Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Epilogue

Mo shook her wrench at the toaster on the workbench in front of her and frowned. She’d been working on this one for most of the day, and she still couldn’t get it to work quite right. It didn’t help that she’d been working on a bike less than an hour before, and so was occasionally distracted by stupid attempts to find the toaster’s fuel line.

Shaking her head to shove any thoughts about bikes--that bike in particular--out of the way, she went back to work.

Bolus stepped onto the girl’s back porch, just outside the light spilling out from inside. He pulled out his gun and fitted a silencer onto it and then, smiling, took a step back and lined up the perfect shot--right in the middle of the girl’s back. She didn’t turn around or give any sign that she’d noticed him at all.

His finger tensed on the trigger.

People around here should crash bikes more often, Mo thought ruefully. Not break toasters. She was reaching for a pair of pliers, still half-lost in thought, when she stopped short, dark blue eyes going wide. The toaster sitting on the shelf might have been broken, but it still caught the near-perfect reflection of the thug in her doorway...and the gun he had trained on her.

Almost without thinking, her hand jumped over to the elevator controls and jammed down on the down button. The ropes, weakened from being accidentally lit on fire by Ben’s bike, didn’t take well to the suggestion. The whole thing collapsed, taking the thug along for the unexpected ride. Her heart still pounding in her ears, Mo leaned out the door and peered down, warily, at his prone form.

Ben tore back to his bike, waving his gang and all their questions aside. “I’ll tell you later,” he said to Darrel as he started up his bike. “Just stay put.”

He was on the road back to Melonweed before Darrel could manage a reply. Ripburger’s way ahead of me, he thought grimly. By the time he’d made it back around the front of the building, the limo was gone. And his instincts told him that it had gone after Mo.

I just hope Maureen can handle herself until I get there. He hoped, too, that he wasn’t already too late. He’d never forgive himself if he was.

Mo bent down beside the thug, having picked his pockets for anything of interest. He was out cold with a nasty lump on the back of his head and looked as if he might stay that way for a while.

She picked up a smashed-up camera and raised an eyebrow at it. “Hmm...the gun I understand...but why’d he bring a camera?” She decided that didn’t bear thinking about and picked up his wallet and started flipping through it, looking for some form of ID. “Who does this guy work for?”

Finally, she found a company badge, and for the second time that night her eyes went wide. “...Corley Motors?”

A limo pulled up into her drive, its headlights just barely catching her in their glare.

Ripburger sat forward and peered into the darkness underneath the girl’s...well, he wasn’t sure if he’d call it anything more than a hovel, really. “Nestor, what’s that moving over there by that pile?”

Nestor leaned over the empty passenger seat and squinted. “I don’t know, Rip,” he answered after a second, “but I think that pile is Bolus.”

He sighed. Lovely. “Yes, now I remember...you’re the smart one, aren’t you?”

Nestor smiled and didn’t say anything.

Ben pulled into Melonweed later than he would have liked, heading straight for Mo’s. The lights were still on, but that didn’t reassure him any. He came to a stop on the road and killed the engine. I don’t see the limo...maybe I beat them here.

As unlikely as that was, he still held out some shred of hope as he got off his bike and headed for the entrance. He’d just rounded the corner when he caught sight of the twisted debris scattered around. “On second thought,” he said aloud, “maybe I didn’t.”

He forced himself to climb up the ladder and take a look inside the shack. To his surprise, it was empty. No sign of a struggle inside, and certainly no body--though he supposed they could’ve taken the body elsewhere to dump it. But even then, there would’ve been blood...nobody made that clean of a kill.

Maybe she got away. That thought brought him a little relief. He jumped back down the ladder and began sifting through the debris, just to make sure he hadn’t missed anything.

The first thing he found of any interest was a smashed-up camera. The back was open and there was no film inside. Huh. Mo said she didn’t have a camera... It was worthless either way, so he tossed it aside and picked up the next item, which was the picture of Mo and her Uncle Pete standing in front of the mink ranch. The glass protecting it was badly cracked.

Mo said she went there whenever she needed to get away for a while...maybe she went there if she made it out. Not like he knew where “there” was. Sighing, he set the picture back down amongst the debris and started back towards his bike.

He figured he’d swing back to the scene of the crime, pick up his gang for reinforcements, and then see if he couldn’t find Uncle Pete’s Mink Ranch. At least, that was what he was counting on before a swarm of police hovercraft flew overhead, heading down the road for the rest stop. Police sirens split the air.

“Well, so much for that.”

He started up his bike again and headed off towards the west. That road would take him to the Kickstand, if nothing else. Maybe Quohog would have an idea of where the mink ranch was.

He pulled into the Kickstand’s parking lot somewhere outside of two in the morning. All the lights were on inside, and Quohog seemed to have at least one customer--the guy who owned the semi Ben nearly ran into on his way inside the bar. It was quintuple-parked right in front of the door.

Ben parked his bike behind it and went on inside. Quohog was still cleaning glasses at the bar, dividing his attention between the glass in his hand and the television on the far wall. It was on, but the reception was fairly shoddy--all Ben could make out was some newscaster sitting in front of a sign that said “News To Me.” There was no sound. The driver of the semi, meanwhile, was playing some sort of game involving his fingers and his knife. The knife was winning.

“Hey, killer!”

Ben looked back at Quohog, who was staring straight at him. He blinked, confused. “What?”

Quohog held one hand up in mock-surrender. “Hey, it’s cool--your secret’s safe with me.”

“What secret?” Ben snapped, glaring. I don’t have a secret...do I? He thought about that for a second, then amended, Well, not one that he knows about, anyway.

“Haven’t you been watching the news?” Quohog stepped a few inches to the right and the picture on the TV solidified, bringing the sound with it.

“Once again,” the anchorman began, “our top story tonight: Malcolm Corley, owner of Corley Motors, was found--” he leaned forward, eyes bulging out of their sockets-- “dead...at a rest stop just outside the town of Melonweed! Apparently, the benevolent patriarch and CEO was--” he leaned forward again-- “viciously beaten about the head and neck! Savagely, and without mercy! Police have arrested a notorious outlaw biker gang known as ‘The Polecats’...”

“No!” Quohog and the trucker both stared at Ben, surprised by the sudden outburst.

“...With the exception of their leader, who is still at large. Roadblocks have been set up along Highway 9 in order to apprehend this...dangerous and violent criminal!”

Ben turned around and punched the bar, causing the reception to fade out again. “We’ve been set up!”

“Roadblocks suck,” the trucker chimed in sympathetically. Ben ignored him.

“I shouldn’t have left the gang there!” he continued, picking splinters out of his skin. He was going to hurt Ripburger bad for this, all right--him and everyone else involved.

Quohog set the glass he was cleaning down and frowned. “Hey, I don’t wanna hear anything about it! You ain’t makin’ me an accessory after the fact! Just lay low, man.”

Ben returned his frown and then turned to the trucker, a tall, gangly man with a long brown beard and arms covered in tattoos. He seemed to be concentrating hard on his knife game--mumblety peg, Ben thought it was called--which involved trying to stab the space between his fingers as fast as humanly possible. His aim left something to be desired.

“I can do that,” Ben remarked, pulling up the chair across from him and sitting down. The trucker didn’t even look up.

“Not gonna happen.”

Well, so much for breaking the ice. Ben leaned back, thinking.

Back at the bar, Quohog dropped a glass. Muttering, he bent down to pick up the pieces, and the reception on the television faded back in for a second.

“Latest reports suggest that the leader of the Polecats may have had an accomplice, a young mechanic.”

