Grif liked to keep his bike shiny. He rubbed the rendered pig fat and corn oil along the gas tank and struts, down the exhaust. When the fat was boiled long enough it usually stopped stinking. This stuff was not boiled long enough. His bike was unpainted. He liked the way the sun hit the raw metal. Without paint, he could catch the rust before it took hold. Rust was the enemy. Parts were becoming harder to find.
He topped off the tank with ethanol and took a swig himself for the departed.
The sun was two hands above the horizon. Dust blowing up from the South had just become visible, the ghost of a pink stain padding the sky. It was too late in the day to be this hot but that meant nothing. Grif spat on the road, expecting it to sizzle. He heard Mike’s bike before he could see him. He knew that sound anywhere.
Mike came back from Pittsburgh to say he got the gig. He asked for volunteers and of course, Grif said yes. So Grif got his bike ready and loaded up his saddlebags with provisions to meet the others by the clubhouse. They were heading east.
Grif and Mike were brothers. They played together in the dirt clumps behind the old motel. Grif had a set of old toy soldiers. Mike sometimes found firecrackers. When Mike’s parents were murdered by xombies up north, Grif’s dad took him in.
“Watch out for those goo-brains,” he had told them both. “They don’t look dangerous. You might think they’re skinny and weak but they ain’t. They don’t talk, so don’t try to reason with ‘em. You run. They’ll come at you before you can do anything – deadly evil. Just run. You run as fast as you can. You find me or anyone from our chapter. Don’t let ‘em get close to you.”
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