Chapter 1: Taking Stock:

In the ruined sandflats of the Southern Wasteland there were few places more valuable than the industrial nightmare that was Gastown. Situated on a lake of precious and irreplaceable guzzoline, the lifeblood of the world, Gastown was one of the three points in the infamous Triumvirate. For years beyond count, the immense oil refinery had fuelled the empire of Immortan Joe, the warlord of the Wasteland, Guardian of the Citadel, he who grabbed the sun.

Surrounded by a wide moat of oil and fallout poisoned water, Gastown was a city of constant movement and fire, a hellish vision that squatted on the valley floor, coated in black smog and soot. A long and almost stately suspension bridge led the way into the fortified refinery, stopping at the vast reinforced gates. Great towers housed the pumps that pulled the rich crude from the earth to be processed deep within the city's bowels. The industrial edifice reached high into the sky, clawing it at it and belching out black clouds of foul smoke. Great tongues of flame spurted from the top of the refineries, signaling to all who approached that Gastown had the guzzoline and would give it to noone who would not pay their prices.

At the centre of Gastown was a larger tower topped by a thick, tiered spire. Here was the Main Office, the domain of the People Eater, Guardian of Gastown, Reckoner and Human Calculator. Here he made his home and allowed only those he needed to appease or those who caught his favour.

Deep inside the upper levels of the spire was a richly furnished office. Though worn by age and battered by the hostile environments of the Wasteland, the rug that lay on the floor, the clock that hung above the door and the varnished desk that dominated the centre of the room were treasures that only the wealthiest and most powerful warlords could acquire. The walls were lined by shelves that creaked with the weight of heavy ledgers. They were the People Eater's records, his accounts of his wealth and many transactions.

Sat in the left-hand of corner of the room by the door, hunched over a smaller and far less extravagant desk, was a young man in his early twenties. He was average height with wavy dark brown hair and the barest hint of a belly visible through his clothes. His left arm was held closely against his chest with a brace covering it. His smooth, largely unworn skin and the tattered business suit he wore was a sign of his status. He was Jost the Splint, the People Eater's son and heir to Gastown.

"So we sold a thousand units to the Scrappers last week which means they owe us…" Jost muttered to himself as he surveyed the newest and cleanest of the ledgers trying to add everything up, "a hundred...no two hundred kilos of good steel". He tried to count the rounded out numbers on his fingers, going over them in his head as he did so but the figures all blurred into one another. With a groan he gave up, the invisible numbers disappearing as he slammed his fist on the desk and ran his left hand through his hair.

The previous day Gastown had emptied itself of most of its warriors, answering the desperate call of Immortan Joe. The People Eater himself had lead the Gastown War Party and even taken the Stretch Rig with him. Having been ordered to stay behind, Jost had busied himself with keeping account of Gastown's production. The People Eater had been going over the numbers before Joe had called him and he had demanded Jost prove his worth by doing it while he was away.

"Oi Jost," a thick voice echoed through the room. Jost looked up from the ledger to see a full-life man walk in through the wide double-doors that led into the People Eater's office. He was a goon, one of Gastown's warriors, dressed in a black vest with a black hood and goggles covering the top half of his face.

"Huh?" Jost replied, his numb brain revving up again at the other man's words.

"War party's back," the goon replied in a nervous voice, "looks like they've taken a banging. The Stretch's gone."

Jost eyes widened. If their war rig had been destroyed then that meant the battle must have gone really badly. In fact, it likely meant the People Eater was dead as well.

"Where are they?" he asked, keeping his voice and face level.

"Approaching the gate," the goon replied. "Spotters saw them coming about ten minutes ago."

"Right," Jost said, getting up from the desk. "Get the Wretched away from the gates. I don't want them to see this and get every goon we've got armed."

"Right boss," the goon said in a hurry and ran out of the office.

Running his left hand through his hair again he straightened himself up, smoothing his hair in the slightly smudged mirror that was hung on one of the walls and tidying his suit as much as possible, trying to obscure the frayed lining and patchwork by folding over them. Taking a deep breath he strode out of the office.

