often, they had real messed up stories, especially the women. It didn’t make me feel all that comfortable now looking down at my curvy, lush body. The Grim Flyers might not be the biggest menace around.
Didn't know what had compelled me to find my own way back to the highway after leaving it for gas and food. Or not go straight back after I realized I'd gotten lost and opened the GPS on my phone. No I had to take the scenic route until I was far and away from the open road. Somewhere I thought I heard fast cars swish, but maybe that was just the wind. Or this was some old bayou and there was a gator nest or something in the brushes nearby. Would be just my luck.
A car rumbled in the distance, and I slid my shades back to see what it was. It looked to be a large van. That seemed safe enough, maybe some plumber or even a mechanic. My car still worked in fits and bursts. All I needed was a little help getting to a shop I could trust.
The van grew into view though and I saw the back tapered off. This was a pickup. I stopped waving just a bit. Pickups and country sent a red alert off in my mind.
Either way, that truck whooshed right on by. Guy stared at me as he passed, as if he couldn't quite comprehend the situation. Or worse, maybe it was just that shocking to see a girl on her own out here.
No one came either way for a long while after that, and I felt a pit in my stomach, wondering what the hell I was going to do. My phone had a signal theoretically, but the last calls I’d made had cut before they connected. Maybe it wasn't so bad to just drive with a smoking engine, go bit by bit. There was a car shop on my map just a couple miles away, and maybe it was open and filled with nice people.
Then again most of Tarmont’s shops were run by the Grim Flyers. It was probably some similar arrangement in a place like this.
Thinking such happy things, it took me a while to hear the rumble filling the air. I looked out but couldn't see anything coming either way. The sound felt too loud though, the rev of the engine too deep, a military growl. A sinking feeling hit my stomach. There was no mistaking that noise. I saw a speck roll up into view, then two more flanking it.
Bikers.
I swung back under the hood, even as I told myself that these might not be the Flyers. It could just be some normal folk out for a Saturday morning ride with his buddies. 99% of bikers were just guys who liked a rumble between their legs right? I could get that.
But that 1%. I knew what I was to people like them: meat.
The choppers thundered down toward me. I used the hood like a shield, willing them just to pass and leave, though part of me hoped I was just being silly and these were the heart of gold types. I think that's what kept me from fully concealing my big ass. Curiosity killed the kitty and all.
At first the three bikers rumbled past. I hung deep in the hood, feeling relieved and sad in equal parts. That is, until the bone shaking rumble started to suddenly die down. I tried to stand still in between the radiator as if they were dinosaurs who couldn't see, but the engines went out altogether, and from not too far away, a voice called out. “How ya doing there, sweetheart?”
I blew out steam of my own, and scolded myself for being so dumb. Of course they were decent. This wasn’t Tarmont anymore. I pulled out and turned.
"Actually, I could-"
The rest of the words fell off my lips.
The three men before me were dressed identical, almost in uniform - if any uniform involved shredded jeans, jack boots and leather vests, and faces covered in grime. Their vests showed reapers with angel wings attached, smiling and raising their scythe to strike. The club name read out in yellow block font under the logo.
These weren't just 1%ers. Somehow, eighty miles away from Tarmont, I had run into the Grim Flyers
"Well, sheeit," one of them said. He was squat and built like a bear. His brown hair hung down unkempt, some of it branched off and
Didn't know what had compelled me to find my own way back to the highway after leaving it for gas and food. Or not go straight back after I realized I'd gotten lost and opened the GPS on my phone. No I had to take the scenic route until I was far and away from the open road. Somewhere I thought I heard fast cars swish, but maybe that was just the wind. Or this was some old bayou and there was a gator nest or something in the brushes nearby. Would be just my luck.
A car rumbled in the distance, and I slid my shades back to see what it was. It looked to be a large van. That seemed safe enough, maybe some plumber or even a mechanic. My car still worked in fits and bursts. All I needed was a little help getting to a shop I could trust.
The van grew into view though and I saw the back tapered off. This was a pickup. I stopped waving just a bit. Pickups and country sent a red alert off in my mind.
Either way, that truck whooshed right on by. Guy stared at me as he passed, as if he couldn't quite comprehend the situation. Or worse, maybe it was just that shocking to see a girl on her own out here.
No one came either way for a long while after that, and I felt a pit in my stomach, wondering what the hell I was going to do. My phone had a signal theoretically, but the last calls I’d made had cut before they connected. Maybe it wasn't so bad to just drive with a smoking engine, go bit by bit. There was a car shop on my map just a couple miles away, and maybe it was open and filled with nice people.
Then again most of Tarmont’s shops were run by the Grim Flyers. It was probably some similar arrangement in a place like this.
Thinking such happy things, it took me a while to hear the rumble filling the air. I looked out but couldn't see anything coming either way. The sound felt too loud though, the rev of the engine too deep, a military growl. A sinking feeling hit my stomach. There was no mistaking that noise. I saw a speck roll up into view, then two more flanking it.
Bikers.
I swung back under the hood, even as I told myself that these might not be the Flyers. It could just be some normal folk out for a Saturday morning ride with his buddies. 99% of bikers were just guys who liked a rumble between their legs right? I could get that.
But that 1%. I knew what I was to people like them: meat.
The choppers thundered down toward me. I used the hood like a shield, willing them just to pass and leave, though part of me hoped I was just being silly and these were the heart of gold types. I think that's what kept me from fully concealing my big ass. Curiosity killed the kitty and all.
At first the three bikers rumbled past. I hung deep in the hood, feeling relieved and sad in equal parts. That is, until the bone shaking rumble started to suddenly die down. I tried to stand still in between the radiator as if they were dinosaurs who couldn't see, but the engines went out altogether, and from not too far away, a voice called out. “How ya doing there, sweetheart?”
I blew out steam of my own, and scolded myself for being so dumb. Of course they were decent. This wasn’t Tarmont anymore. I pulled out and turned.
"Actually, I could-"
The rest of the words fell off my lips.
The three men before me were dressed identical, almost in uniform - if any uniform involved shredded jeans, jack boots and leather vests, and faces covered in grime. Their vests showed reapers with angel wings attached, smiling and raising their scythe to strike. The club name read out in yellow block font under the logo.
These weren't just 1%ers. Somehow, eighty miles away from Tarmont, I had run into the Grim Flyers
"Well, sheeit," one of them said. He was squat and built like a bear. His brown hair hung down unkempt, some of it branched off and
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