These people don't believe in heroes anymore, well damn them! You and me Max, we'll give em' back their heroes!

The words Fifi had spoken to him and the rest of the MFP countless times still ran through his head regularly. We'll give em' back their heroes. It had been several months now since Max had headed out into the wasteland, Australia's forgotten area, its shamed area, its lost area. He had no idea where he was in the grand scheme of all things, the last time he had listened to a newscast on the radio was when he was the talking point and the headliner. The story ran for several days, that was the main reason why he'd given up on the radio for good, the story of him slaying the Nightriders gang and making the area a safer place for the time being. He had became a legend, the media people made Max sound like a god. This god didn't care much for people any more though, people today were little more than scoot jockeys, nomad trash. Of course there were some good people, a tiny minority, and the poor bastards who were caught in between the scum and the saviours.

Max put his foot down on the accelerator with a greater force than before, as if increasing the V8's speed would somehow help him forget his painful past. The past was one of the few things he could think about, since there was no future anymore, not for him and not for anyone else. He'd encountered little proof of a civilisation ever inhabiting these lands; he'd stumble across a ghost town sometimes, find no people, search and procure supplies then leave, ad nauseam. He was approaching a town right now, he didn't know what it was called and he didn't care. He eased off the accelerator and slowed the interceptor down, getting ready to park and disembark.

The town looked like something out of an old Western, but then again the last twenty pockets of humanity Max had stumbled across did. All wooden structures perhaps the occasional brick one where the town authority was meant to reside, a pub here and there and the other shops which were key to keeping a happy and working population. Max stepped out of V8, sawn-off in one hand and a jerry can in the other, guzzoline was top of his priorities list at the moment.

Max approached to a building which had a couple of petrol pumps standing in front of it and even an old Chevy which was just a shadow of its former self. He dropped the jerry can to the floor and proceeded to enter the building behind the pumps in order to ensure they were turned on. Indeed they were. A quick scan of the shop found no bodies, or even more weird no supplies. This was wasn't something Max usually worried about, of course there were times when he had encountered previously populated areas with no food and he had come to accept that he wasn't the only one scouring the forgotten zone. Either a wanderer like him had came and grabbed all the goods for himself or the peoples of the town were pikers, people who had realised that they wouldn't last long in their current area with all the economic strife going on in the world at the time and so therefore decided to pack up and go to the cities where things were more safer and they could be guaranteed more security.

Max peered out of the murky windows of the shop, the grime on the windows sending a pungent aroma up through his nostrils. Outside Max could see that a small sandstorm was brewing outside, and he even thought he heard a small rumbling of thunder. Unusual in these parts, Max thought to himself and proceeded outside to check the situation out. Max stepped out of the entrance, shotgun still in hand and squinted to where the source of the flurry. It was at this point where Max finally did see something which made him feel uneasy, and even slightly afraid. As Max's eyelids battered off sand particles and other pieces of flying crap, his field of vision finally came to see it. The sight which shocked him was a yellow MFP Pursuit vehicle which was parked several feet away from his Interceptor.