Outside of the office the entire tower was coloured the gritty grey of old steel. When it came to anything beside his own personal quarters and vehicles, the People Eater prized utilitarianism and low costs above all else.

As he walked through the corridors he watched the workers as they carried goods and machinery parts back and forth. Tensions were beginning to run high due to the lost shipment of food and water from the Citadel and the rations could only last so long. If things were really as bad as he feared then he would have to think of something quickly. The Wretched could go without water for a while still but the workers, the mechanics, the goons and himself of course, that was something else.

He knew his way around Gastown by memory, having grown up within its boundaries. The maze of corridors had been built to confuse any invaders or infiltrators but to Jost it was easy to navigate, every small marking, smear or indent serving as a map. There were few real windows in the Main Office, mostly to keep attackers from gaining some kind of entry point but those that were offered a glimpse to the town outside. Despite being rebuilt to twist and turn, the hallways and corridors were still wide enough to allow the vast bulk of the People Eater to move through.

The moment he made it down to the garages on the Main Office's ground floor, he looked for an appropriate vehicle.

Gastown's backup rig, a far less extravagant and far more ugly vehicle than the Stretch Rig, was still being refitted. He had spent most of the previous day organising the hunt for the parts necessary to fix it. The engine had blown out completely after the previous driver had overtaxed the machine and burnt it out. Finding the replacement parts had cost Jost a lot of time and effort and even after a full day of work the machine was only just being coaxed back to life.

Working his way through the collection of vehicles, piles of equipment and swarms of mechanics, Jost made his way to a car. The machine was a converted 1970 Chevalle that had a V8 engine installed into the body but was otherwise left intact. He didn't know how his father had acquired it but it was the vehicle he rode in when touring the streets of Gastown. It was kept cleaned and maintained so that, unlike the rest of the armada, it remained as shiny as the day it had come out of the factory.

As Jost approached he saw several young mechanics, barely more than sprogs, scuttle around the body, cleaning and shining the body and windows. Jost saw the bonnet had been raised, a mechanic having dove into the car's innards to perform some kind of maintenance or improvement.

"I'm taking this one out," Jost shouted over the din of the garage.

"Y'what?" one of the mechanics shouted as he raised his head, "what do you mean you're takin…" His voice cut off as he saw Jost, with several tall goons standing behind him, glower down in response. "Uh, sorry boss. Right y'are. I'll just fix 'er up and 'and her over to ya."

Jost's glower didn't disappear as he watched the wiry, oil stained man, tinker with the engine a little bit more and then slam the bonnet back down.

"Right she's good to go," the mechanic said to Jost confidently before turning back to see several of the sprogs still rubbing at the side-mirrors with cloths. "Ge' off," he shouted at them and the small boys scattered. The mechanic then backed away as one of the goons slid into the driver's seat. Jost opened the door to the back and sat himself down in one of the frayed but still comfortable seats.

"Go," Jost said with a frown and the car roared into life, the cylinders of the engine spinning rapidly. The driver had the car rev several times, almost ritualistically, before he slowly and sedately led the machine through the garage and out into the open.

Jost squinted his eyes as the bright light of day assaulted him. Blinking a few times, he quickly adjusted to the intensity of the Wasteland sun and looked upon Gastown.

The moment the car made it out of the garage it was surrounded by the scurrying crowds of workers and Wretched. They moved back and forth between the towers, scrambling onto machinery in order to fix leaks, clean up spilt crude and guzzoline and pick up whatever scraps were lying around so that they could be bartered for something else.

The crowds immediately parted at the sight of the Chevalle. As they made way for him, Jost kept an indifferent look on his face. He needed to convey his superiority to the lower orders of the hierarchy and therefore sat straighter, making sure he didn't show any especial interest towards any of the people who nervously glanced at his window.

It took twenty minutes for his car to finally make it through the twisting paths of Gastown to the main gate.

The gateway was a massive cage of steel girders and bars, providing plenty of spaces for polecats to climb on and drop explosives on any attackers. The gate itself was barred by huge steel doors connected to immense gears and rotors needed to move the massive doors.

