Iron Jaws Motorcycle Club Read Online Free PDF

released the handlebar but still the throttle engaged. The cycle rode straight. The engine roared.
    “At least one of us is in control,” he heard.
    “I need to take a car next chance I get,” Scales said. The cycle accelerated and a recriminating thunder pealed atop the highway.
    Scales’ held onto the knucklehead with all his strength. “I’m taking you for a ride,” he heard. He leaned lower; his cheeks pared back, the teeth inside sealed a pernicious sneer for all that lay in waste around him and his motorcycle. 
    The paint on everything had boiled; caught the ashes from the wind into mucilaginous blisters, left a gray primer. The world of buildings and design had become its own negative impression—silver halides suspended in gelatin. The image and likeness of the world turned in on itself. Scales looked out from the backside of a mirror. 
    The speed of the wind did nothing to cool him. 
    He still felt like he was soaring through fire--as though tied to the ass end of a booster rocket at liftoff. “Be grateful you’re still alive, friend.” Scales gripped the handlebars as tight as he had wrung Jickstor Hannah’s neck and felt he’d never really let go, not after eight years in prison, not after three years of this dead planet. Down the highway he went at the whims of his PsychoMotor.
    “Where is she?” Scales heard.
    A heap of jelly bounced in Scales’ skull. Time travel and teleportation; the experience of exoexistence and Scales was with Rose. Rose in bed, Rose in the car. Rose at breakfast eating a kiwi like an apple. Rose laughing. Rose sleeping, alive in the night. Rose hand in hand at the altar. Rose crying goodbye, “I don’t want to die.”  And Rose in repose where her coffin lied before the same altar at which he vowed to adore. Rose Rose Rose forever.  He, lightheaded and nauseous, was just a ring through whom the wind blew.
    “Where is she?” he heard.
    He reentered his space and time and leaned low over the handlebar. The mountains were in view, in ten minutes he’d be running the foothills and his anxiety grew. Around every corner were new traps. Low on bullets and high on a rumbling bike was no way to sneak through the territories of broken states and mutant settlements in the afterglow of the apocalypse. 
    Looking over the crust of the rising land where boulders stood he had a time trying to recall the blond grasses of an autumn ride he’d once taken through these plains-side hills. The landscape wouldn’t recover without an eon or massive, concerted intervention. And hadn’t we done enough, he thought. He slowed, approaching a frozen procession of cars once filled with refugees. Their monuments stuck in place, headstones that read Ford, Kia, BMW, Daewoo, testified to their anonymity. Survivors lose in this place. Now was the time for Scales to go shopping. 
    He looked over the windows of the first cars he rode by and saw they’d not been picked over or, if they had, not thoroughly looted of useable provisions. He might even be able to get some gas out these tombs.
    A feeling surfaced in the palms resting on the handlebar. Electricity shivered up his arms and the light in his mind burst like prison floods in an escape. He continued on as quickly as he could. Past the tombs, his bike propelled, compelled, informing his instincts, negotiating his survival.
    “Never look back,” he heard. He would not know the fight his knucklehead led him from.  He didn’t question. The machine, he feared, could become his worst enemy if betrayed. 
    Forty miles back, they rode. They ran fast across the level plain. The roads were not so badly broken up out in the middle of what might forever be nowhere. A few miles here, a few miles there a busted heap of a car laid its permanent shadow beside or across the road. The double line of motorcycles hardly slowed as they went by the wreckage. The leader caught a scent. He hoisted his monstrous head to the wind. Two pupils just pinholes in