Free Wasteland Blues by Scott Christian Carr, Andrew Conry-Murray Page B

horses,” said Leggy, who had taken the spyglass. His jaw dropped, and his face went white. “Not horses,” he repeated, “Motorcycles. At least two of ’em, maybe more. Fuck!”
    John poked his head from the tent. “Motorcycles? Really? Can I see?”
    “No time,” snapped Leggy. “We’ve got to move before they spot us. If they haven’t already. Damn!”
    They scrambled out of the caravan and off the side of the road. Teddy pushed Leggy’s chair with such speed that the two front wheels lifted from the ground and the old man’s hair blew back in the breeze. They ran toward a collection of large, dung-colored rocks about thirty yards from the road.
    When they reached the rocks they dropped to the ground and did their best to remain out of sight.
    “What about the caravan?” asked John. “They’ll see it.”
    “Too late for that now,” hissed Leggy. “With any luck they’ll just take it with them and not bother to look around for whoever might’ve been in it.”
    “Who are they?” asked John. “And where’d they get motorcycles?”
    “I don’t know and shut the fuck up!” said Leggy.
    ***
    John lowered his head just as the motorcycles hove into view. There were two of them—Leggy’s ears had been correct. John’s jaw dropped. He’d seen rusted, stripped motorcycles in the salvage yard at The Heap, but never working specimens.
    And the riders.
    John could not tell where the machines ended and the riders began. They were dressed entirely in black leather, with shiny patches of metal and mesh adorning their shoulders and chests. Their faces were covered in black masks with thin slits for eyes. Large round bulbs of scuffed and dented steel covered their heads and came down low over their brows and the backs of their necks. On the left shoulder, each rider wore the only bit of color on them—three small ribbons, one blue, one red, and one white that dangled nearly to elbow length. Holding the ribbons to the shoulder, and pointing dangerously up into the air was a long, shining metal spike. The ribbons billowed in the wind behind them as they cruised to a halt a few yards from the caravan. The donkey raised its tired head and regarded the men with rheumy eyes.
    The riders dismounted, and John was relieved to see that they were indeed men, after all. They wore high leather riding boots and—John could not believe it—each had, not one but two rifles strapped to his back. John’s heart skipped a beat as one of the men climbed into the caravan and the other shielded his eyes to the sun and peered off into the desert, directly where the group lay huddled.
    The first man emerged from the caravan shaking his head. His friend pointed to the ground, and then moved his finger up to point directly toward the hiding group. With a shock, John realized they had left tracks in the dust as they hurried off the side of the road—that the wheelchair’s rusty rims had dug ruts in the earth as Teddy had forced it forward. With desperate fear, John turned to look at Leggy, and was amazed to see that the old man was smiling.
    Not only was he smiling, but his arms were actually maneuvering his chair out from behind the rocks.
    “Hey there!” he called, cupping his hands to his mouth. The men drew rifles and pointed them at Leggy. He raised his hands and shouted, “Ukmuk, Uk-hey!” Leggy waved his arms side to side.
    John was certain that the old man had gone mad or suffered a heatstroke.
    “Ugloooooo. Mooka-mooka, deeeeka, moooka,” Leggy said.
    “Nick?” said the man pointing his finger at their hiding place. “Nicodemus? Holy Christ on a half-shell, is that you? We thought you, we thought….” The man stopped hollering and sprinted over the baked ground toward Leggy. The rider was surprisingly fast for all the armor and leather he wore, and did not appear even to break a sweat. Muscles rippled beneath leather, and his strong legs, as big around as timber, propelled him forward in leaps and bounds. He was