Ordering the car to stop, Jost stepped out. He saw one of the goons nervously manning the cage.

"Oi," Jost shouted up, catching the goons attention, "are they outside yet?"

"Yeah boss," the goon replied, "waitin for the okay."

Jost bit his bottom lip. If the gates were still shut that meant the People Eater wasn't able to give the order himself.

"Alright," Jost said a moment later, "let them in."

"Open 'er up," the goon shouted.

A whip cracked and drums began to beat as several dozen Wretched that manned the treadmills attached to the gate began to slowly work the gears. Moving to the beat of the drums, the Wretched workers began to open the thick metal gates.

Slowly but steadily the doors swung open. On the other side was a motley and dust coated collection of vehicles. The other day a mighty and proud armada had set out from Gastown, led by the Stretch Rig, a mobile refinery and the flagship of Gastown's fleet. Now only several battered cars and trucks alongside a few polecat vehicles made it through the gates. The faces of every goon were dejected and forlorn. It was obvious they had been defeated and suffered terribly for it.

Jost struggled to make sure his shock wasn't obvious to those around him. Gastown had suffered losses before but never on this scale.

"What happened?" he shouted at the nearest vehicle, a dirt caked polecat truck. A goon jumped off and walked up to him.

"We got 'ammered," he said quickly, "I don't know how it 'appened but they just kept blowing us apart. We lost the Stretch before we even got back to the canyon. Then they blocked it when they flipped their rig." The goon paused for a moment, as if trying to to figure out how to word his next sentence. "The People Eater's dead," he finally said nervously, "so's Immortan Joe and the Bullet Farmer. They stuck us in the pass and took the Gigahorse. We were set on by the Rock Riders after that," he seemed to straighten up for a moment, "we got 'em good though and got out after we cleared the block."

"How the hell did one imperator and a bunch of breeders manage to cause all of this?" Jost said angrily, sweeping his arm over the sad collection of vehicles.

"I don't know," the goon replied, shrugging his shoulders, "they seemed to pick up a few other people and just kept gunnin' us down."

Jost ran his left hand over his face in exasperation as his mind began to try to figure out some kind of response to everything. "Right," he quickly said, "get everything back to the garage, fix it up. I'm going to have a new plan in the morning."

"Right boss," the goon said as Jost turned back to the Chevalle. The words made Jost pause. Boss. He'd been called boss before but now, with the People Eater gone, the word meant something far more heavy.

He sat down in the Chevalle with a sigh. "Take me back to the Office," he said to the goon driving and tilted his head back in thought as he felt the car come to life again. The People Eater was dead. He was in charge now. The boss wasn't there to take over most of the work of running Gastown. He would be responsible for accounting for everything. He had to be the Human Calculator. Immortan Joe was dead as well, so was the Bullet Farmer. In a single day everything about the Wasteland had changed. Who was in charge now? Were all of the old deals still in place? Everyone needed guzzoline but were the prices going to stick or would he have to hash something new out with leaders he didn't know.

Jost sighed again, his many self-taught lessons in hiding his thoughts helping him calm down. He would wait until he was back in the office then maybe he and Daisy could work something out.

Jost the Splint's personal quarters were not as nicely furnished as the People Eater's but by the standards of the Wasteland they were luxurious. Sturdy desks and chairs had been brought in to furnish the room, requiring only a little patching and replacement parts to be serviceable. A large four-poster bed - a salvage taken from a crashed delivery van years ago for the People Eater but then abandoned for a nicer model - had even been installed.

Shelves of books lined the wall but unlike the People Eater's office these were filled with a variety of texts that detailed many different topics. From the history of the Before Time to detailed manuals on engineering and even stories of fantasy and fairytale worlds that few, if any, now knew about, the room was a library the likes of which couldn't be found anywhere but the Citadel.

