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[center][sub]issue 2: the rider and the warrior

pt 1 [/sub][/center] 

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[i]
The walls in here are bleached the colour of bone. The fluorescent lights never dim, never set. Underneath the sweet stench of disinfectant lies the stink of death, vomit, shit and blood. The slow, monotonous beeping of the ECG, the valleys and peaks forming a maze of suspense, is a funereal bell in disguise. 

The skeletal hand gripping his own is ice-cold. The skin is stretched and pale from years upon years of burnt hopes and failed promises. The man who first taught him how to ride a Harley Davidson at the age of nine is dying. He presses his keys into his palm, a eagle feather hooked through the ring. He whispers words meant for him only. The hand then falls and the maze becomes a straight line headed in one direction, one road.

[color=red] it’s time to collect your debt [/color]

He had a promise. He made a deal. 

[color=red] the deal was 8 years. 8 years to savor the life of the client and settle your affairs. You had more than enough time. [/color]

He lied. The rage burns through him. A thirst begins to bubble in him. Vengeance.

[color=red] ah, you’re a quick learner. [/color] 

The fire boils in his belly and scours his skin until it is char. He has no recourse but the endless road ahead and the souls of sinners to sate his thirst. 

He rides. [/i]

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“ - towards your next destination. We remind all guests that we have arrived at New Orleans, Louisiana. We thank all guests for riding with Amtrek and await your ….” 

The honeyed, dulcet monotone of the tour bus announcer wakes Johnny up. He blinks as laggard memories of the last few weeks trickle back down into his brain like water down a shower drain. He remembers Vegas, a few drinks, the back of his throat burning with booze. His lips purse in recollection. The casino over by Fifth and Smesson. The fortune teller. Fire. He draws blanks after that.

Being the Rider is a bender and hangover cure all in one. 

Rubbing his head, he crawls off the bus, stepping onto the grass knotted sidewalk on to the I-90. It’s midday and the sun is cutting a boiling red streak towards the horizon, the blue sky growing duskier by the minute. He waits for the crowd of oddly dressed tourists and travellers to disperse before walking to joining another oddly dressed group of five individuals waiting underneath the rusted hulk of a bus stand. 

“ Well, that was sure weird as hell,” Johnny said, flicking a thumb over his shoulder at the departing tourists. “ What the hell’s wrong with their get up?” 

“ It’s New Orleans,” Jack answered. Teh werewolf, to Johnny's amusement, is currently huddling underneath an oversized trenchcoat. The werewolf signs at at Johnny’s blank stare. “ You ever been down south before or do you mainly just go around the rockies wearing leather all the time?” 

“ Eh, beats being you, wolfie. ” 

“ Don’t call me wolfie,