First attempt at fanfic of any kind. Criticism is appreciated, and if there's interest I'll continue.

The Great Red North, Prologue

The silence that immediately follows a vicious barrage of gunfire is a funny thing. It has a heavy, palpable quality to it. It hangs thick on the air, mingling with the acrid scent of spent cordite. It's a silence that can weigh on a man like the mid-day sun.

The Wanderer shrugged his lean, narrow shoulders as if the act could shake off the heavy silence along with the brown dust that now created a sepia-toned haze around his thick overcoat. He exhaled heavily and took a slow, deliberate step forward. The jingle of spent brass under his boots cut the heavy silence and the coppery tang of blood began to mix with the cordite in the air. Fingerless gloves relaxed their vice grip around the weathered and sun-bleached stock of his Chinese surplus SKS. A few more steps and the Wanderer could feel the tell-tale buzz throughout his body that heralded the re-uptake of adrenaline in his brain. One by one he became aware of his limbs again, the rough embrace of the worn scarf wrapped around his head, the sting of sweat in his eyes, and the ever-present thirst that was the hallmark of all of the wasteland's denizens.

Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, the Wanderer crouched beside the body of his first attacker, the man who had approached him on the road with the promise of barter to be had. The Wanderer had noticed his smile immediately; a killer's smile. There were a lot of those smiles in the wastes, always behind a set of weathered gun sights, lips curled back from rotting brown teeth at the prospect of easy loot.

This one's smile had become a bloody deathmask, caked in the same pervasive brown dust that had likely caused the battered .45 clutched weakly in his right hand to mis-feed. The same dust that the Wanderer had cursed every day since leaving his home had saved his life. He exhaled slowly, trying to normalize his heart rate. He picked up the man's pistol, removing the magazine and deftly racking the slide three times before stuffing both into his patchwork rucksack. He patted the man down, kicking up more clouds of dust, and stuffed two more loaded magazines into his ruck. This guy was travelling light, doubtless he was squatting someplace nearby. The Wanderer banished the urge to search for his squat in the hopes of finding a supply cache; others would be along soon to investigate the gunfire.

His movements quickening now, the Wanderer stood and approached the rusted hulk of an automobile about fifty yards up the road from where the first attacker lay dead. The coppery scent in the air grew stronger as he approached the spot where the second attacker had remained out of sight until things had really kicked off.

The shredded leather and foam padding that remained on the inside of the vehicle was now covered in a tremendous ammount of blood and brain matter, the result of the quick shot the Wanderer had snapped off after dropping the first man. His shot had found its mark directly between the eyes of the second man as he'd fired his ancient and barely-recognizable AK-47 with wild abandon and little regard for accuracy as soon as he'd seen his partner spun around by the Wanderer's quick and precise retaliation.

Ignoring the gory scene inside the car, the Wanderer conducted a quick search of the supporting ambusher, turning up a corked glass bottle half full of hot, irradiated water and a drawstring sack containing a handful of steel cased 7.62x39 ammunition. Cheap and dirty rounds but they'd do in a pinch. He stuffed both into his rucksack and extricated himself from the ruins of the ancient automobile, electing to leave the run-down Kalashnikov rifle in its tomb of metal and blood. Rotten old AK's were a common thing in the wastes and didn't buy much in trade, and this one looked like it had undergone so many makeshift repairs over the years that it wouldn't likely yeild any worthwhile parts.

With a final look at the scene behind him, the Wanderer continued on his way, his heavy engineer's boots pounding the cracked pavement beneath them. His posture returned to its usual hunched, road-weary form as he shrugged his rucksack into a more comfortable position on his back beside the SKS. He struck a tall, lean sillhouette against the setting sun as he passed beneath the long shadow of a huge, bullet-riddled sign. He glanced up at it briefly before passing underneath, silently mouthing the faded words.

Vancouver, 75km.