leaped on it, kick-started the engine, and hunched over the tank like heâd hunched over the boy.
But he wouldnât be moving anywhere fast, not dragging that trailer and side car up the steep road.
Even as Burned Fingers placed the odds in his favor, the biker sprang off the seat and unhitched the ungainly trailer. Less than twenty feet away, Bliss, naked and standing, rummaged through her pants instead of putting the goddamn things onâor running away.
Get down. If the guy turned, he could shoot her; Burned Fingers saw a pistol in his belt. But the fiend threw himself back on the loudly idling bike without ever seeing Bliss.
Burned Fingers ran along the edge of the ravine, closing the distance to the road, warning himself not to blow up the gas tank when he shot the rapist.
You want that bike.
Did he ever. Nothing better for scouting, and nothing rarer. He was still riding big bikes about thirty years ago, and knew what they could do and how fast they could do it.
He heard the engine growl, saw black smoke and dust rise behind the rear wheel, yet thought heâd have time to set up for a kill shot. He might even catch the hog before it crashed riderless into a boulder.
But while racing up the road, the biker jerked a metal bar, cutting the side car loose, accelerating even faster. At the same time, Bliss pulled something from her pants and startled Burned Fingers by chasing the bike. He tried to shout a warning but the engine noise drowned him out.
She stopped anyway, only to rear back and throw the sharp rock that sheâd shown him at the obsidian wall, burying it in the bikerâs lower back. Blood burst from the crude wound.
But the believer never slowed, leaving a dense funnel of oily exhaust in his wake.
Burned Fingers, breathing hard, smelling fumes, neared the road as the bike rose from the ravine. He didnât spot the rider immediately because the guy had flattened his dark torso against the tarnished tank and propped his chin on the front of it, making a clean kill shot all but impossible.
As the bike raced for the open space ahead, Burned Fingers dropped his sawed-off and yanked his bone handle knife from its sheath. Then he launched himself at the man, hacking murderously at his back, striking boneâhoping it was spineâbefore embedding the blade in flesh and spilling to the ground.
The motorcycle wobbled. Burned Fingers jumped up and gave chase, hoping the frame wouldnât bend or the precious wheels collapse when it crashed.
But the rider pulled himself upright and sped awayâwith the knife stuck in his thick trapezius only inches from his neck.
What the fuck!
Burned Fingers pulled out his revolver and shot at him, the bike, tiresâany target that would dump the rider on the ground. But the guy was racing through a series of boulders, showing less of himself with every second. Jessie opened up with her Mâ16 from a few hundred feet awayâwith no more success.
In the ravine, Bliss grabbed her shotgun from the jettisoned side car and, still naked, started running up the road.
âPut your clothes on!â Burned Fingers shouted. âBastardâs gone!â
He dusted off, second-guessing himself furiously. He should have unloaded the sawed-off on him. Fuck the bike. But he hadnât been able to resist its allureâor its great promise. It would have been a tremendous help to have a fast, nimble two-wheeler for guiding the caravan. Heâd made the wrong call for all the right reasons.
And heâd forgotten about the Pixie-bobs.
H unt roared down a paved road gapped enough to scuttle the motorcycle and swallow it whole, leave him mangled, dying, eaten by carrion birds. The sun-clawed surface wound past a second boulder field before curving behind the hill that rose above the ravine.
The agony in his back wrapped around to his chest and groin, like the rock and knife were eating their way right through him. A rock. They were
But he wouldnât be moving anywhere fast, not dragging that trailer and side car up the steep road.
Even as Burned Fingers placed the odds in his favor, the biker sprang off the seat and unhitched the ungainly trailer. Less than twenty feet away, Bliss, naked and standing, rummaged through her pants instead of putting the goddamn things onâor running away.
Get down. If the guy turned, he could shoot her; Burned Fingers saw a pistol in his belt. But the fiend threw himself back on the loudly idling bike without ever seeing Bliss.
Burned Fingers ran along the edge of the ravine, closing the distance to the road, warning himself not to blow up the gas tank when he shot the rapist.
You want that bike.
Did he ever. Nothing better for scouting, and nothing rarer. He was still riding big bikes about thirty years ago, and knew what they could do and how fast they could do it.
He heard the engine growl, saw black smoke and dust rise behind the rear wheel, yet thought heâd have time to set up for a kill shot. He might even catch the hog before it crashed riderless into a boulder.
But while racing up the road, the biker jerked a metal bar, cutting the side car loose, accelerating even faster. At the same time, Bliss pulled something from her pants and startled Burned Fingers by chasing the bike. He tried to shout a warning but the engine noise drowned him out.
She stopped anyway, only to rear back and throw the sharp rock that sheâd shown him at the obsidian wall, burying it in the bikerâs lower back. Blood burst from the crude wound.
But the believer never slowed, leaving a dense funnel of oily exhaust in his wake.
Burned Fingers, breathing hard, smelling fumes, neared the road as the bike rose from the ravine. He didnât spot the rider immediately because the guy had flattened his dark torso against the tarnished tank and propped his chin on the front of it, making a clean kill shot all but impossible.
As the bike raced for the open space ahead, Burned Fingers dropped his sawed-off and yanked his bone handle knife from its sheath. Then he launched himself at the man, hacking murderously at his back, striking boneâhoping it was spineâbefore embedding the blade in flesh and spilling to the ground.
The motorcycle wobbled. Burned Fingers jumped up and gave chase, hoping the frame wouldnât bend or the precious wheels collapse when it crashed.
But the rider pulled himself upright and sped awayâwith the knife stuck in his thick trapezius only inches from his neck.
What the fuck!
Burned Fingers pulled out his revolver and shot at him, the bike, tiresâany target that would dump the rider on the ground. But the guy was racing through a series of boulders, showing less of himself with every second. Jessie opened up with her Mâ16 from a few hundred feet awayâwith no more success.
In the ravine, Bliss grabbed her shotgun from the jettisoned side car and, still naked, started running up the road.
âPut your clothes on!â Burned Fingers shouted. âBastardâs gone!â
He dusted off, second-guessing himself furiously. He should have unloaded the sawed-off on him. Fuck the bike. But he hadnât been able to resist its allureâor its great promise. It would have been a tremendous help to have a fast, nimble two-wheeler for guiding the caravan. Heâd made the wrong call for all the right reasons.
And heâd forgotten about the Pixie-bobs.
H unt roared down a paved road gapped enough to scuttle the motorcycle and swallow it whole, leave him mangled, dying, eaten by carrion birds. The sun-clawed surface wound past a second boulder field before curving behind the hill that rose above the ravine.
The agony in his back wrapped around to his chest and groin, like the rock and knife were eating their way right through him. A rock. They were
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