Sitting at one of the desks, reading a book on medicine and childbirth with a look of intense contemplation, was a young woman. She was dressed in a somewhat frayed black dress with lace underlining that had been stained yellow by age and the dirt of the Wasteland. Her face was narrow and sharp with a hooked nose that wrinkled occasionally as she ran her eyes over the pages and her long black hair was tied back in a ponytail.

As she was about to turn another page, she heard the door open. "Daisy," Jost said as he walked into the room, pulling the woman's attention away from the book.

Daisy, known throughout Gastown as The Wither, put down her book and sat back in her seat as she looked at her husband.

"What is it?" she asked cautiously as she saw the frown on Jost's face.

"The war party got back," Jost replied. Daisy frowned at the news in return. "They got battered," he continued, not looking at her as he spoke, "the boss is dead."

Daisy's eyes widened at the news, she had loathed the People Eater more than anyone, not even Jost could match the sheer bile she felt towards the bloated smeg. "That… that mean's you're in charge."

"Yeah," Jost said, turning to look at her, "We're in charge now," Daisy took note of how he started the sentence. "Most of the enforcers died with him too, only Mcintosh is still around so we're safe. I couldn't have asked for more but I wish the bastard hadn't decided to take most of our war fleet and thousands of gallons of prime guzzoline with him when he finally kicked it." Jost threw himself into one of the chairs, ignoring the creaks it made in protest. "And he lost the Stretch too," Jost suddenly added in an annoyed tone, "I really wanted that one."

"The back-ups running again though isn't it?" Daisy interjected, trying to steer the conversation to something productive, "We'll need to see what we can salvage, as soon as possible."

"That's all tomorrow," Jost replied, "for now we need to get what's left of the war party repaired. Then I'm going to lead them out to pick up whatever we can. Most of our losses were on the other side of Rock Rider territory but from what I've heard the Riders have lost most of their bikers thanks to this war. Then we've got to arrange things with whoever's in charge of the Citadel."

"Wait," Daisy then interrupted, "whoever's in charge? What happened to the Immortan?"

"Didn't I say?" Jost replied quickly, "Immortan Joe's dead. Apparently Imperator Furiosa betrayed and carved him. His wives took the Gigahorse and ran for the Citadel after they blocked part of the mountain pass."

"And they killed the People Eater as well?" Daisy asked, barely believing what she was hearing, "How'd they manage to do that?" Daisy couldn't picture any of the wives having the guts to do what she had just heard. The few times she had seen them they were cowed and depressing.

"They took out the Bullet Farmer too, and a good chunk of everyone's war parties. Oh apparently there were Buzzards too but they went down easy." Jost said, continuing his explanation, relaying everything in the same disbelieving tone. Daisy couldn't blame him. The whole thing sounded too ridiculous to be true. The tales of Immortan Joe dying and returning as a living god were easier to believe.

"Salvage first, deals later," Daisy said to him, counting off the planned events on her fingers. If what her husband had said was true they didn't have time to waste.

"Sounds good to me," Jost replied. He then got up and walked over to a series of screens. The wood and canvas stalls served as a privacy curtain for the impromptu dresser Jost and Daisy had set up in another room. She could already see him peel off his jacket and begin to work on his buttons. "I'm calling it a night," he shouted over to her, "the day's been going too long for me."

"I'll join you," she shouted back, getting up and making her way over to the dresser.

Jost stepped out shortly afterwards clad in loose tan clothes. Nightclothes like his were rare and few people, even the People Eater, bothered with trying to find or make any. Jost however, at Daisy's insistence, had worked hard at haggling the Scrappers into acquiring enough cloth to make some. Daisy stepped into the screens and undressed as well, grabbing her own nightclothes.

Daisy watched Jost walk over to the bed and throw himself down on it with a sigh. As she in turn disrobed, she watched as he whispered to himself. He was trying to run over the numbers in his head again.

"We're gonna need to talk with the Citadel soon," Jost then said.

"Sorry?" Daisy said, raising her head to meet his eyes.

"We're going to be running low on good water soon." Jost explained, "I haven't seen the tanks lately but I do know that are last supply run was supposed to be before yesterday and now the Immortan's dead and his war rig's been left turned over in the mountains with the shipment." Jost punctuated his sentence by waving his hands and fingers in ways that she assumed were supposed to symbolise the loss of the rig.

