Chapter 1: The Kickstand

The scene was timeless. The sun had always been hot here, the sky always cloudless. The rocks had always looked old and weathered, even when they were young and new. There had always been lizards and snakes, sunning on the heat blasted rocks. Lichen and cacti had always been the only vegetable matter hardy enough to eke out a meagre existence amidst the rocks and dust. The road though, that was new.

Nothing in this desert stayed new long, and this road was no exception. It was faded and cracked, the yellow lines bleached almost white under the sun. It had seen many tires of all types over its hundred years of life, but no repair crew in almost twenty. It stretched in both directions like a tired grey ribbon, a tired line that went from horizon to horizon. The signs had all been shot, smashed down or rusted out decades ago, and the impotent government that ran what was left of the USA had more important things to do—like clothing and feeding its tired and weary population—than fixing up a road that nobody drove in the middle of nowhere. Inhabitants were few and far between in this endless desert, but despite that a single rider on a single motorcycle defied the heat and the aging road.

She wore no helmet, and her waist long auburn hair trailed behind her in a single long braid. She wore a faded black T-shirt and ripped jeans under a cotton poncho to ward off the heat and sun. Her skin was deeply tanned, earned from hours under the sun, and her body was firm and hard, yet undeniably feminine. The worn leather gun belt was far from dainty, though, nor were the dull black 9mm auto loaders that it held. If she was tired, hot, sore or thirsty she didn't show it. Her eyes were hidden behind oval reflective sunglasses, and her expressionless face could have been made of stone.

As Lara cruised the faded and cracked highway she pondered briefly whether or not she had made a good decision. She was an adventurer by nature, a professional thrill seeker, and crossing the lawless Arizona desert on motorcycle certainly qualified as dangerous. The tabloid reading masses had a morbid fascination with the 'new old west', and a prominent magazine had hired—no, dared—Lara to cross them. With the same questionable wisdom that had taken her on a one woman war with Natla Industries and the secrets of Atlantis, she had accepted.

Lara very seldomly regretted her actions. Regret didn't move you in a forward direction and was a waste of energy. Ever since Lara had been 'awakened' in that plane crash 10 years ago she had moved nowhere but forward. Her father had accused her of having a death wish, and perhaps he was right. She had broken a number of bones over her career on top of being shot, stabbed, scraped and bit by various nasties of the world. Each scar—and there were more than a few—was a medal, though; a testimony that said I survived whatever you have thrown at me. I have cheated death at your hands and I am that much more alive.

She had perhaps bitten off more than she could chew on this latest expedition. The situation in the various towns and shanties was truly appalling, worse than the third world. It was worse because they existed right outside the shiny mirrored towers of modern American 'civilization'. There was enough money in the private sector, and indeed the government coffers, to repair these homes but those who had the money were unwilling to spend it on 'a bunch of outlaws and bandits'. Lara, in her previous instalments to her patron, had written a great deal on the condition of the slums and the poor quality of life in the desert, but she knew that it would be 'sweetened' by her editor. She knew what he wanted: sex, violence and damsels in distress, with a few car chases thrown in. She'd had all that so far, with an emphasis on the second and the latter. There was next to no law in the badlands, and the roads and towns were ruled by gangs. Lara had fought some gangs, run from others. She had helped a pair of star-crossed lovebirds from rival gangs start a new life, been in a wall shattering bar brawl, and spent a long time on the road, doing 'rolling meditation.'

It was starting to wear her down: the heat, the fighting, the ever present smell of petrol fumes. The man next to her had been killed for no reason yesterday. He had sat beside her in the bar, was about to order a drink when his head had suddenly exploded, covering Lara in bits of blood, brain and gore. The shooter had been high on some sort of drug; he had shot the man because he had reminded the kid of his father. It was completely random and meaningless. She had taken a thorough shower but still had bits of skull in her hair. The feelings and memories of the incident would remain with her longer still. She was just tired, and wanted this whole damned expedition to end. She was over 30 now, although not much over. Maybe she was getting to old for this.

Her ruminations were cut short as she spied a gas station/restaurant silhouetted against the giant bloody red setting sun. The Kickstand. Her growling stomach reminded her that she hadn't eaten a meal since that morning. She pulled her bike, a Corley Ultra Glide Classic, into the dusty parking lot. A rusted out pickup truck and rusty garbage bin shared the lot with her, along with a dozen or so low slung forms of motorcycles. Lara grimaced as she killed her engine and pushed down the kickstand.

A bike gang. Just what she needed to make her day complete. According to the decal painted on their gas tanks, they were called the 'Polecats'. Their crest was a boot, fist and chains surrounding a skull. How charming.

As she walked up to the door, Lara wondered what temperament the gang was in. She wasn't in the mood for a fight. With a resigned sigh, she opened the door and stepped inside.