Ben snapped forward in his chair so fast he nearly pitched headlong into the table. “Maureen!”

The trucker looked up. “Who?”

“None of your business,” Ben growled. The trucker, seemingly put off by the dangerous tone in Ben’s voice, went back to his knife game and didn’t touch the subject again.

Why would they frame Mo? Ben wondered, staring at the table. I guess they couldn’t catch her. That means she’s still alive. Which only doubled his resolve to find her, and quickly.

But finding Mo--hell, even finding the mink ranch--likely meant going through the roadblocks. And he knew there was no way he could manage it...at least, not on his bike. That left only one option, which happened to be sitting right in front of him, all rolled up into one nice, sociopathic package. I must be crazy.

“That your truck out front?” He jerked a thumb back towards the door. “I need a ride.”

The knife stopped just along for the trucker to snarl, “I look like a cabbie to you? Get lost! They’re not lettin’ anyone through that roadblock, anyway.”

“Not even truckers?” Quohog asked, eyes widening.

“They turned me around, said ‘Police business only.’ Pigs.” He snorted and started taking his frustration out on his fingers.

Well, so much for that. Ben sighed, getting up. “Good talking to you.” He couldn’t help the sarcasm that crept into his voice. Then, turning to Quohog, he also couldn’t help but add, “Friendly folks you get in here.”

Quohog shrugged. “Emmet’s not what you’d call an ‘I’m OK, you’re OK’ person.”

“Aw, shut yer hole, Quohog!” Emmet snapped.

Ben went outside after that, needing to clear his head. He pulled up a seat on the edge of the Kickstand’s porch, looking out over the empty highway and, beyond that, the desert.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, running through the short list of options he had. But he knew it was longer than it should’ve been--Mo was his first priority, and sitting here wasn’t helping her in the slightest. He’d just gotten up to try and hotwire Emmet’s truck when a shadowy figure appeared out of nowhere, running towards him at top speed. He tried stepping out of the way, but whoever it was had already seen him--and managed to slam right into him.

“Ben!”

Ben grimaced--there was no mistaking that nasally whine. He pushed Miranda away and wiped the dust, leaves, and sweat from his jacket. “Did you just run across the desert?”

“Yeah,” she gasped, sinking down onto the porch in a desperate attempt to catch her breath. Ben made no move to help her.

“Didn’t you have a car?”

“I did.” She coughed up some dust. “It broke down a few miles back. And I gotta lie low, gotta find a place to hide--you’ve gotta help me, Ben!”

Ben peered in through the Kickstand’s door--neither Quohog nor Emmet seemed to notice what was going on outside. He risked sitting down next to her. “What’s--”

“Go find my editor in Corville,” she interrupted, louder than Ben would’ve liked, “tell him I took pictures of the Corley murder--”

“You got pictures?” Suddenly a whole new host of options appeared in Ben’s mind, blackmail the least among them.

“Yeah, but some thug took my camera!” she said angrily, wiping the sweat off her face. Ben frowned.

“So you don’t have any pictures.”

“Well, I tracked the guy to Melonweed... But I’m not goin’ near the place! They’d kill me!” She shuddered, and he doubted it was from the cool night air. Then she looked back at him, her dark eyes wide and pleading. “Get my editor! He’s gotta get me out of this!”

He raised one eyebrow. “How am I supposed to get through the roadblocks?”

She whipped out her wallet and sifted through it. Finally, she pulled out what looked like a federal investigator ID and pressed it into his hand. “Take one of these fake IDs! But you’ve gotta help me!”

“Oh, don’t worry. I owe you one.” He tried very hard to keep the dark grin off his face.

“Great--now, know a place I can hide?”

After giving it a moment’s thought, Ben jerked a thumb towards the side of the building. “Try the dumpster. It stank in there, but I don’t remember a better sleep.”

She pulled herself to her feet and peered around the corner. “Good enough. Just don’t blow my cover, all right? And get those pictures! My career is ridin’ on those things! Help me, Ben, you’re my only hope!”

With that, she darted around the corner and, apparently, dove into the dumpster. He could hear her rummaging around through glass bottles and other garbage as she made herself comfortable.

If Miranda’s thug is the same one that trashed Mo’s place, Ben thought, slowly turning the fake ID over in his hands, that could be Miranda’s camera I saw there. But then...who’s got the film? He only hoped it wasn’t Ripburger, or he’d never have a chance to clear his name.

Only one way to find out, he decided, getting up and heading back inside the Kickstand. And only one way to find Mo.

Once inside, Ben sat down across from Emmet again and tossed the fake ID down onto the table without ceremony. “Here.”

Emmet glanced at it once, trying not to appear interested. “What’s that?”

“Fake federal investigator ID,” Ben said, smirking as Emmet’s knife slowed and finally came to a stop. “Could be of some use at one of those roadblocks.”

Emmet promptly stabbed the ID with his knife and then cocked his head to one side. Ben took that as a good sign and pressed on. “Ever hear of this place--Uncle Pete’s Mink Ranch?”

It was Quohog who answered first, however. “I remember there used to be some sorta weasel plantation or--or somethin’ up the road...”

“Down Highway 9,” Emmet added, nodding, “on the other side of them damn roadblocks. I used to pick up mink meat there real cheap and sell it to school lunch programs!” He laughed. “That was a good scam!”

Ben fixed him with a hard stare. “So...how about a ride?”

Emmet came around the side of the truck, lighting a cigarette and taking a long draw. “Okay,” he said, “bike’s in the back.”

“What if they search the truck and find it?” Ben asked, leaning against the massive front bumper. Emmet only laughed.

“It’s in a crate buried in a pile of concentrated fertilizer powder. Trust me, no one’s gonna dig through that crap.” He took another draw from the cigarette and then opened the semi’s front vent, motioning inside. “Now, ye’re gonna ride in the engine compartment.”

Ben peered inside, disbelieving. “The engine compartment?”

“Hey, I smuggle stuff in there all the time,” Emmet grumbled. He then added pointedly, “An’ most of it’s worth more than you. So stuff yer carcass in there quick and we might hit that mink dump by mornin’.”

Not one to let somebody else get the last word, Ben tossed him the fake ID and muttered, “Hope you’re better with a stick shift than you are with a knife.”

He thought he heard Emmet mutter “Yeah, yeah,” and then he hopped inside, squeezing past the fan to find a space large enough for him to sit down, though not comfortably. Sandwiched in between the wall of the truck and the engine, he had no room to move and hardly any to breathe--he kept his knees tucked in against his chest and his arms wrapped around his calves to keep from touching anything. He cocked his head to one side, listening as Emmet slammed the cab door, started the truck up, and accelerated out of the Kickstand’s parking lot.

As they sped faster down the freeway, Ben took a careful sniff of the air in the compartment, frowning. Oh, great, he thought, smells like he’s got a fuel leak. I love engine fires.

After a short while, Emmet brought the truck to such a sudden stop that Ben nearly went flying into the fan.

“Sorry sir,” a muffled voice said, “only police vehicles beyond this point.”

“I’m with the feds, chump. Check it out.”

Ben held his breath in the silence that followed, waiting.

“Huh? What’s this about?”

“Undercover agricultural sting operation.” He could just imagine the smug smile on Emmet’s bearded face.

The cop seemed to think about that for a minute, then asked, “What’s in the back?”

“Fertilizer,” Emmet answered smoothly. The cop sighed.

“All right, move along.”

They started forward again, with Emmet calling back, “Hope you rubes get yer man!” As soon as they were far enough away, though, he only laughed and floored the gas pedal. Ben closed his eyes and tried to get a little bit of sleep for a change. Something told him it would be his last for a long time.

