My life fades.

The vision dims.

All it remains are memories.

I remember a time of chaos.

Rowing dreams.

This wasted land.

At most all, I remember the road warrior.

The man we called Max.

To understand who he was, you have to go back to another time.

When the world was powered by the Black Fuel.

And the desert sprouted great cities of pipe and steel.

Gone now, swept away.

The reasons long forgotten, two mighty warrior tribes went to war.

And touched off a blaze which engulfed them all.

Without fuel there were nothing.

They'd built a house of straw.

A thundering machine spotted and stopped.

Their leaders taught and taught and taught.

But nothing could stem the evidence.

Their world crumbled.

The cities exploded.

The world wind of looting.

...