The Last Mile by Tim Waggoner Read Free Book Online Page B

go. Instead, she remained where she was. Who knows? Maybe the motorcycle rider would turn out to be a knight of the road and save her.
    Yeah, right.
    As the biker approached he kept to the shoulder where the thorn-stalks didn’t grow. The plants quivered as he passed, and a few made token grabs in his direction, but none came close to touching him. He throttled back and slowed as he drew near. The biker wore no helmet and Alice clearly saw the thrall-mark on his forehead, similar to her captor’s.
    The biker’s head was shaved, and he sported a black goatee. He wore only a tan leather vest, and almost all of the skin displayed was covered with tattoos. He was a stout man, with thick arms, a broad chest, and a layer of belly fat that somehow made him look tougher than if he had six-pack abs. He gripped the handlebars tight, knuckles pronounced, the skin covering them red and scarred. Alice guessed those knuckles had seen a lot of hard use over the years. She didn’t recognize the type of bike he was riding—she’d never been into motorcycles, never even ridden one—but it wasn’t the sort of bike that the Born to be Mild crowd rode. The kind that was big, awkward, and slow, pieces made out of colorful plastic as if it were a child’s toy that had been zapped by a growth ray. Mr. Goatee’s bike was the real deal: lean and mean, all metal and built for speed. The wooden stock of a shotgun rose over his right shoulder, and Alice guessed he carried the weapon in some kind of holster, though she didn’t see any straps under his vest. Maybe the holster was part of the vest. Was that possible?
    Very observant, she congratulated herself. Now what about the fact that he doesn’t have any legs?
    Alice had left that little detail for last because she hadn’t wanted to deal with it. But it was true: the biker had no legs. At first she thought he was a double amputee who’d somehow rigged the bike’s controls so he could do everything he needed with his hands. But if that was true, then how could he stay seated on the bike without slipping off? The answer turned out to be quite simple. He didn’t have to worry about falling off the bike because he was part of it. His waist had somehow been merged with the bike’s leather seat, making him some sort of mechanical centaur.
    The biker rolled to a stop and the kickstand deployed by itself, keeping the motorcycle from toppling over. Mr. Goatee let go of the handlebars and crossed his arms over his chest, covering the spot where Alice’s captor trained his gun.
    “You don’t see too many folks walking out here these days,” Mr. Goatee said.
    Alice expected the biker’s voice to be husky from too much booze and too many cigarettes. But he spoke in a clear, smooth voice. Deep, but not menacing. He’d be perfect for radio, Alice thought. If there still was radio.
    “I’m on a run,” her captor said. “Had a little accident a ways back. Hit a deer, or something that had been a deer once. Damn thing was so strong it wrecked my car.” He sounded friendly enough as he talked, but Alice noticed he didn’t lower his gun.
    Mr. Goatee nodded. “They’re nasty, all right. Lucky I can outrun them.”
    He made no move that Alice could see, but the bike engine revved once to underscore his point.
    “You ought to ask your Master to set you up with a sweet ride like I got,” Mr. Goatee went on. “Beats holy hell out of the busted-up Olds you’ve been driving.”
    Alice could only see her captor’s back, but she heard the sudden tension in his voice as he said, “You’ve been watching me.”
    “I’ve seen you drive down the Way a time or two, yeah,” he confirmed. “That billboard makes a great hiding place. No wonder cops used to use them, huh? I know where your Master’s lair is, too. Great choice, by the way. Between you and me, your Master’s got a great sense of humor—more than mine, that’s for sure . Mine lairs out in the boonies, in the basement of an old