When he woke up again, bleary-eyed and with muscle cramps in places where he didn’t even know he had muscles, it was to silence, broken only by the occasional sound of somebody tinkering with the engine. Hmm...we’ve stopped moving. He stretched as much as he could in the confined space, then headed out through a tiny service tunnel in the back.

As soon as he squeezed out from between the space between the truck’s cab and the trailer, Ben found himself squinting in the bright sunlight--and staring at an off-green colored barn. Giant lettering across the front shouted “BARGAIN” in flaking paint. He wandered around to the front of the semi. Emmet had the front vent open and was swearing at something inside.

“Problem with your truck?”

Emmet jumped, slamming the vent shut and laughing nervously. “Oh, loose hose, nuthin’ big. I, uh, already pulled your bike out. It’s sittin’ right over there.” He motioned vaguely over his shoulder at Ben’s bike, sitting at the other side of the ranch’s wide driveway. Ben didn’t get a chance to do much more than glance at it before Emmet wiped his hands on his pants and announced, “Well, nice knowin’ ya. Gotta hit the road, y’know...” Not allowing any time for argument either, he jumped into the cab, started up the engine, and took off, shutting the cab door on his way down the road.

Ben watched him speed off, frowning. “Uh-oh.” Walking over to his bike, he made a quick inspection. His eyes widened. “He did have a fuel leak! And he took my fuel line to fix it!” He cracked his knuckles, growling. “That trucker’s gonna die for what he did!”

After a few seconds of plotting Emmet’s horrible death, however, Ben realized that he wasn’t going anywhere--much less after Emmet--without a new fuel line. And he still had to find Mo. He sighed and took a look around.

Uncle Pete’s Mink Ranch was the only building on a long and desolate stretch of the highway, not well-frequented, but showing only a few signs of disrepair--the sign mounted on the barn was rotting away, and just beyond the barn, what might have been a lake had turned into a green, reeking cess pit. A water wheel that looked as if it might once have supplied power to the barn was rotting away, slowly sinking into the sludge.

The first place Ben looked was the barn, since it was right in front of him. But a quick tug on the doors revealed them to be locked and barred, and they were in good enough shape that he doubted he could kick them down. That left the house.

The house--he supposed he could call it that, though its sloping roof made it look more like a shack--was to the barn’s right and looked slightly more well-kept and welcoming. The front door was wide open. He stepped up onto the porch, then stepped inside.

The downstairs was mostly bare, with little of interest beyond a thin layer of dust that looked as if it had been disturbed recently. There was a fridge near the door with some food inside, but none of it seemed to have been touched in a while. Some of it looked vaguely petrified. A ladder led upstairs, and Ben proceeded up cautiously. There was no telling if Mo was up there, what sort of shape she was in, and whether or not she was armed.

“Mo?”

He poked his head up slowly, taking a quick look around. Nobody was there, so he climbed up the rest of the way and got to his feet.

He was standing in an immaculately kept bedroom. The bed was neatly made as if it had never been slept in, and clean (relatively speaking) mink pelts were hanging from the ceiling. It didn’t look like anybody had been living there for a long time, but somebody had been by to do the dusting. Still, there was no sign of Mo. Ben looked for her everywhere, even under the bed, though Mo didn’t strike him as the sort of person to hide under their bed.

As he stood up after looking under the bed, something caught his eye that made his hair stand on end. The banner was perfectly preserved, if a little faded, and completely unmistakable. The feathered wings curved up sharply, unnaturally, from a “V” printed in the center. Ben stared at it for a long, long time.

“I can’t believe Mo used to be a Vulture,” he said at last, “but then again...how else could she have gotten that recoil booster?” Only the Vultures had those recoil boosters, and they were notoriously territorial about them. No everyday toaster mechanic could’ve gotten her hands on one, even if she was amazing.

Well, that certainly makes things a little more interesting. Good thing she’s a former Vulture. Ben resumed his inspection of the room. The Polecats had had a few ugly encounters with the Vultures, and he knew from experience that they were completely insane. If Mo had run back to them, he would’ve had an ugly time trying to get her back.

“Not like I’m having an easy time finding her anyway,” he muttered aloud, lifting up the lid of a trunk that was sitting at the end of the bed. It had a large Corley Motors sticker on the front, so he assumed it was Mo’s. And as unlikely as it was that she could possibly be hiding in there, it was the last place Ben hadn’t looked, and the situation was getting a little desperate.

Some people kept a hope chest. Mo, it seemed, kept a junk chest. At least that’s what Ben assumed it was. The chest had been stuffed to the brim with an odd assortment of junk, most of it rusted out bike parts, but he managed to unearth a tire iron that looked useful, as well as a hose he could use on his bike. He figured Mo wouldn’t mind if he borrowed them.

He was just closing the chest when he heard a bike starting up. It sounded like a Corley, but it wasn’t his.

“Mo?”

Ben looked out the window just in time to catch a glimpse of Mo speeding out through the now-open barn doors and onto the freeway. He stayed at the window only long enough to make sure he knew what direction she was headed in--southeast down Highway 9, the same way Emmet had gone--then ran outside after her.

He leapt down off the ladder to the house’s first floor, then leapt again down off the porch, hitting the hot asphalt at a dead run. Once to his bike, he managed to get the fuel line installed in record time, then started up the bike and took off after her. He only hoped the line decided to hold.

She came into sight a ways down the road, swinging around a semi--Emmet’s semi, as it turned out--with admirable grace. Ben followed her, picking up the pace a little. He managed to gain some ground, until he was barely a few feet away behind her. She’d found time for a wardrobe change, he noticed--leaving her blue worksuit behind for something more resembling biker gear, a long-sleeved green shirt under a black leather vest, gray pants and a pair of calf-length black boots. When she turned around to look at him, he saw that she was wearing riding goggles, too--and they unfortunately hid whatever thoughts she might be having. Her face was a perfectly blank mask, even more impressive than some of Ben’s similar efforts.

They stared at each other for no more than a split second before she reached down and engaged her recoil booster, taking off down the road in a cloud of smoke. Ben coughed smoke out of his lungs and reached down to trigger his own booster and follow after her--but his hand came up empty, eyes wide in shock.

She took my booster fuel!

All that was left behind was a pair of loose wires--it had obviously been a rush job. He clenched one hand into a fist, letting loose an angry, almost feral growl.

When he got his hands on her, he was going to--no, no, he wasn’t. This was Mo, not some trucker. He gritted his teeth and decided that he could forgive her, just this once.

Why is she running from me? he wondered, easing up on the throttle a little. She must think the whole world’s against her. ...I think I know how that feels.

A horn blared behind him, startling him out of his thoughts, and Emmet pulled up beside him. Ben glared into the cab, not surprised to find Emmet looking back at him. The trucker laughed once, then swung the wheel sharply to the right, scraping up along the side of Ben’s bike and nearly causing him to ride off the road. As swiftly as he had appeared, he disappeared down the road again, still laughing.

That does it! Ben cranked the throttle up again, his anger over what Mo had done finding a new outlet. He’s dead!

Before he could catch up to the semi, though, random scraps of metal began appearing along the sides of the road. The sightings increased in frequency until he came to a sign hanging over the freeway, composed entirely of twisted, macabre metal, the last remnants of a whole host of vehicles. It was embedded firmly in the rock on both sides of the road and showed no signs of age. The vacant eyes of a metallic skull, hanging in the sign’s dead center, glinted at him as he passed underneath it.

That sign... He frowned, trying to concentrate on the road ahead of him. Every biker on the road knew what that sign meant. I’m in Cavefish territory.

