was already an obstacle course of cracks and potholes.
It hadn’t taken long for civilization’s trappings to begin crumbling. Still, Stone was able to on up his handiwork a little
when he hit a straightaway. And the son of a bitch nearly took off. Within seconds he was going seventy, then eighty, then
ninety miles per hour. The dog let out a strange sound from the back, and as Stone saw that the road got much rougher just
ahead he slammed on the brakes, figuring it was as good a time as any to test them. They were too good. Being used to the
looser brakes of the 1200, Stone pulled hard. The wheels locked and the bike just skidded along, stirring up a cloud of leaves
and dust behind him.
It was only his skill and fast reflexes that kept the Harley upright, though the pit bull came unlodged from its clamped hold
and crashed into Stone’s back in a flurry of paws and angry barks. Then he had the cycle under control again and slowed it
down to twenty as he headed over some potholes that you could have buried a cow in. But at last everything was back to more
or less normal and the two of them dug in for the long haul. As Stone hit more good patches of road, he eased the bike up
to the forty, then fifty, range. The wide tires made going over the rough road a little easier than the old be would have
done. All in all, not a bad trade-in.
They rode through the late afternoon, the dog standing up on its hind quarters, once it had gotten used to the feel of the
new machine, with its front paws up over Stone’s shoulder so the human and the furred head were fully focused on the world
ahead of them. The two-laner went on for about twenty miles, then changed to an interstate. Stone had used part of it before.
Some sections were still as good as the day they had been built, others as if they had been through a hurricane. Still, it
was worth using it, considering the time it would buy him on the good stretches. The first ten miles or so was easy going,
and it was almost possible to imagine that he was in the pre-Collapse days, heading out for a little spin in the country with
the family dog. Yeah, right—armed with a .50-caliber up front and so much firepower strapped to the bike and inside of his
jacket that he could have taken on Napoleon at Waterloo.
They came to what had been an old tollbooth collection junction, with wide curving ramps joing the interstate from several
directions. Stone slowed the Harley to a crawl and eased it through the opening between two of the six toll stations through
which thousands of cars had once rolled. He felt a bizarre twinge of guilt as he rolled through without paying his money,
the rusted bucket reaching for some change. Almost immediately on the far side of the toll plaza he began to drive past rusting
carcasses of cars, on the sides of the road and on the highway itself. It quickly became an obstacle course to get through.
Within ten minutes it was so inundated with rusting bodies, as if the heavens had rained automobiles, that Stone had to drop
the bike down to a walk so that he could balance it with both feet down on each side.
Brown twisted frames, with wheels and glass long gone. Inside some were still the original occupants—now just skeletons, lying
on their seats, sitting as if in an eternal traffic jam from which they would never emerge. It felt a little spooky to pass
a car, look in its paneless window, and see a skull smiling back at you. He didn’t stop to chat.
The car graveyard lasted for nearly twenty miles. A hell of a lot of people must have been caught in the blast of a nuke or
something, Stone mused, for so many to have been taken out like this at once. Then, as he went around a curve and over a rise,
they disappeared again. Stone quickly built up to thirty, then forty, as the interstate got hillier and began undulating up
and down like a snake so that he started feeling dizzy and heard the dog burping behind him
It hadn’t taken long for civilization’s trappings to begin crumbling. Still, Stone was able to on up his handiwork a little
when he hit a straightaway. And the son of a bitch nearly took off. Within seconds he was going seventy, then eighty, then
ninety miles per hour. The dog let out a strange sound from the back, and as Stone saw that the road got much rougher just
ahead he slammed on the brakes, figuring it was as good a time as any to test them. They were too good. Being used to the
looser brakes of the 1200, Stone pulled hard. The wheels locked and the bike just skidded along, stirring up a cloud of leaves
and dust behind him.
It was only his skill and fast reflexes that kept the Harley upright, though the pit bull came unlodged from its clamped hold
and crashed into Stone’s back in a flurry of paws and angry barks. Then he had the cycle under control again and slowed it
down to twenty as he headed over some potholes that you could have buried a cow in. But at last everything was back to more
or less normal and the two of them dug in for the long haul. As Stone hit more good patches of road, he eased the bike up
to the forty, then fifty, range. The wide tires made going over the rough road a little easier than the old be would have
done. All in all, not a bad trade-in.
They rode through the late afternoon, the dog standing up on its hind quarters, once it had gotten used to the feel of the
new machine, with its front paws up over Stone’s shoulder so the human and the furred head were fully focused on the world
ahead of them. The two-laner went on for about twenty miles, then changed to an interstate. Stone had used part of it before.
Some sections were still as good as the day they had been built, others as if they had been through a hurricane. Still, it
was worth using it, considering the time it would buy him on the good stretches. The first ten miles or so was easy going,
and it was almost possible to imagine that he was in the pre-Collapse days, heading out for a little spin in the country with
the family dog. Yeah, right—armed with a .50-caliber up front and so much firepower strapped to the bike and inside of his
jacket that he could have taken on Napoleon at Waterloo.
They came to what had been an old tollbooth collection junction, with wide curving ramps joing the interstate from several
directions. Stone slowed the Harley to a crawl and eased it through the opening between two of the six toll stations through
which thousands of cars had once rolled. He felt a bizarre twinge of guilt as he rolled through without paying his money,
the rusted bucket reaching for some change. Almost immediately on the far side of the toll plaza he began to drive past rusting
carcasses of cars, on the sides of the road and on the highway itself. It quickly became an obstacle course to get through.
Within ten minutes it was so inundated with rusting bodies, as if the heavens had rained automobiles, that Stone had to drop
the bike down to a walk so that he could balance it with both feet down on each side.
Brown twisted frames, with wheels and glass long gone. Inside some were still the original occupants—now just skeletons, lying
on their seats, sitting as if in an eternal traffic jam from which they would never emerge. It felt a little spooky to pass
a car, look in its paneless window, and see a skull smiling back at you. He didn’t stop to chat.
The car graveyard lasted for nearly twenty miles. A hell of a lot of people must have been caught in the blast of a nuke or
something, Stone mused, for so many to have been taken out like this at once. Then, as he went around a curve and over a rise,
they disappeared again. Stone quickly built up to thirty, then forty, as the interstate got hillier and began undulating up
and down like a snake so that he started feeling dizzy and heard the dog burping behind him
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