of the road toward a large formation of rocks. Too tired to raise an eyebrow at his subconscious, he turned the key of the Pursuit, shutting off the idle engine and cutting the bright yellow headlights. As the stallion made himself comfortable, he looked back at the road with a hint of longing. He never liked camping out in a spottable position before, but his sudden tiredness drew him to the back of his seat and into slumber.
The warm rays of Celestia's rising sun awoke the stallion from his slumber. His vision, though blurry, soon allowed the stallion to begin his daily routine as he straightened in his seat. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he fought hard to suppress the long yawn threatening to emerge from his wide open mouth. Waving his right hoof over his still gaping mouth, he was able to stave it. Blinking, he turned his head to look at his canine companion, who he assumed was still dozing off underneath his sheets. He was wrong.
The Blue Hoofer was nowhere to be seen. Brow knitting in irritation, the stallion's eyes wandered around the rest of the car's interior. The jars of dog food still lay devoid of its contents, the discarded spoon still carelessly dumped inside the empty can. Grumbling, the stallion leaned forward in his seat, retrieving his shotgun from the floor. Grabbing it's right side, he inserted his hoof within the worn-leather cuff he had crafted into the handle, choosing not to tighten it for the time being.
Turning to his left, he grasped his empty gas can, knowing full well that he could find anything in the Outback, possibly including a scavenge-able car, maybe even with some spare food and ammo.... the stallion mentally bucked himself for over-indulging on his thoughts. He had to focus on the matter at hoof; his canine companion was missing, and as far as he knew, was miles away by now. Looking back at his Pursuit Special, he was presented with two options: to continue on hoof, or to drive onward. While driving would be a lot safer, the car was low on fuel as it was, and going on a wild goose chase for the Blue Hoofer could prove deadly later on. On the other hoof, if he continued onward, he could become fatigued fairly quickly due to his recently blown-out ankle, and he would have to hide the Pursuit Special very carefully, so as to not return to a band of thieves trying to take his fuel. That would only end up....messy..for them.
The stallion adjusted his hoofball shoulder-pad and decided to travel on hoof. Turning fully around to his Pursuit, he trotted toward the driver's side, opening the door and grabbing the camouflage covering from the back seat. Hoisting it around the car, he made sure it was hard to see, nestled behind the overhang of a large rock. Though it was a little easy to notice, possibly due to the fact that he alone already knew of its existence, he finally picked up his previously discarded gas can and headed off toward a clearing.
It was simple enough to track down where the canine might have went; as it ran across the field, it formed a pathway through the dry grass, allowing the stallion to pinpoint his destination rather easily. What the stallion didn't realize was how long it would take, Celestia's sun beating down upon his dark leather clothing, causing his brow to involuntarily sweat. He wiped it off subconsciously, a practiced movement of his since day one out in the Faustralian Outback.
As the stallion slowly reached the bottom of a large hill, he silently cursed his lack of wings or magic; being an Earth pony in a world full of high speed chases and deadly marauders, no way to really grasp things proved difficult. Luckily, the stallion had a collection of belts from his time in the Faustralian Highway Patrol. With a couple of spare parts from wrecked vehicles, the stallion learned to craft anything useful, such as the makeshift funnel that assisted his driving, and the cuff necessary for wielding his firearm. Along with his plethora of items was his homemade ankle brace, made out of a wrecked car's tailgate hinges, needed for walking since his cannon had been blown out by a gang member five years before, along with a slight shakiness in his shooting foreleg from a motorcycle running over it the same day, fixed by the now absent sleeve that covered his right foreleg.
Walking up the hill after his rather lengthy reminiscence, the stallion was greeted with a dirt road that stretched for miles to his right side. Along the main road stood a secondary road, one that went around a large, barren tree and curved back toward its larger cousin. But it wasn't the road that interested the Earth pony, no, it was the dusty object that stood on the outcrop road, and the curious animal that was walking around it.
The stallion suddenly noticed he had un-holstered his shotgun and was aiming it at the machine before him, and with a raised brow, he replaced it within its holster, trotting over to the Blue Hoofer as it stopped and looked at him. It walked over to the Earth pony, who reached with his right foreleg and patted the dog's head, words of a job well done exchanged as he mussed up his companions fur.
Whistling for the canine to follow him, he trotted toward the machine, which he now noticed had a large three-bladed propeller atop it. It looked to be a gyrocopter, something not unheard of in the vast Faustralian Wasteland, a favorite of many survivors who could get their hooves on one, as being in the air meant no danger unless spotted from below, a easily avoided feat as the prop could usefully be quieted down with a smaller engine. This gyrocopter, however, lacked a smaller engine. The stallion contemplated whether or not the owner had a death-wish, but soon stopped himself as he noticed the small tanker of gas right behind the engine compartment.
He had a feeling it was a trap, and he quickly reached for his shotgun again as he scoured around the area suspiciously, inching closer toward the awaiting tanker as he searched his surroundings. As he neared the gyrocopter, he slowly grabbed his gas can from his belt, and was about to begin his usual routine until he spotted movement out of the corner of his eye. Drawing his head back toward his chest, he successfully evaded the snake that had almost claimed his life, and with a grunt of aggravation, he stamped on its body, holstered his firearm, and grabbed it by the neck, bringing it up to eye level with him.
As it hissed and squirmed, the stallion withdrew his knife, and with a quick motion, began to cut its throat from its body.
"Don't hurt it!"
The stallion, still grasping the snake, turned his head toward his right side, and found a yellow pegasus staring him in the face, a crossbow gripped in both front hooves. His fur was of a tannish-yellow, his brown mane covered by some form of vintage cap, complete with a dusty set of goggles atop his forehead. His tail flicked back and forth in obvious panic, and the Earth pony wondered if he had ever done this before. Licking his lips, the Pegasus yelled, "I said, let it go!"
Brow furrowing, the Earth pony complied, placing the bastard snake on the ground, where it slithered back toward the copter and into waiting once more, "Now, drop the knife," the Pegasus demanded, stepping closer toward his adversary in question. He did as he was told, and slid it toward him when he asked, "Now, the gun," he said, watching intently as the stallion brought the firearm out and placed it on the ground.
Still taking aim at him, the Pegasus bent over and grabbed the shotgun, placing it underneath his right wing. Looking back at the Earth pony, he began to speak, "I saw you drivin' past me yesterday in that car. What was that, a V8 Interceptor?"
The brown stallion hesitated, then nodded as he glanced back at the Pegasus, "Ah, the Last of The V8 Interceptors, now where the hell didjou find one of those, huh?"
The stallion kept his mouth shut, knowing full well that if he told where he'd got it, this bandit would get him in deep, deep shit with his friends. The Pegasus noticed his silence, and proceeded, "Oh, don't wanna tell me? Fine by me, I'll just go ahead and place one o' these bolts right between your eyes, how about tha-"
The Pegasus yelped as a large weight slammed into him, causing him to fall face-first into the sand as he dropped his crossbow. Swiftly grabbing his shotgun, he exclaimed, "Good boy," to his canine companion, who had hidden when he had noticed the opposing Pegasus in waiting.
The pony in question looked up from the dog on top of him and found the business end of a sawn-off double-barrel shotgun staring him down. Gulping audibly, he stumbled on his words, and finally spouted, "You wanna know about the oil refinery, don't'cha?"