Exactly where he, along with anybody else who didn’t have a death wish, didn’t want to be.

The trio of Cavefish was out on routine patrol, on the hunt for semis carrying anything valuable. They were surprised, but not alarmed, to find a lone bike rolling through their territory. A quick assessment determined that it was no threat, so they swung around him, zipping off down the road. One looked back at the biker as they passed, smirking to see the little spike of adrenaline through his goggles. Cavefish couldn’t just smell fear, they could see it. They’d always been rather proud of that fact.

He returned his focus to the road in front of him just as another blip appeared in his vision. A freight truck--a target. The trio exchanged nods, then shifted into attack formation.

Emmet wasn’t paying much attention to the road around him, secure in the knowledge that he’d left that stupid biker deep in his dust. There’d been a second one lurking around, too, but she seemed to have disappeared. He wasn’t worried.

But a quick, habitual glance at his side mirror suddenly had him worried again. Those sleek, sand-colored bikes coming up behind him only belonged to one gang, and they were sure as hell a threat to him. He grabbed onto the wheel with both hands, watching as they formed into a line stretching across the road.

Cavefish normally rode with their heads down, lying almost on their stomachs, due to the way their bikes were designed--or heavily modified; no one knew for certain. It was significantly more aerodynamic, giving them a distinct advantage in speed and defense over any other biker on the road. But when they were attacking, they had to sit up straight in order to aim their weapons properly.

And that was exactly what the three Cavefish in Emmet’s side mirror were doing.

Panicked, Emmet slammed his fist down on the red button on the dash. The semi-trailer snapped free, careening down the road. It smashed into the middle Cavefish and sent both him and his bike flying to the side of the road. He lay still and didn’t move. Emmet laughed, calm once more. They’d think twice before messing with him again.

The second Cavefish, now the impromptu leader of what had become a duo, rather than a trio, snarled at the receding truck. They could not let an insult to one of their esteemed brothers go unchallenged. And he knew exactly how he’d answer it.

He raised a different weapon than the one he’d been carrying a moment before, leveled it with the back of the cab, and fired. A large dynamite bomb flew through the air, attaching itself to the back of the semi. It beeped as it counted down to zero, but Emmet didn’t hear it over the engine noise.

He made it halfway across Poyahoga Gorge Bridge, the bridge that marked the end of Cavefish territory, before the cab exploded in a ball of flame. The rest of the bridge burned and crumbled with it.

The Cavefish watched, idling in the middle of the road, as the burning mass plummeted down to the bottom of the gorge. Satisfied that his fallen brother had been properly avenged, he turned back for the crashed semi-trailer, flagging down the other Cavefish along the way.

They found the trailer smashed up along the side of the road, wedged very precariously into the bedrock. A small puddle of some sort of green substance had pooled in the middle of the road--it seemed to be leaking from the trailer itself. He pulled to a stop next to the trailer and climbed up its side, peering into the hold. He sniffed at the powder inside, then grabbed a handful and let it run through his fingers. It reeked, particularly so to his sensitive nose.

“This cargo is worthless!” he snarled, standing up. The other remaining Cavefish pulled up to a stop in front of him. “We have been tricked, my brother! Back to the cave!”

His brother sped away down the road, and he followed soon after, grumbling inwardly at the cost of such a worthless effort. Well, maybe not entirely worthless--watching that trucker blow up had been satisfying, he had to admit.

“C’mon man, this is boring.”

Nestor rolled his eyes at Bolus and lowered the driver’s side window, peering out. The car’s fresh paint smell immediately started to give him a headache, but it was better than listening to Bolus whine. He peered all around the ranch’s empty driveway, making vaguely confused “hmm” sounds.

“The place looks deserted,” Bolus remarked, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Maybe the boss was wrong, and she ain’t comin’ here.”

“She’s coming!” Nestor snapped testily. “We just got here first! That means all we have to do is sit here and wait.” He checked the loaded gun at his side again as the window raised halfway.

At least, he thought, I hope we got here first. Ripburger would have both their heads if they botched up this hit a second time.

Ben came to a slow stop just short of the powdery puddle on the ground. “What a mess,” he muttered, frowning at the smell. “What a stinkin’ mess.”

The trailer, precariously perched as it was, was still leaking fertilizer powder all over the road. Given enough time, it looked as if it could turn into a major road hazard. Ben guided his bike carefully through the puddle, still wrinkling his nose at the smell.

Well, at least this means Emmet’s out of the picture, he thought, or at least his trailer. Still, it wasn’t going to help him catch up to Mo any time soon. And he had to find out where she’d gotten to, and fast, before Ripburger’s thugs found out first.

Once clear of the puddle, Ben took off down the road at full throttle. What a stinkin’ mess.

Of course, he already knew where Highway 9 went--south and east, all the way down to Corville. Only a few exits showed up along the way, two heading out of the desert entirely, a few to backwater holes a lot like Melonweed, and the rest to Old Mine Road. Ben doubted that Mo would leave the desert completely, much less take her chances on the Road. That left Corville as his only option--unless she hid out in a backwater town somewhere, in which case he’d probably never find her.

Besides, there was somebody else in Corville he wanted to see.

He drove straight on, pushing the engine as far as she would go. And he almost made it out of Cavefish territory before he ran into something of an impasse.

Ben parked his bike in the old carpool lot and walked to the jagged edge, peering down into Poyahoga Gorge. Now that the bridge was gone there was a very nice view of the bottom of the canyon.

“Something tells me the bridge is out,” Ben remarked dryly. He sighed. Poyahoga Gorge was miles and miles long--going around it just wasn’t an option. There was a second bridge, on Highway 44, but the only way over to 44 from 9 was at the roadblocks. So, no detours--the only option left was to go over the gorge here. Unfortunately, Ben doubted his bike was capable of defying gravity, unless Mo had happened to install a second surprise.

He wandered back towards his bike, scowling. I hope Mo didn’t blow up the bridge on my account. If there was one thing he didn’t need right now it was the road commission pissed off at him, too.

He paused at a sign that had been hastily erected at the edge of the parking lot. It seemed to be there for the most part to warn daredevils from trying to jump the gorge--pictures had been plastered all over it with captions such as “This is the last picture ever taken of Professor Schmetterling.” Despite that, though, there was one lengthy plaque that seemed to be of a less discouraging nature:

“Tightrope walkers, hang gliders, human cannonballs...many have tried to cross the mighty Poyahoga Gorge...and many have failed. Except for Ricky Myran, the Flying Torch, who jumped the gorge on a ‘stock’ Corley Motorcycle.

“It was later uncovered that he had modified his Corley with a pre-regulation, destroyer-class, solid-fuel recoil booster, and an automotive hover lift. Myran said he would gladly replicate the jump to clear his name...but his special ramp was stolen by a mysterious, truck-hijacking motorcycle gang.”

Ben grinned. Maybe all the insanity of the past twenty-four hours was getting to him, but for some reason that sounded like a challenge he was up for. “Recoil booster and a hover lift, eh? Thanks for the tip, Rick.”

He climbed back up on his bike, taking off back towards the northwest. He had no idea where he’d find the hover lift, but the ramp was likely in the Cavefish’s secret hideout, and there was only one place he’d be sure to find booster fuel on short notice--Old Mine Road.

The Road was as close to neutral territory as anything out in the desert, but that didn’t necessarily make it safe. Years ago, it had been used by the government to access a few rich mineral veins in the area. But like everything the government got its grimy hands on, the veins had run dry within five years, completely tapped out by greedy companies. They’d abandoned the mines and the road as fast as they’d built them.

Then the bikers had moved in.

