pistol from his waist, but never has time to use it. The dipshit is going too fast and gets to me before he can pull the trigger, but not before I slam SS into his face. He flies off the motorcycle and the bike drives up the muddy hill and flips over, the engine cutting off instantly. I make note of where the bike is, but don’t waste time in finishing the guy off. Two hard whacks from SS and his face has less solidity than the mud behind me.
Two more motorcycles crest the hill and fly at me. I lift my pistol and fire before they can do the same. I tag one rider in the chest, his shirt blooming with blood, and he tumbles from his bike. The second rider, a mad-eyed (no goggles!) woman , with a mass of tangled, matted hair, ducks to her right and avoids my shot. Not a problem. I duck under her arm as she swings a huge knife at my head and SS shreds her left leg as she tries to speed past me.
Three down. Three motorcycles to choose from.
Okay, quick admission: I’ve only ridden three-wheelers, four-wheelers and scooters. Never a motorcycle or dirt bike like the one the woman fell from. But no time like the present to learn, right?
I grab her bike and swing my leg over. Of course, the ignition button doesn’t work. Looks like I’ll have to kick start the thing. With my bad leg. I wail on that foot lever and gas it until the engine catches and the motorcycle roars back to life. I briefly think about heading down the hill and towards home, but the sound of more engines means I have to go deeper into Asheville. Sucks to have your options taken from you.
I spin the bike around and twist the gas. It takes all of my strength and balance not to topple right over. I get it under control and realize the engine is whining in a way it shouldn’t. Fuck, this thing isn’t an automatic. I haven’t had to hand clutch and foot shift since my three-wheeler days when I was twelve. But when your life is at stake , it’s funny what memories and skills come back to you. Like riding a bike.
I shift into second and fly up over the hill, nearly m issing the turn in the road. I lean into the turn and avoid plummeting down to Lakeshore below and the fence. With the guards. And the lake of the undead. Part of my plan is to stay as far away from all of that as possible. Not in the mood to put a pretty bow on my head and present myself as a gift to the crazies.
I assume they’re crazies. They look like crazies (did I mention the stupid goggles?) and from the ir screams of rage and anger behind me, I’m guessing they really are crazy. At least these ones are. I have a sinking feeling that whoever is behind the organization and planning of the lake of the undead, isn’t so crazy. Well, maybe insane, since there’s, well, a lake of undead ! But not the unstable crazy of the perpetually goggled motorcycle gang on my ass.
I race down the long, twisting road until I’m suddenly spit out onto Merrimon Ave. The street is still clogged with cars from Z-Day. The bodies the Zs haven’t eaten lay half out of their vehicles, mummified and still. I crush the skull of what had been a toddler, as I kick my rear wheel out and fit my bike between a row of cars. I’m racing along, watching in front of me while also trying to keep track of my pursuers. I don’t know how many are after me, but one is too many in my book.
I see ahead that a car is cutting me off and I hit the brakes. I slowly wiggle the bike between the car’s front bumper and SUV to my left. I just get it clear when I hear the shot and then the ricochet , as a bullet takes off the side mirror of the SUV. Then I hear more shots. I gun the engine and hunker down over the handlebars, as I turn left down Evelyn St.
The street takes me deeper into the more affluent neighborhoods of North Asheville. On both sides, houses start changing from one and two story brick ranch style to two and three story brick and stone mansions. The yards get bigger and the abandoned cars get more expensive. I
Two more motorcycles crest the hill and fly at me. I lift my pistol and fire before they can do the same. I tag one rider in the chest, his shirt blooming with blood, and he tumbles from his bike. The second rider, a mad-eyed (no goggles!) woman , with a mass of tangled, matted hair, ducks to her right and avoids my shot. Not a problem. I duck under her arm as she swings a huge knife at my head and SS shreds her left leg as she tries to speed past me.
Three down. Three motorcycles to choose from.
Okay, quick admission: I’ve only ridden three-wheelers, four-wheelers and scooters. Never a motorcycle or dirt bike like the one the woman fell from. But no time like the present to learn, right?
I grab her bike and swing my leg over. Of course, the ignition button doesn’t work. Looks like I’ll have to kick start the thing. With my bad leg. I wail on that foot lever and gas it until the engine catches and the motorcycle roars back to life. I briefly think about heading down the hill and towards home, but the sound of more engines means I have to go deeper into Asheville. Sucks to have your options taken from you.
I spin the bike around and twist the gas. It takes all of my strength and balance not to topple right over. I get it under control and realize the engine is whining in a way it shouldn’t. Fuck, this thing isn’t an automatic. I haven’t had to hand clutch and foot shift since my three-wheeler days when I was twelve. But when your life is at stake , it’s funny what memories and skills come back to you. Like riding a bike.
I shift into second and fly up over the hill, nearly m issing the turn in the road. I lean into the turn and avoid plummeting down to Lakeshore below and the fence. With the guards. And the lake of the undead. Part of my plan is to stay as far away from all of that as possible. Not in the mood to put a pretty bow on my head and present myself as a gift to the crazies.
I assume they’re crazies. They look like crazies (did I mention the stupid goggles?) and from the ir screams of rage and anger behind me, I’m guessing they really are crazy. At least these ones are. I have a sinking feeling that whoever is behind the organization and planning of the lake of the undead, isn’t so crazy. Well, maybe insane, since there’s, well, a lake of undead ! But not the unstable crazy of the perpetually goggled motorcycle gang on my ass.
I race down the long, twisting road until I’m suddenly spit out onto Merrimon Ave. The street is still clogged with cars from Z-Day. The bodies the Zs haven’t eaten lay half out of their vehicles, mummified and still. I crush the skull of what had been a toddler, as I kick my rear wheel out and fit my bike between a row of cars. I’m racing along, watching in front of me while also trying to keep track of my pursuers. I don’t know how many are after me, but one is too many in my book.
I see ahead that a car is cutting me off and I hit the brakes. I slowly wiggle the bike between the car’s front bumper and SUV to my left. I just get it clear when I hear the shot and then the ricochet , as a bullet takes off the side mirror of the SUV. Then I hear more shots. I gun the engine and hunker down over the handlebars, as I turn left down Evelyn St.
The street takes me deeper into the more affluent neighborhoods of North Asheville. On both sides, houses start changing from one and two story brick ranch style to two and three story brick and stone mansions. The yards get bigger and the abandoned cars get more expensive. I
Similar Books
