You know, hope is a mistake. If you can’t fix what’s broken, you’ll, uh… you’ll go insane.
My name is Max. My world is fire and blood. Once, I was a cop. A road warrior searching for a righteous cause. As the world fell, each of us in our own way was broken. It was hard to know who was more crazy… me… or everyone else.
I am the one that runs from both the living and the dead. Hunted by scavengers, haunted by those I could not protect. So I exist in this wasteland, reduced to one instinct: survive.
How much more can they take from me? They got my blood, now it’s my car!
Here they come again… worming their way into the black matter of my brain. I tell myself, they cannot touch me. They are long dead.
But I guarantee you that a hundred and sixty days ride that way… there’s nothing but salt.
At least that way we might be able to… together… come across some kind of redemption.
No. I suggest we go back the same way we came. Through the canyon.
So we take the War Rig and charge it right through the middle of them. We can decouple the tanker at the pass, shut it off behind us.