"Well then," Daisy began, pausing to lift her gauzy, cream nightdress over her head and pull it back down, "we'd better get on that. I'd still wait to see what we can recover first." She then pulled the string keeping her hair tied back loose and let it all fall down to her shoulders.

"Yeah," Jost agreed, "you never know whether we'll need more horsepower behind us if they don't like what we have to offer."

"Why wouldn't they like what we have to offer?" Daisy asked as she stepped out from behind the screen, brushing her hair behind her shoulders and smoothing it a little, "Where else are they going to get guzzoline. The Scrappers? They only deal with us and none of the other wanderers have much fuel on them." She stepped up to the desk, picking up her book which had been left neglected since the conversation began and put it back in an empty space on one of the shelves.

"I don't know," Jost replied, waving his hand dismissively, "I couldn't tell you what Furiosa thinks like. I'm not going to trust the mind of a woman who declared war on the entire Triumvirate… and won."

Daisy finally walked over to the bed and sat down on it. "Well even if she's madder than a chromed up War Boy she can't be stupid enough to try to cut herself off from us." She turned to Jost with a small smile on her face and brushed a loose lock of hair from his brow. "Still that isn't the issue right now. Come on, the People Eater's finally dead. I'm pretty sure the only complaint either of us could have right now is that we weren't there to see it."

"Or slit the bastard ourselves," Jost added jokingly.

"Oh what I'd have given to carve him open," Daisy laughed. "Imagine the look on his fat face?"

Jost began to laugh as well as he tried to picture his father's possible reaction to Daisy holding a knife to him and cutting him up. It took another minute for his laughter to slowly wind down.

"Well," he finally said with a sigh, "that's not gonna happen anymore. He's gone now and it looks like we're going to be in charge from now on. We've got a lot to do."

"Yeah," Daisy said as she settled down onto the mattress, "we."

The Dag looked out over the Citadel, her head resting on her hands. She was leaning on Immortan Joe's podium, the controls to the water pipes only a few centimetres to her right. she could still see the water gushing down onto the ground at the base of the mesa. Already a small pool was forming, a new feature for the Citadel that had never been seen before. The glint and shine of the water mesmerized her, the way it mixed with the dust and mud forming colours and shapes that those who swam in it disturbed.

Ever since the lift had carried her, her sisters, Furiosa and the Wretched up into the newly liberated Citadel, things had immediately looked better.

Still not all was well for her. The remains of the war party had finally returned from the mountains barely an hour ago. They had all witnessed the Immortan's death and all seemed somewhat different because of it. They appeared to be quieter, less energetic, almost as if they were mourning Joe's death. Dag had been against letting them back into the Citadel but Furiosa had overruled her and so she had been forced to watch the War Boys dejectedly file back into the garages. Still she and her sisters controlled the Citadel now. The Wretched were numerous and on their side, the War Boys didn't seem to want to put up a fight and Corpus Collosus, Joe's last, deformed son, had surrendered to them shortly after the ramps had brought them and many Wretched up to the garages.

Lifting herself slightly, the Dag brought one of her hands down to caress her stomach. The sprog growing inside of her was another problem. Whether it was a boy or a girl, the child was one of Joe's and the mere thought of having anything of his inside her body was disgusting. She had never seriously entertained the thought of trying to kill it before it could be born but the memories of Angharad's attempts to kill her unborn sprog still came back to her.

[i]"It could always be a girl."[/i] The voice of the Vuvalini woman echoed in her mind. Despite the old woman's attempts to soothe her with those words that night she hadn't really cared. Boy or girl, the sprog was Joe's. Evil like that didn't care what sex it was, it was still going to be ugly and cruel. Who was to say that a daughter of Joe wouldn't grow up to be every bit as terrible and vile as the Immortan had been.

