The Writers' Circle

A man jumped up in his sleeping bag a sawn-down lever action rifle in his hand. He looked around wearily before climbing out of the sleeping bag. It wasn't the first time he had had a bad dream, in fact they had come more frequently since The Collapse. He ran his fingers through his shoulder length knotted brown hair. He sighed and packed up his camp his deep brown eyes not missing a detail. He tied his rucksack, which contained his camp, to the back of a dirty Honda Shadow. The motorcycle was a glossy black even through the dust and grime that had accumulated during it's travels. 
	The man climbed on the bike and kicked the engine to life filling the early morning air with it's roar. He smiled half  to himself at the noise. He then pushed the kick stand up with his right heel and took off down the deserted highway. 
	The man thought back on the past few months grimly. On December 21, 2012 the governments around the world collapsed. All that is except the United States, but someone didn't like that so they sent missiles out and wiped Washington D.C. off of the map. Then not soon afterwards the corporations took over, well tried to. They used mercenaries against innocent civilians to take their homes.  That was where our man came in. He had gone out after his home was taken. He decided the attack the mercenaries as they tried to come out west. The few he left alive knew him as Doc. And so he began to call himself such. 
	Doc looked toward his left. There was a cloud of smoke trailing behind a truck that was following a dirt road. He smiled and turned the motorcycle toward it. He drew his sawn-down rifle as he drew near. The truck was a light grey with the logo of Avernon Corp on it's side. Doc aimed the rifle at one of the tires and fired. The bullet destroyed the rubber tire and caused the inner wheel to scrape the ground. Doc drew back and drove the motorcycle to a hill in the sand and cut off the engine. He heard the truck stop as well and looked over the rocky hill at the men that came out of the truck.
	There were six of them that came out. One of them cursed and went over to the back of the truck and grabbed a tire iron. Doc saw this as a good opportunity and climbed the hill and moved slowly through the desert toward the truck. As he drew near he grabbed a tomahawk from his waist and twirled in deftly. He had always seen that in movies and did it whenever he drew one of his tomahawks. He also drew a .45 Long Colt from it's holster at his side. He favored the revolver because of it's wild-west feel. Doc often did things to preserve the image that he was some form of an outlaw.