Old Mine Road wasn’t like the other roads in the deserts--the roads that ran straight and clear for miles and miles. Instead, it was a twisty, windy affair--when seen from overhead it almost resembled a four-fingered hand. Not only that, but it was cut deep into a canyon and only intersected the highway at a handful of exits. Perfect for racing or just cruising around looking for trouble. Hence its being declared “neutral.” Technically it was in Cavefish territory and their hideout was rumored to be somewhere along the way--but it was the only perfect track for miles and miles. The Cavefish couldn’t keep all the bikers off that road even if they tried.

Ben had been down the Road before, sometimes alone, sometimes with a new recruit or two. The place was perfect to test out a newbie’s skills. Anybody who couldn’t hack the Road wasn’t somebody Ben wanted to ride with. And the place was tough, crawling with Rottwheelers, Cavefish, and--he hoped--Vultures. All he had to do was find one and borrow their booster fuel.

He pulled onto Old Mine Road at the first exit he saw, roaring down the entrance ramp and onto the cracked, curving road. That was another thing about the Road--it only ran straight in a few places and even then not for very long. Just trying to keep your bike on the road was challenging enough.

It wasn’t long before Ben sighted his first bike. It was an older model Corley that looked as if it had seen more than a few miles in its day--and more than its fair share of fights. Ben squinted at it. It looked familiar, but... He picked up speed to put himself right beside the bike.

Ben pulled up alongside a biker who was about as old as his bike, with long white hair and a beard to match, both flying loose in the wind. He was smart enough to be wearing riding goggles--the same type Ben wore.

“Father Torque!” Ben had to shout to be heard over the wind, the roar of their bikes, and the constant noise from the road. “I haven’t seen you since you retired from the Polecats!”

Unlike Ben, Father Torque didn’t seem surprised at all to see him. He smiled, offered Ben a friendly nod, and answered casually, “Hey, Ben! How’s my gang doin’?”

“Uh...” Ben stared down at the road, embarrassed. “That’s a long story.”

Father Torque didn’t seem much interested in hearing it, however, since he didn’t ask any questions. Except for one.

“So what’re you doin’ out here, Polecat?”

“I’m looking for some Cavefish. And some Vultures.”

Father Torque arched an eyebrow and let out a low whistle. “And I thought I was looking for trouble! Watch out, Ben--those Cavefish aren’t out here for sport. If they can’t find enough big rigs to keep them happy, they’ll start picking on bikes--and you’ll make a nice target if you’re not careful!”

“I know,” Ben said, nodding. “Just tell me, Father--do you have any idea where the Cavefish hideout is?”

“Somewhere along this road,” he answered cryptically, staring off into the distance. “Pretty well hidden, from what I hear. Can’t find it unless you’ve got those weird Cavefish specs.”

“Hmm.”

An awkward silence lapsed between them for a minute until Father Torque cleared his throat. “Well, I can’t talk any more, Ben! Eatin’ too many bugs!”

Ben nodded. He needed to get hunting for those Vultures anyway. “Take it easy, Father.”

Father Torque smiled and offered him a wry salute. “Give ‘em hell, Polecat!”

He sped off into the distance faster than Ben would’ve thought possible for a bike that old--but then again, Father Torque had always taken good care of his bike. It was likely to outlive him at the rate it was going.

Ben sighed and knuckled down, eyes scanning the road for any sign of Vultures. He wanted to get back on the road to Corville as fast as he could.

It took a lot longer than he thought it would. The Road was a popular place that day for some reason, and Ben found himself having to fight off a lot of wannabes who seemed to think that taking down a Polecat was the best way to climb up the social ladder and find themselves a gang. Unfortunately for them, Ben didn’t go down easy. He left a lot of them lying by the side of the road trying to piece their bikes back together again, save for a few who were smart enough to break off the fight before it got that far.

He also spotted a few Cavefish along the way, though they were few and far between. He’d tried to take out the first one he saw, hoping to force him into taking him to their hideout, but he couldn’t even manage to reach the guy. The Cavefish kept his head down and continually sped out of Ben’s reach every time he managed to get close. And once the ‘fish had decided he’d had enough of him, he loosed some sort of oil slick onto the road.

The next thing Ben knew, he was the one lying by the side of the road. Fortunately, his bike hadn’t taken too much of a beating, and after a little work to clean the oil slick off the tires she was good to go again.

It was shortly after that that Ben ran into the Vulture.

He closed in on a black-haired biker who, like a lot of the Vultures, didn’t wear a leather jacket on the road. He was riding a slender Corley that seemed to match the guy’s flighty attitude. The recoil booster attached to the side of his bike created an ugly bulge. Grinning, Ben pulled up alongside him and matched his speed.

“Say there,” he said, trying to sound perfectly casual, “is that a pre-regulation, destroyer-class, solid-fuel recoil booster you have there?”

The biker looked him over appraisingly, then answered in a cheery, vaguely British accent, “Why, yes it is! Ta ta!” He reached down and ignited his booster, leaving Ben coughing smoke for the second time that day. He was starting to sense a trend, one he didn’t like one bit.

Ben rode along the Road until he lost track of the number of loops he’d made, looking for that Vulture again. He had no idea how he’d manage to catch him before he ignited his booster fuel, but it was worth a try anyway. But he didn’t see the Vulture, or any sign of any other Vultures who might be carting some booster fuel around with them.

What he did find was one of the wannabes he’d taken out earlier in the day, limping along the road at half-speed. Her bike looked as if it had been put back together with ductape and had taken a beating since then besides. Ben sped up, meaning to pass her by and leave her to find an exit on her own or get taken out again by somebody else, when he got a good look at her face.

She’d had a pretty face, that much Ben remembered from their fight. That’s why he hadn’t broken her nose, like he’d done to the wannabe before her. But somebody else obviously hadn’t taken that sort of care, as she was now sporting a welt across her cheek that was red enough to match her hair.

Ben slowed down, taking care to keep a safe distance from her. He didn’t want to accidentally provoke her. “What happened to you?”

She sniffed and didn’t answer at first, trying to speed up and get away from him. Her bike only managed a feeble, sputtering attempt. She gave the handlebars a good smack and then finally deigned to answer him, since he gave no indication of leaving her alone any time soon. “Rottwheeler,” she said, her voice thick. “He had some kinda chain...messed up my front wheel, smacked me good.”

Ben nodded, trying to seem sympathetic. His mind had started whirring again, though, thinking about that chain--if he could use it fast enough, it might just be the weapon to mess up the front wheel of a certain Vulture he knew. He grinned, then stopped, remembering the girl riding next to him.

“There’s an exit a ways up the road,” he said, pointing up ahead. “Take it. Get out of here. Go home. ...Oh, and put a steak on that mark. It’ll keep it from bruising too much.”

She sniffed again, offering him a small smile. “Thanks. I...I appreciate it.”

“Just go home, kid.”

He let her limp off ahead of him, and just to be sure she made it off the Road safely, he trailed after her until she found the exit and took it. One less wannabe hogging the road, he told himself, trying to keep his ego from making snippy remarks about the entire encounter. Besides, she told me what I needed to know.

From then on he was on the lookout for Rottwheelers--easy to spot, since they all had the same model bike with the oversized front wheel. There were a good number of them out and about that day, surly to the core and all of them wielding weapons of some sort. Ben got on the wrong side of one hanging onto a nasty looking flail made out of a human skull and barely managed to fend off one with a plank (he did, however, end up with more than a few slivers) before he found the Rottwheeler he was looking for.