"Scuse me," a withering voice brought the Dag out of her morbid thoughts. She turned to see a thin old man, his head and body shaven and weathered, standing across from her near the door to the milking room. In his left hand was a stick covered in scraps of what she assumed was paper. However what stood out about him the most was that his entire body was covered in words tattooed into his skin. The sight of the writing brought back memories of Miss Giddy.

"Yeah," Dag replied warily with a scowl.

"I was wondering where the Vault might be," he said, his voice getting clearer as he spoke, "I'm hoping to see the Imperator."

"Why'd you want to talk to her?" she shot back, suspicious of him.

"I'm looking to make a proposition," he said cheerfully, ignoring her defensive tone and body language. "I want to teach people." He finished his statement with a wide smile.

"Are you a Historyman?" She asked, remembering the term that Miss Giddy had used to describe herself when she explained the writing on her body.

"Why yes I am," he said with a hint of pride, straightening himself slightly, "I make sense of the many wordburgers this Wasteland has left us with. Every word on my body is a page in an invisible book." He emphasised his point by pointing to one of the lines of text on his chest.

The Dag mulled over his words as he spoke. She didn't particularly trust men since nearly every one that she knew had made her suffer. However everything he said seemed sincere, though he now spoke in a somewhat joking manner, and he was so old and frail that she couldn't imagine what exactly he could try to do to them.

"Alright," she finally said, "the Vault's down the hall to the left, past the gardens. It's a big round metal door. It should be wide open if you follow the crowds."

"Thank you," the man said, "I am Mr Gill by the way. If I'm lucky you'll be seeing more of me. I hope I can help you all in running this place." Holding his stick close to him, he set off down the paths the Dag had pointed him.

Alone again, she tried to sort out her thoughts again. It all seemed so strange now that everyone was following her orders. Before no-one had listened when she spoke to them, they had all passed her in the Wasteland, occasionally throwing scraps her way. Now however so many people looked to her for help and guidance. Already she and her sisters, for that was what they were now and always had been, had all immediately set off to find some work.

Cheedo, despite some early hesitance, had begun to help the Wretched find places in the Citadel and open up Joe's private stores to them. Capable was trying to see if she could do to the War Boys what she had done to Nux, talking to the calmer and less sullen of their group though she herself seemed to be in a similar mournful mood. Toast had barely left Furiosa's side as she helped organise everything. The darker skinned woman had always had a better head for numbers than the rest of them and she was now trying to make lists of everything.

She, on the other hand, she had emptied a part of the gardens and immediately planted the seeds she had been given, harassing Corpus Collosus for details on how the gardens worked. The Keeper of the Seeds had entrusted her with her collection and she had sworn to do whatever it would to nurture the seedlings that would now grow from them.

A loud rumble echoed through the sky, distracting the Dag from her thoughts. She looked out, over the Citadel and out into the dark, starry sky. There was a large dark blot on the horizon, broken only by the occasional flash of lightning. It was a storm, not unlike the massive one that Furiosa had taken them through a few days ago. She and her sisters had seen plenty of them from the safety of the Dome, protected by the thick walls and windows that Joe had built to lock them in.

This particular storm seemed to be close and every minute brought it closer. The Dag couldn't remember the last time the Citadel had actually been hit by a storm but it seemed that one was well on its way to striking them.

It was probably best she tell someone.

That night the Citadel was struck by an immense sandstorm. The water that had been flowing down from above for hours was stopped as Furiosa commanded the pipes be covered so that they would not be damaged or clogged by the sand and dirt. The cranes and other delicate machinery were tied down and secured and the outside gardens were carefully covered to protect them.

Those Wretched unable to find a place to sleep in the Citadel hunkered down in the holes they and their kind had always hidden within.

As the wind and sand whipped between the mesas, the people cowered. The storm roared, tearing at the Citadel, threatening to rip anyone who wasn't sheltered into the air.

No-one was able to sleep that night, huddling deep within their holes and sequestered in the citadels rooms and corridors whilst the storm spent its fury on the thick stone walls of the mesas. As the winds struck the Citadel everyone swore they could hear the loud and angry roar of Immortan Joe.