Irish sat in his seat, glad that he had known someone in this group, Heaven help him if he hadn't. He listened very closely about what Blake had to say about his current predicament. Sounds like I ain't the only one gettin' themselves in trouble.
Taking a moment for himself, Irish took the hand-rolled cigarette from behind his ear and planted it between his lips. He opened a pouch on his pack for a box of wood matches, slid the box from its sleeve and plucked a match from within. He struck the match against the fine sandpaper on the side of the box to ignite the match, raised the lit stick to the cigarette while cupping the small flame. Once his cigarette was lit, he shook the match to put the flame out then tossed it out the window. Irish took a long drag and reveled in the taste, then slowly exhaled with a strong mixture of relief and comfort. The tobacco he purchased was from a small farm near his hometown, though pricier than some of the stuff he saw elsewhere, was the the only tobacco he was willing to smoke. He intended, at some point, to ask the old farmer just how he grew such magnificent produce though he doubted the farmer would ever tell him.
Sitting there and smoking, Irish began recollecting the events that led up to this point...
Irish had chosen four other caravanners to plot a safe road out West, two of his best and two greenhorns. Everything had been fine until they were passing through what appeared to be an abandoned city, but a group of bandits had planned an ambush. One of the rookies stumbled onto a tripwire that was hidden in a pile of rubble underneath an overpass. The tripwire released a car that was on the edge of the overpass, right above the rookie. Irish acted fast and yanked the greenhorn back by his pack and the rusted husk slammed onto the asphalt. Gunfire immediately followed the loud crash, forcing Irish and his men to duck for cover. The bandits clearly weren't, by any means, strategic or efficient in their execution of their ambush. The bandits just clustered on the road ahead and were unloading ammunition onto the caravanners' position.
Irish told his men to fall back, make their way back to the caravan while he draws the bandits' attention. That's where they split up, and things just went South from there. Irish managed to flank the bandits and crafted a makeshift bomb using a propane tank, a roadflare, and a well-placed shot. The large explosion that destroyed one of their trucks and killed a few men was enough to draw the bandits' attention away from the overpass and onto Irish. Light on his feet, he made a mad dash through the city ruins, trying to lose them in the twisted metal and rubble. he made it out of the city around nightfall, and he thought he had lost them until he heard the roar of engines and saw the headlights of an entire convoy. For two days they had been actively searching for him, sweeping North and South, still pushing him Westward. Then that's when he came upon the hangars...
The whole episode at the dome was his salvation, even though he was almost killed in several instances. This brought his wound back to his attention; the numbness had seemed to have set in. He raised his wounded leg and set it atop the other, then pulled up his pant leg to examine the graze. He winced at the feel of the rough denim rubbing against the tender, open flesh. The wound wasn't too deep, luckily, but deep enough to require some medical attention. Irish dug through his pack for his field surgery kit and set it on his lap. He opened it up and pulled out a bottle of rubbing alcohol, unscrewed the cap and poured some on the wound. Irish inhaled sharply, Feckin' 'Ell tha' stings, then fastened the cap back on the bottle and stashed it back in the kit. He pulled a swatch of gauze from the kit as well as some medical tape, then pressed the gauze onto the wound and used a couple strips of tape to secure it. Taking another long drag of his cigarette, he cleaned up the blood around the bandage then stashed the field surgery kit in his pack. Irish exhaled in relief again, lowered his leg and closed his eyes, sinking back into his seat in relaxation.
