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overturned with the bark of a gun. His reputation spread and within a year he had rallied others beneath him to form the most feared motorcycle gang in the south—the Iron Eagles. He had the debate many times that Iron Hawks would make more sense, but his fondness for the film always prevailed.
    The Iron Eagles rode the remnants of the highways taking what they wanted from whoever was foolish enough to travel through their sphere of influence. They were fierce and many more soon rallied to join.
    He required only two things of the men and women beneath him. First, they had to swear ultimate loyalty to Hawk, as well as sign a contract before two witnesses and initial several other pages of the document. In triplicate. And, two, they had to have their own Harley.
    Knowing the power of branding, Hawk insisted on American iron only. They were the modern outlaws and they had an image to protect. No Hondas, no Yamahas, no BMWs were allowed. And if you showed up on a CanAm, you were sure to be humiliated before you were shot. Due to this stipulation, the gang was comprised almost entirely of former middle-aged dentists. This group of sadists struck fear into the hearts and gums of people everywhere.
    Hawk Johnson embraced his role as a feared leader. He shed his tailored suits in favor of road leathers. He let his beard grow and acquired a pet hawk. Naming the hawk Falcor, he designed a perch that allowed the bird to sit on his shoulder. It wasn’t long after that he took to wearing an eye patch because stupid Falcor had pecked out his left eye. But even the patch added to his mystique, and once he had Falcor killed and stuffed, the hawk remained on his shoulder as an ever-present reminder of the gang leader’s vicious nature.
    That fact that law and order was no more was only a technicality. Hawk was the wasteland’s greatest outlaw. One of the greatest to ever live.
    Now he sat astride his bike watching his road from the interior of a strip mall insurance company. Falcor sat patiently on his shoulder, dead, with his keen hawk vision directed at the freeway.
    Hawk heard the engine long before he saw the vehicle. The truck was really moving. Most travelers moved slowly along the roads for fear of running into debris, damaged surfaces, or traps, but the Dodge Ram in the distance was moving without caution. The driver was obviously reckless. He’d been informed that the man was dangerous. Hawk smiled and started his bike. He twisted the throttle three times. He let the revs die down and screeched at the top of his lungs like the predator he had become.
    Thunder rolled throughout the shopping center as the Iron Eagles started their bikes. The sound of fifty motors bouncing off the walls of the abandoned complex made the building shake, and Hawk smiled. The men and women under his command tore from their ambush location and turned to follow the truck.
    Hawk let them go ahead of him. A proud smile crossed his lips and he puffed his chest with a deep breath that turned out to be more engine exhaust than air. He coughed and put his own ride in gear before leaving a thick tire mark on the insurance office floor.
    The gang was fifty members strong and every engine roared as the Iron Eagles cycled through their gears gaining speed and gaining ground on the Dodge ahead. Hawk fell in behind the convoy and screamed with delight. “We are unstoppable, Falcor!”
    He hit fifth gear and the hawk’s taxidermy wing came unpegged. It flapped in the wind as if Falcor was trying to take flight and join in the pursuit. Then it shifted and the wing began to beat against Hawk’s face.
    “Dammit, Falcor!” Hawk screamed as he tried to stop the wing’s relentless slapping. His bike swerved and took him perilously close to the road’s crumbling shoulder. He finally managed to knock the bird free of its perch. It took flight for moment before spiraling to the ground with a wooden thunk.
    Hawk turned back to the pursuit and watched as the Iron Eagles