He was fat and balding, like pretty much all the other Rottwheelers Ben had ever met. But there was something about him, something about the way he was hogging both lanes of the road with a smug smirk on his face, that told Ben that he’d found his man.

When the two were neck-in-neck, the Rottwheeler seemed to notice Ben for the first time and looked over at him, giving him a swift once-over. He sneered. “What d’you want?”

“I’m here to, uh, borrow your chain.”

“Yeah?” He pulled a chain out of nowhere. It was only about two feet long and a little rusty, but he swung it like he had every idea what he was doing. “This chain here?” He swung it out at Ben’s left hand like a whip, scoring a red line across his knuckles. Ben winced, but kept a solid grip on his bike.

“Yeah,” he grunted, “that chain.”

“Well, sure, if you want it...take it!” He lashed out again, aiming straight for Ben’s chest. Ben loosened his grip on the throttle and dropped behind the Rottwheeler, just barely out of reach of the chain. He felt the breeze under his chin as it went by.

He immediately started picking up speed again, trying to match the Rottwheeler’s pace. The Rottwheeler moved over in an attempt to shove him off the road. His bike was heavy enough that he just might manage it, too, but Ben floored the throttle, just barely squeaking past him in time. He heard the Rottwheeler, now directly behind him, mutter something obscene. Then he rammed him from behind. Ben sped up again and switched into the other lane.

The Rottwheeler, of course, sped up to put himself beside Ben again. Only this time he was at a disadvantage--he’d been holding the chain in his right hand, but in order to strike out again and do any real damage now, he’d have to switch it to his left hand. Ben was hoping that he wasn’t ambidextrous.

Sure enough, as soon as he’d maneuvered his bike close enough, the Rottwheeler switched the chain into his left hand and awkwardly whipped it out towards Ben’s arm. Ben flinched away at the last possible second, and the chain didn’t do any serious damage. But it stung, even through his leather jacket, and he figured he’d have a bruise there come morning.

Enough playing around, he decided. I’m through with this guy.

He balled his hand into a fist and lashed out, aiming for the Rottwheeler’s jaw. He almost scored a clean hit, but the Rottwheeler sent the chain towards his face, distracting him at the last second and turning it into only a glancing blow. Instead, he grabbed hold of the chain--it cut into his arm again and bit deep into his hand, even through his gloves, drawing blood.

Wincing, Ben held on tight, trying to wrap the chain around his arm to give himself a little more leverage. The Rottwheeler, not liking this in the slightest, tugged back. The chain almost slipped out of Ben’s grip. Ben frowned--he wouldn’t be able to keep a grip on it for much longer, not at this rate.

After a moment’s glance at the bike and the road ahead to make sure he wouldn’t wipe out right away, Ben took his other hand off the handlebars and aimed straight for the Rottwheeler’s face.

He never saw it coming.

The Rottwheeler slumped over to the side, losing control of his bike. It quickly swerved off the road and into the canyon wall with a satisfying crunch. As for the Rottwheeler, he managed to collect himself enough to throw himself off the bike just before it smashed into the wall, but he still took a nasty beating from the road as friction dragged him to a stop.

Ben eased up on the throttle and got his bike back under his control, silently winding the chain around his arm. His hand protested sharply, but he gritted his teeth and ignored it for the time being. He had his chain. And he’d put an overly smug Rottwheeler in his place.

That was worth a wound or two.

Ben spent his time after that sweeping the road again, still looking for that Vulture. He steered clear of everybody else for the time being, even the wannabes who would chase him partway down the road in an attempt to pick a fight. Though, he did bump into Father Torque once, not long after his fight with the Rottwheeler.

“Father,” he said the minute he caught up, “you haven’t seen a Vulture go by here, have you?”

Father Torque chuckled. “I’ve seen lots of Vultures go by in my time, Ben. You’re gonna have to be a little more specific.”

“Black hair. Smaller model Corley. Cocky.”

“I think I saw somebody like that,” he said, scratching his head. “Breezed right on by with that booster fuel of his a little while ago.”

Ben nodded. “Thanks, Father.”

“Take it easy, Ben.”

They went their separate ways again after that. Ben pressed on ahead, hoping that Vulture hadn’t decided he’d had enough of the Road for one day. But he was finally rewarded a few laps later when a slender bike came into view, its rider distinctly familiar. He got the chain out and tested its weight in his hand. Just thinking about using the thing threatened to reopen the gash it had torn into his hand, but he gritted his teeth and lived with it. When I find you, Mo, you and I are going to have a long talk about why you don’t steal my booster fuel.

He pulled up alongside the Vulture, keeping the chain down at his side. No need to spook him, after all. The Vulture looked at him and sniffed with disdain.

“You again?”

“Me again,” Ben answered dryly, whipping the chain out for the Vulture’s front wheel. He missed on the first try and pulled back, swearing. The Vulture chuckled at his poor aim and reached down to ignite the booster--only to have a chain slam into his wrist. He let out an obscenity of his own and snapped his hand back, shaking it. Had Ben applied a little more force that wrist probably would’ve been broken.

He managed to regain quick control of himself, though, and began maneuvering out of Ben’s reach. Growling, Ben pushed the throttle, lashing out with the chain to give the Vulture second thoughts about trying for the recoil booster again. He then pushed the throttle harder and swung in as close as he dared without tangling the two bikes up with each other. Another quick whip of the chain, downward this time, and he managed to catch the Vulture’s front tire. He pulled it back quickly, causing the treads to snag for just an instant--while the back tire didn’t slow at all, and the Vulture unintentionally managed one of the best endos Ben had seen in a long time.

Ben pulled off to the side of the road and stopped his bike, getting off. The Vulture was lying on the ground, alive but unconscious. His bike lay smashed up against the canyon wall--nothing a little serious work couldn’t fix, but it would keep him off the road for a bit. Ben bent down, found the booster’s fuel tank, and quickly began the work of disconnecting it.

A few minutes later, he carried the small tank over to his own bike, installed it, and tapped the gauge a few times to get a clear reading. “Should have a couple of good boosts left in it,” he decided, grinning. Then it was back on the road again.

He started to loop Old Mine Road again, but after some thought got off at the nearest exit and got back onto Highway 9. He was sick of staring at those monotonous canyon walls, and besides, it had already been made clear to him that he wasn’t going to take out any Cavefish and snag their goggles without some serious planning--or serious weaponry. Besides, he had to find a hover lift somewhere, and cars didn’t exactly cruise the Road a lot.

In the end he found himself going northwest on the highway, back towards the wrecked trailer and, beyond that, the mink ranch. He was starting to think that giving that place another search might not be such a bad idea--maybe Mo just happened to specialize in automotive hover lifts along with bikes and toasters.

All right, so it was a long shot.

He slowed down as he passed through the fertilizer spill, careful not to stir any of the dust up. Then it was back to full speed, all the way to the mink ranch.

And so it was that, when he saw the blue car parked in the ranch’s driveway and one of Ripburger’s thugs leaning out the driver’s side window, smirking at him, he very nearly crashed his bike trying to turn around in time. It was a near miss--he almost slammed into the side of their car. He wasn’t surprised to hear the car’s engine rev as they started after him. Ben tightened his grip and knuckled down, speeding down the road as fast as he could.

Nestor sped off after the biker with reckless abandon, doing his best to stay right on his tail even though the engine protested the abuse. He laughed as the biker wove all over the road, trying to shake them off his tail. “Look at him run!” he crowed to Bolus, still smiling.

This guy--it had to be the leader of the Polecats, the one Rip had had framed for Corley’s murder--seemed to have some sort of connection to the girl they were chasing. Maybe he’d lead them to her. And if he wouldn’t betray her willingly, well...Bolus was a very convincing person when he had to be.

