of those in his day as well.
“It’s diet time again, pal,” Stone said with a disgusted look at the canine, which stood in the doorway looking up as if he’d
had nothing to do with the mess. Stone grabbed a mop from the closet and slopped it around the floor. “And don’t look at me
with those pathetic puppy-dog eyes, ’cause you ain’t been a puppy for eons now, and the eyes have gotten a little bloodshot
around the edges. You’d better start thinking of shipping out to the Betty Ford Clinic for some mental and physical rehabilitation.”
But the fighting canine just snorted, not wanting to hear any bull this hungry morning. It took Stone nearly half an hour
to get the place in a vague kind of order, and that was just getting the stickiest of the puddles off the floor, wiping the
splattered bits of food from the china closet and the refrigerator, the rows of shelves. The animal believed in the tornado
approach to eating—swallow everything and spit out what you don’t like.
An hour later, Stone was on the bike and heading out into the hard world. He stopped the Harley by the boulder where the transmitter
was kept hidden, and stood up. It was hard going, what with the steel clamp around his thigh and the huge bandage taped around
the incised section. But already he was getting used to dealing with the thing and swung the whole leg smoothly up over the
seat. The dog didn’t move an inch, just clamped onto the black leather, eyes peering from beneath its paws.
Stone was pleased to see that the bike stayed upright on the wide footrest he had welded on. He still wasn’t quite sure everything
was going to hold up. He pushed the boulder back from the hole and, wrapping the door opener up in its plastic bag, placed
it carefully down inside. Then he rolled the boulder back over the top. He never knew each time he left the bunker whether
or not he would ever see it again. And this time it seemed even more unlikely than the previous departures. The sky was growing
dark overhead, even though it wasn’t midday yet. The air was sharp with an icy blade that bit into his eyes and skin. The
steel clamp around his leg was already burning with cold. Things were just great. Stone got back on the Harley, kicked it
into gear, and headed into hell.
He was nervous for the first few minutes, taking the homemade vehicle slow along the narrow deer paths that led back down
the side of the slope. If he went over now in the state he was in, he might not be getting back up again. But to Stone’s pleasure,
on a day that was about as hospitable as the inside of a coffin, at least the bike seemed to be functioning perfectly. The
Harley 1400cc seemed to have a lot more acceleration than the old be. It was slightly heavier, though if anything that gave
it a lower center of gravity, setting it down on its wide tires like a small tank. The only thing a little disconcerting were
the different-shaped handlebars, which were more upright and swept back than his old ones. But after about half an hour of
getting used to the new cycle, Stone began getting used to the bars as well—and found that if he just lay back in the of saddle
the be almost steered itself.
He reached the end of the hidden access road to the bunker and moved at a crawl through the thicket of brambles and vines
that formed a camouflage ahead. There was a good thirty feet of the stuff, and the dog let out with a few sharp howls as its
hide was pricked by brambles. Then they were through, and Stone looked around behind him to make sure that from the single-lane
country road he was now on, you couldn’t see that there was anything heading off into the mountains. The bunker had been built
in just about the most inaccessible place in these parts. Stone shuddered to think what could happen if some psycho got hold
of the bunker—its weapons and supplies.
He headed south down the one-laner, which quickly turned to two. The road
“It’s diet time again, pal,” Stone said with a disgusted look at the canine, which stood in the doorway looking up as if he’d
had nothing to do with the mess. Stone grabbed a mop from the closet and slopped it around the floor. “And don’t look at me
with those pathetic puppy-dog eyes, ’cause you ain’t been a puppy for eons now, and the eyes have gotten a little bloodshot
around the edges. You’d better start thinking of shipping out to the Betty Ford Clinic for some mental and physical rehabilitation.”
But the fighting canine just snorted, not wanting to hear any bull this hungry morning. It took Stone nearly half an hour
to get the place in a vague kind of order, and that was just getting the stickiest of the puddles off the floor, wiping the
splattered bits of food from the china closet and the refrigerator, the rows of shelves. The animal believed in the tornado
approach to eating—swallow everything and spit out what you don’t like.
An hour later, Stone was on the bike and heading out into the hard world. He stopped the Harley by the boulder where the transmitter
was kept hidden, and stood up. It was hard going, what with the steel clamp around his thigh and the huge bandage taped around
the incised section. But already he was getting used to dealing with the thing and swung the whole leg smoothly up over the
seat. The dog didn’t move an inch, just clamped onto the black leather, eyes peering from beneath its paws.
Stone was pleased to see that the bike stayed upright on the wide footrest he had welded on. He still wasn’t quite sure everything
was going to hold up. He pushed the boulder back from the hole and, wrapping the door opener up in its plastic bag, placed
it carefully down inside. Then he rolled the boulder back over the top. He never knew each time he left the bunker whether
or not he would ever see it again. And this time it seemed even more unlikely than the previous departures. The sky was growing
dark overhead, even though it wasn’t midday yet. The air was sharp with an icy blade that bit into his eyes and skin. The
steel clamp around his leg was already burning with cold. Things were just great. Stone got back on the Harley, kicked it
into gear, and headed into hell.
He was nervous for the first few minutes, taking the homemade vehicle slow along the narrow deer paths that led back down
the side of the slope. If he went over now in the state he was in, he might not be getting back up again. But to Stone’s pleasure,
on a day that was about as hospitable as the inside of a coffin, at least the bike seemed to be functioning perfectly. The
Harley 1400cc seemed to have a lot more acceleration than the old be. It was slightly heavier, though if anything that gave
it a lower center of gravity, setting it down on its wide tires like a small tank. The only thing a little disconcerting were
the different-shaped handlebars, which were more upright and swept back than his old ones. But after about half an hour of
getting used to the new cycle, Stone began getting used to the bars as well—and found that if he just lay back in the of saddle
the be almost steered itself.
He reached the end of the hidden access road to the bunker and moved at a crawl through the thicket of brambles and vines
that formed a camouflage ahead. There was a good thirty feet of the stuff, and the dog let out with a few sharp howls as its
hide was pricked by brambles. Then they were through, and Stone looked around behind him to make sure that from the single-lane
country road he was now on, you couldn’t see that there was anything heading off into the mountains. The bunker had been built
in just about the most inaccessible place in these parts. Stone shuddered to think what could happen if some psycho got hold
of the bunker—its weapons and supplies.
He headed south down the one-laner, which quickly turned to two. The road
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