The plains stretched as far as the eye could see, in every direction. In the distance, if you were eagle-eyed, you might spot a grazing herd of buffalo. Not quite so far away were the various mobile camps of the tribes. Each tribe had several Stallions, and most had at least 20 TPs. The ruins of the old towns were avoided wherever possible, and the people, regardless of their tribe, wandered the grasslands and praries of the interior.

Runs With Scissors sat precariously on one of the massive balloon tyres of a Stallion, trying to angle his solar furnace towards the sun and cook his bowl of bean stew. The already barren ruins of Milwaukee had been charred black by runaway grass fires, and the new tribes were wary of naked flames.

As the stew began to bubble, Runs With Scissors glanced at the horizon. A slight, pasty white boy of 14, Runs With Scissors could not be expected to understand what he saw, but the v-shaped formation of black objects in the evening sky sent the adult tribesmen running for their TPs.