Nestor floored the accelerator, his grin still widening. This was going to be a very good day.

Ben didn’t even think about slowing down when he saw the trailer appear on the horizon. If he slowed down, Ripburger’s thugs would run right over him. So he tore straight through the fertilizer, stirring up faint clouds of dust. It didn’t do any damage, except to his nose, and he was starting to get used to the smell of fertilizer--as frightening as that idea sounded.

Nestor didn’t slow down as he passed the trailer either, largely because he was so focused on the biker in front of him that he wasn’t paying attention to much else. Bolus didn’t notice it either--or didn’t say anything about it--so they drove over the fertilizer dust at top speed.

The hover lifts on the rear end of the car didn’t care for that much. The dust clogged them, and on top of that, their fans stirred it all up into one huge cloud, with Nestor and Bolus trapped in the middle. Nestor tried to keep control of the car, tried to make some sense of where they were going, tried to slow down--and failed on all three.

The car spun out of control and smashed into the rock face not far from the trailer, the hover lifts shutting off automatically and spitting out clouds of fertilizer left and right. Bolus looked over at Nestor, who was staring at the steering wheel, pale and sweating.

“Nice driving, dumbass.”

Not long after that, Ripburger’s limo came to a gentle, rolling stop in front of Uncle Pete’s Mink Ranch. Once he saw that no one was there, Ripburger ordered the driver to continue on down the road. Now where have those morons gotten to? he wondered, shaking his head.

The terrain slipped by as a vague, monotonous blur until the driver slowed to a stop somewhere in the midst of it all. “Found ‘em, boss,” the driver announced. Ripburger lowered the window, wrinkling his nose at the sight--and the smell.

Nestor and Bolus were leaning against the back of the now slightly demolished company car, covered in a thin film of dust. Upon seeing Ripburger, Nestor jumped up and stuffed his hands in his pockets, looking rather like a schoolboy about to be punished for misbehaving. Bolus was slightly less humble.

“Boss! It was Nestor’s fault!”

Nestor snapped his head back around and fixed Bolus with a nasty glare. Ripburger only rolled his eyes, ignoring their antics. He could deal with the wreck later.

“Get in,” he said briskly, “quick. I have a plan. We’re going to lure the Corley remnant out of hiding, with a bike.”

Nestor blinked, confused. “Boss, she already has a bike.”

Ripburger rolled his eyes again and answered dryly, “Yes, but this one, she worked on with her father.” He shook his head and motioned to the limo again. “It’s an emotional thing; don’t try to understand. Now hurry!”

It took Ben a while to realize that they weren’t behind him anymore. In fact, he was almost all the way to Poyahoga Gorge before he risked a glance behind him and didn’t see the car. Frowning, wondering when he could have possibly shaken them, he slowed down and turned around.

He made it almost all the way back to the trailer with no sign of them. But not far from the trailer--no more than fifty feet--he came upon their blue car, wiped out on the side of the road. He got off his bike--leaving the engine idling--and approached it cautiously. The windows were rolled up and tinted so darkly that he couldn’t hope to see if anybody was waiting inside. He tapped on the driver’s side window, then kicked the door. Nothing.

Ben stepped away from the car and gave it another thorough once-over. It was perfectly still, like the trailer just up the road. And abandoned just like it too, he figured. He grinned--that meant there were two automotive hover lifts, right there for the taking.

It took a little work--namely prying the back fender apart with the tire iron, then disconnecting a fistful of wires without electrocuting himself. He ended up under the car’s right fender, trying to tug the hover lift out using the brute force method. Instead what he got was a face full of fertilizer dust. Choking and spitting, he started to wish that Mo were there. She would’ve had the whole car taken apart in nothing flat.

Finally, after five minutes of yanking wires with wild abandon, the hover lift came loose such that he could remove it. He picked it up--eyed the tire iron for a minute, then left it at the scene of the crime--and then looked at his bike. Trying to hook the thing onto his bike--now that’s when he could’ve really used Mo’s help.

Ben was fighting with the last few extraneous wires when a bike whizzed by. He recognized the high-pitched whine it made as it passed--Cavefish. But what’s one doing way out here alone? Usually when they were venturing off Old Mine Road, the Cavefish traveled in hunting packs. Curious and fighting off his better judgment, Ben finished installing the hover lift and then followed him.

Things got even more interesting when he found the Cavefish’s bike parked on the side of the road not far away. The ‘fish, on the other hand, was nowhere to be found. Ben stopped, killed the motor, and slowly climbed off his bike.

With the engine noise gone and no other sound beyond the constant sound of the wind blowing through the desert, Ben was able to concentrate better on out of place sounds--like the sound of boots crunching in the dirt. He followed that sound straight through the desert, around a number of boulders and rocks, and finally around the side of a pillar-shaped rock. Ben came to a sudden stop then and pulled himself out of sight--the Cavefish had stopped there, bent over one of his brethren. A bike lay to one side, broken into multiple pieces. It didn’t look as if it would ever ride again--but then, neither did its rider. I probably looked something like that when Miranda found me, Ben thought, frowning.

The Cavefish stayed bent over his brethren for a long while, muttering something under his breath in a harsh, metallic tone. Then he reached down and picked him up, slinging him over both shoulders and beginning the walk back--back to his bike and then back to their cave, Ben assumed.

He thought at first of getting out of sight and then tailing them back to their hideout, but dismissed that idea out of hand. Cavefish bikes were the fastest on the road, and he couldn’t hope to keep up without using up his booster fuel. Besides that, something told him that they didn’t take too kindly to people tailing them. That meant the only option he had left was to get those goggles.

He slid farther out of sight as the Cavefish drew closer. He was staggering a little under his brother’s added weight, and that slowed his pace down some. Ben took a deep breath, let it out, crouched down, and waited--hopefully out of immediate sight--for the Cavefish to pass by.

When he did, Ben pounced. He let his momentum carry him forward, right into the Cavefish’s ugly, bandaged face. No shock registered on his face, but then, his face was wrapped so completely in bandages that that wasn’t surprising. Ben wasted no time, but struck out with a quick right hook to knock the ‘fish off balance.

The Cavefish staggered, shook itself, and after a moment’s thought dropped his brethren down onto the ground. Without that burden, he suddenly became twice as fast, pouncing on Ben and delivering several sharp blows to his stomach and ribs.

Ben felt the wind knocked out of him and fell back, trying to regroup and catch his breath. The Cavefish didn’t give him that opportunity, falling on him again and pushing him to the ground. Ben reached for the chain--then remembered that that was back on his bike--and then the tire iron, which he belatedly remembered was back at the wrecked car. Swearing profusely under his breath, he latched onto the Cavefish’s left wrist and twisted. It didn’t get quite the reaction he was hoping for, but the Cavefish howled anyway, striking out with even more fury with his free hand. Ben did his best to ignore that, even when it reopened the gash on his hand, and kept twisting that wrist. Then, with his other hand, he grabbed onto the Cavefish’s forearm, lifted--Cavefish were notorious for packing a lot of punch into tiny, lightweight frames--and threw him over his head.

As soon as the Cavefish hit the dirt, Ben was up on his feet, and this time he was the one throwing the punches. He managed to get a few good ones in before the Cavefish latched onto his jacket and used that as leverage to swing himself forward and up, pulling himself to his feet. As he went, he landed a solid kick on Ben’s chin that sent him sprawling backwards.