Life was good. Just Ben, his bike, his gang, and the road. The Polecats finally were out of jail after that whole Malcolm Corley thing. His bike was all fixed up now; it even still had that booster jet on, which was great. And the road, well the road was always there. Always would be. If Ben had these three things, he could be happy. Yeah, life was good.

The Polecats and the Vultures had a kind of truce now. The Cave Fish didn't seem to exist anymore, heh heh. Rumour had it that those psycho religious albinos were all in the bottom of a hole in their cave. Hmm. Wonder how that happened. All of this suited Ben just fine. The Polecats liked to live hard, fight hard and play hard. Drunken brawls, races with other bikers, harassing newbies as they entered the desert; all that was good fun. It was the ultimate expression of living life on your own terms. It was freedom.

Ben's gang had never been into the bad stuff; enforcement, drugs, prostitution, raping and pillaging, all the things that the bigger, badder gangs did in this lawless land. Ben would have loved to go rumble with them, kick their asses, but those gangs didn't fight fair. They had guns and rockets and they liked to use them. They gave biker gangs a bad name. Oh, well. They had their turf, and the Polecats had theirs. As long as no one strayed over the invisible border into Polecat territory, then every body stayed happy.

Ben and his men had stopped off at their old haunt, the Kickstand at the end of a long hot ride. Quohog was a biker's barkeep. He knew when to talk, what to talk about and when to shut up. Too many people tried to fill the silence with stupid chatter, Quohog didn't. He also had the best home made beer in the desert. His place was made for bikers as well. It was run down, the tables were scratched and the place stunk of old fried onions. The handlebars of Corley bikes old and present adorned the walls, and the jukebox, an old CD one dating back to the 90's, had none of that country or techno crap. It was always on the fritz and played what in wanted to when it wanted to, but that was ok. No one ever put any money in the damned thing anyway.

Right now it was playing George Thorogood, 'Bad to the Bone'. Yeah, that was good.

Ben was on his second brew, meditating on the finer points of life, when they all heard the single motorcycle approaching from the west. Jackson, his second in command and best friend, went to the window. "Some chick on a Corley Ultra Glide, looks like a '32 or a '33. Man that's hot." Every single member of the Polecats worshipped at the shrine of Corley, and could name every make and model they had ever made.

"What's hot, Jack, the chick or the bike?" Ben asked in his low growl of a voice. The other guys chuckled.

"Both, man. That bike looks cherry and the girl is stacked." A pause, then he continued in a more serious tone of voice. "She's packing, Ben. An automatic on each hip. Looks like old Browning Hi Powers." Jackson had been a cop and a gun collector before he joined up with the Polecats and he knew his stuff.

At the mention of the guns, the gang grew a bit more serious, and no one said a word as they heard the door handle turn and that stupid electronic chime that Quohog had on his door. The fading evening light back lit the woman in the door, and Jackson had been right, she was stacked: thin waist, big tits, and long legs. The first thing you noticed about her, though, was that she was hard.

Her tanned arms had muscles and she wore those guns like she knew how to use them. Her face was like stone. Ben saw all this through the reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

The chick stopped in the open doorway to survey the room. She still had her mirror shades on, so no one could see exactly what she was looking at. The ancient juke box chose that moment to quit, and to Ben this felt like a moment out of an old cliché western. There was total silence as every eye in the room followed the chick. She walked slowly to the bar and stopped two stools from Ben.

Looking at the silent Quohog for a moment, she sat down. Ben could see her cool face in the reflection of the mirror.

"Could I have a menu please, and a bottle of mineral water." The voice surprised Ben. It was upper class British, low and cool just like the rest of the lady. It suited her, Ben thought. Hearing her talk like a truck driver in a Midwest accent just would have been wrong.

The guys snickered at her mention of mineral water.

Even Quohog let a chuckle go. "Mineral water? What do think I am lady, a spa? Would you like the cold cucumber soup or the escar-the fried snails?" The guys snickered. The lady—even in jest Ben couldn't bring himself to label her as a 'chick'—didn't even crease a brow.

"I will take anything bottled, if you please, and something to eat that isn't fried." She took off her shades. Her eyes were a rich brown, and Ben was startled by their intensity. "I am not in a mood for cucumbers and detest fried snails, thank you very much." The corner of her mouth went up just a bit, or maybe Ben just imagined it.

Quohog grunted and reached below the bar for something. "I got some chicken pot pies in the freezer, or lasagne if that's what turns your crank." He placed an old dusty bottle of Bud in front of her.

The woman stopped and thought a moment. "Chicken pot pie, please." She took the bottle in dainty hands and twisted off the top. She looked at the dusty bottle disdainfully, then glanced at Quohog.

He produced an equally dusty mug and placed it in front of her with a smirk. "It's frozen. It'll take about 20 minutes."

"20 minutes is fine, thank you." Her eyes were surveying the bar through the mirror as she poured the beer carefully into the mug. Every eye was glued to her as she sipped at the golden brew. Ben watched her in the mirror, still quietly drinking his beer. Her dark eyes met his in the mirror and locked on.