“Are there any other biker guys?” Lady asked. Her voice and expression were supernaturally calm. I wondered if this was what PTSD looked like on her.
I counted, realized we were seven short, and remembered that the vice president had taken his favorites to search for food in a nearby abandoned town. They’d be back at dawn. His old lady lay among the bodies; I’d put a round through her pretty left eye.
“Yeah. We better get the hell out of here.”
#
While Lady put herself back together, I washed the blood off at the bar sink and then quickly gathered supplies–weapons, ammo, food, a medical pack, and jerry cans of gasoline, plus my rucksack of clothes and what little personal stuff I’d kept–and got my battered Yamaha V Star ready. Lady had arrived on her own bike, a shiny Honda NC700X. Mea