Separated by a few feet, both of them paused for a minute to catch their breath, and then the Cavefish rushed him again. Ben caught him as he went by, wrapped his arm around his neck, and did his best to apply a chokehold. It wasn’t easy--the Cavefish kept struggling, kicking and punching, and Ben took a lot of collateral damage. Finally, he hurled him as far as he could manage--not more than a couple of feet--out towards the bike wreckage, away from him and the fallen Cavefish.

While the Cavefish struggled to regain its bearings, Ben pounced on the fallen one, yanked its goggles off, and ran. He ran all the way back to his bike, not knowing and not wanting to check to see if the Cavefish was behind him. He started his bike up quickly, then gunned it straight south down the road, tucking the goggles into his jacket as he went. He checked for signs of pursuit, but never saw any. After a while he took an exit onto Old Mine Road, snapping the Cavefish’s goggles on.

The sky was red, the road was maroon, and the canyon walls were a sort of washed-out purple. That really threw him at first. He could hardly see a thing, and if it weren’t for the lane markers--which showed up in bright, neon yellow--he never would’ve been able to keep his bike on the road. As he cruised the Road and tried to make sense of all the numbers and indicator lights the goggles kept throwing at him, he noticed that one indicator in the lower left-hand corner made note of the exits onto Highway 9 whenever he passed by them.

Huh, he thought, that’s convenient.

One exit in particular caught his attention, however--at first he thought he was seeing things, but no. As he passed by that one exit, the indicator light switched from “exit” to “cave.” Ben stopped, backed up, and checked--the goggles swore there was a cave there, but when he pulled them off to look, he saw nothing but the canyon wall.

He put the goggles back on. What the hell, he figured, it’s secret enough to be a secret hideout. Slowly, he backed up a little farther and drove towards...and then through...the canyon wall.

Taking the goggles off and tossing them aside, Ben found himself inside some sort of massive cavern. Light poked in through a few tiny holes--likely developing sinkholes up on the plateau that Old Mine Road circled--casting the barest illumination on the road. Ben was surprised to see that the road even went through here, and it looked as if it had been well maintained. Only a flimsy, rotting fence stood between him and oblivion, however, and he took care to stay away from the edge. He had no idea how far the fall was, but given that the light peeking through didn’t even begin to reach it...well, he got the general idea. In the distance, he could make out old mining tracks and tiny plateaus and other strange formations reaching up from the cave bottom that had had parts of them completely ripped away by miners.

Quietly, Ben rode on. He went through a narrow tunnel lit by another sinkhole and found himself at a bend in the road. Here, light was scarcer and the stone was darker, and water dripped steadily from a series of stalactites that disappeared off into the distance. The fence here, fortunately, was a little more well-kept. A mine car track hung from the ceiling, a twisted, rusted mess of metal, and disappeared over the side. Even more unsettling, though, were the carvings that started appearing in the rock along the side of the road.

They were eyes, and they followed him as he moved on ahead.

What he came to next, he knew, was only the entrance to the Cavefish hideout. But they’d obviously built it to be awe-inspiring, a tribute to whatever gods it was they followed, and they had succeeded admirably. Ben stopped a distance from it, in a small open area lit by some unknown source. And from that distance, the work put into the entrance was even more impressive.

They’d carved faces into the cave wall--a trio of faces, to be precise, though the two on the left and right were merely decoration for the face in the center. The face in the center wore goggles and some sort of helmet, while the ones to the side each only had one eye, and that was goggle-free, like the carvings Ben had seen on his way in. All three had wide, sullen frowns as they stared at some point above Ben’s head. Just above the center figure’s right eyebrow, the hideout’s only entrance loomed, a blot of light in the dark stone. A narrow, treacherous-looking ramp led from the entrance to another small open area just ahead from where Ben stood. He had to admire the work that had gone into that carving--he had no idea how they’d done it, particularly since the cave floor was a long fall away.

That was when he noticed the alcoves that sprang out from the wall above the carvings, like tiny pustules. A few of them were dark, but the rest were lit, and Ben was reminded of a giant, swarming hive of insects. He pulled his attention away from the cave wall and focused on finding that ramp. But he left the engine of his bike running, just in case.

He found it right away, lying just outside the open area where he’d stopped. It had obviously been sitting there for a while--a thick film of dust had gathered on it. He brushed it away and found a plaque on the ramp’s front that read, “Property of the Ricky Myran Traveling Stunt Show.”

Finally. Ben got in front of it and pushed it forward with a sharp, sudden push. As he did, he heard a low electrical hum behind him and turned around just in time to see diagonal lines of bright light flash just behind where he was standing. Curious, he picked up a pebble and tossed it at that space. Not surprisingly, it was vaporized in an instant and a flash of bright light.

Everything about these guys is creepy, Ben decided then. He found the ramp’s trailer hitch and fixed it to his bike with a clank that echoed throughout the empty caverns. Not wanting to waste any time after that, he got back on his bike and took off--slowly, trying to keep an eye on the ramp--back towards the entrance.

He had just turned the curve when he figured out how tricky it was to take care of his bike and the ramp at the same time. He’d taken the curve just a touch too fast and too sharp for the ramp’s liking, and it had swung out and gotten itself wedged in the fence. Ben started to push ahead forward anyway--but then stopped, realizing that to do that would bring half the fence along for the ride, and that wasn’t something he particularly wanted to deal with. Instead, grumbling curses all the while, he got off his bike, unhitched the ramp, and used the trailer hitch as leverage to yank it free of the fence.

It came loose with a nasty crack and a lot of forward momentum, flying a little ways down the road. Lane makers went flying everywhere.

It started with a low buzzing noise, gradually building in pitch and intensity until, like a blur, the Cavefish rode out of their hideout.

Down the ramp and down the road, following the lane markers. Someone had moved the ramp they’d stolen. Perhaps, thought the lead brother, it was the angry spirit of Ricky Myran. But what use would a spirit have for a corporeal ramp?

Well, they’d settle that later, he decided, aiming for the curve--following the lane markers straight down the road.

Until suddenly the lane makers weren’t there anymore.

Should’ve taken better care of that fence, the lead brother thought ruefully as his bike crashed right through the fence and took him over the cliff.

Ben took the ramp back to Poyahoga Gorge Bridge, wary of signs of pursuit the whole way. But the ride was uneventful, and finally he dropped the ramp at the jagged edge of the bridge and made sure it was stable. Then it was back to his bike, to double-check and triple-check the hover lift and the booster fuel to make sure they were going to stay in place and would work.

“All right,” he said aloud, gently starting his bike up, “I’ve modified my bike enough...”

He coaxed the bike out of the parking lot, trying to convince himself that he had modified his bike enough. Then, with a deep breath, he took off down the road to the northwest again. Best to get a running start, so to speak.

He went all the way back to the mink ranch before he was convinced that he had enough of a start to make it across safely. Turning, he took off back down the road and pushed the throttle as far as it would go. Past the wrecked trailer and past the wrecked car, at what Ben judged to be the halfway point between the bridge and the mink ranch, he reached down and ignited the booster fuel.

The desert around him became a total blur until suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, the ramp loomed in front of him. And then it was below him, and then behind him, as he flew through the air in a picture-perfect arc. He kept his eyes straight ahead and focused on the other side of the bridge, even as gravity started tugging his bike downward. When he finally realized that he was going to come down at least five feet from the other side of the bridge, he reached down and switched on the hover lift.

Thankfully it worked, and he defied gravity for a split second before landing safely on the road on the other side. He hit the pavement with a heavy thump that knocked out the hover lift, and he turned off the booster fuel just as it burned the last fumes.

He let out the breath he’d been holding this whole time and then took off down the road towards Corville. He had a woman on the run to find. And an appointment to keep with one Adrian Ripburger.

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