I think this might have been used as a clubhouse or something long ago.Maybe this is the club Tempest bought her house from?
A faded gray banner that might have once been black hangs on the wall in the back.
“Midnight Riders”
There’s a logo on the banner—a full moon rising behind a strangely shaped mountain.
But movement breaks my concentration.“Ugh!”I think I saw a rat.Muohta scratches at the wood panels, snuffing hard.
When I look around the room, I see it’s covered in dust and spiderwebs.
You, dear clubhouse, have a date with a demolition backhoe.There is no way I’m going to be able to sell the inn with an eyesore like this on site.
When I come out of the wooden structure, I am shocked to see the wan fall sun has left the sky.The wind picks up and is howling through the trees.Even the red painted general store door is shut tight.
Backtracking as fast as I can, I walk double-quick time down the road.
Ben Magoo seems like a nice man.He can’t possibly get angry if I take a shortcut through his forest…
ChapterFour
Dante
We cross the land bridge as the tide recedes.Two inches of water is deep enough to lap at the motorcycle’s tires, but it’s not enough to reach the alloy wheel rims.
Still, I take it nice and slow all the same.The engine block that keeps the wheels of my Harley spinning is water tight, but no rider wants to push his luck when it comes to machines and rust.
Only when I’m halfway across do the other four members of the MC riding with me begin to follow after me.
The wake my motorbike leaves in the lake water resembles ripples on an oil slick.
Like rats leaving a sinking ship, we travel from Canada to Landslide as the moon rises higher in the night sky.
The land bridge is not reliable—never has been.Sometimes it gets wide enough for a truck to drive over, and sometimes it narrows down to a few inches.Strictly foot traffic only then, and only if you can run faster than the wind.
They’ve tried bricking over the land bridge to create something permanent, but that’s the same as chucking the bricks straight into the inlet and watching them sink.
It reminds me of those stories I’ve heard about the Aztec people who used to throw gold into their lake’s thick mud to appease the gods.Same as Landslide, it didn’t seem to work out too well for them.There’s a hill of gold in a lake somewhere in El Dorado, but that’s not enough to tempt me to leave the inviolate boundary I have set around myself.
Coming back to Landslide’s really got me in a sentimental mood.I’ve been gone too fucking long.
The motorbike vibrates under me, the throttle too low for the engine’s rumble to turn into a roar.
I would never open up the throttle while crossing the water anyway.Waking up the locals is not an option.
The people of Landslide tolerate us because they fear us, but diplomacy has never been my strong suit.I’ve butted heads with more than a few of them during the long years of my residency here.Gotta keep them toeing the line, damn straight.
So, why am I returning to this backwater dump?Because Tempest promised me that she would have sorted everything out by now.
For her sake—for everyone’s sake—I hope she has.
Nothing else I can do when I reach the incline; I have to increase the gas flow to the engine by easing the throttle up a little bit.
The motorbike responds like a grumpy old man being prodded awake in the morning, sputtering and popping in slow coughs.
Fuck it.I just don’t care anymore.
Is there a wicked smile on my face as I suddenly increase the revs and make the engine blast?You can bet your life on it.I imagine the locals tossing and turning in their comfortable beds as they hear the motorcycle’s rumbling thunder.
