Fire May Flood

Chapter 1: Cladmeyer Junction

"Ah, great."

I revved the engine a few more times, but the bike still wouldn't start.

"Just great."

It was the perfect place to break down. Smack dab in the middle of the desert, canteen running nearly empty, the nearest town miles away, on a road that most people didn't take unless they absolutely had to. Just perfect.

I hopped off my bike, pulled it over to the side of the road and waited. Before long, a pickup truck came into view, one whose design suggested it was probably several decades old. It had a rounded, narrow hood, large wheel wells and a bed made of planks of wood. It wasn't well taken care of, either. The dark green paint job was chipping away, and the exposed sections were covered in bright orange rust.

Sitting in the driver's seat was a somewhat hefty man wearing a red ball cap, blue denim overalls and a long-sleeved, red-and-black plaid shirt. Probably a farmer. "Need a lift?" He asked after coming to a stop in front of me.

I nodded.

"You can toss your bike in the back," he said, gesturing to the bed with his thumb.

I rolled my bike around to the rear of the truck and lowered the tailgate.

"Need some help lifting that thing?" he called out from the cab.

"I got it." I first lifted my front tire onto the tailgate, then lifted the back end and rolled the whole thing forward into the bed. I decided to leave my weapon with my bike. No need to freak him out.

I walked back to the front and climbed into the cab, then immediately reached for the seat belt. As I brought it down to the buckle, I noticed he had extended his hand out for me to shake. "Name's Joe," he said, smiling out the side of his mouth.

"Joe," I acknowledged dryly as I clicked my seatbelt into place.

"Oh... heh heh," he chuckled nervously and rescinded his handshake.

He sat there for a moment, looking uncomfortable, then spoke up again.

"So, uh, where can I take you, stranger?"

"Nearest town," I replied.

"You, uh, you out of gas? Or... do you-"

"Mechanic."

"Ah..."

This man clearly wanted to have a conversation. I wasn't interested.

"Where'd-" he gulped uncomfortably, "where'd you even get a machine that old? I don't think I've seen tires since my grandpa had that vintage-"

"Can you take me into town or not?" I didn't have time for this.

He sighed, sounding defeated, then shifted the engine back into drive. "Yeah. Yeah, I can take you."

Much to my displeasure, he tried to start up conversation with me a few more times on the drive. He was unsuccessful.

After a few hours, as the afternoon dragged on, we eventually came upon a small, drive-by town. The kind of place you only stopped if you had to. Joe's tank was running low, so he pulled into what looked to be the town's only gas station.

"Honestly, I'm not really sure if there's anyone in this town that can help you with something that old," he said as we pulled up next to the pump. "It's a pretty small place."

He was probably right. It wasn't exactly an issue of knowledge; I'd worked on my bike plenty over the years. It was more an issue of parts. It'd be far easier to find vintage parts in a big city. Good thing I hadn't also blown a tire. That would've been even harder to find.