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Fore Alicja Szlag, the best muse a man could have.

When Simon and the others escaped the clutches of the clan-cult, it seems that they had not stolen the best vehicle their capturers posed. The mail truck was old, slow, consumed a great of gas and left a smelly trail of sulfurous blue smoke in its wake. The truck had developed another problem.. "Simon" Deacon said "we’re getting’ pretty low."

Ohio had proved different from the other states they had passed through. It seemed the state was almost devoid of gasoline. The stations and truck stops they had found were either out of fuel, or crawling with undead then the survivors felt that they could handle.

While Simon was thinking about where to get their next fill up, a graver problem was moving up on them.

A rifle round shattered the side view mirror, then the roar many engines was heard.

Simon opened up the mail truck’s back door. About ten motorcycles with sidecars flanking a VW Thing were now trailing them; all of them including the car were painted weird granite gray; it made the land pirates look like a creepy giant metallic spider gliding down the highway in search of new prey.

It was a really strange looking group, even in these chaotic times. They looked to be Skin Heads and other various Neo-Nazi types. Simon could see a couple of them wearing t-shirts saying White makes right and Aryans rule! ; Simon knew right off these jerkazoids weren’t brightest bunnies in the barn. But he also often found that the stupidest people could also be the most dangerous.

One of the sidecar men was working a bolt action-hunting rifle, putting a fresh round into the chamber. Simon fired a burst at him; one of the three bullets hit their intended target. The man dropped the rifle and clutched at his bleeding shoulder.

This did not deter his comrades.  Two of the cycles moved forward, catching up with the mail truck. Simon emptied his Sten in their direction. Of the twenty-four rounds, one hit a driver in the breastbone, two struck a back tire and six ripped into the face and neck of a sidecar man.

This rain of flying lead caused both bikes to stop in their tracks. The rest of the pursuers kept coming.

Three more bikes moved forward, the sidecar men firing pistols. A round hit the left rear taillight and another went right over Simon’s shoulder. It kept going until it exited out the front window. "Jesus fucking Christ!" screamed Deacon as the bullet barely missed his head.

"Harry, Shotgun!" yelled Simon. He didn’t have time to reload his own weapon because two of the three motorcycles were almost up to the truck’s back bumper. Simon fired both barrels, which caused him to be knocked up against the driver’s backseat.

The spray of shot hit all four men and caused one of the cycles to flip over sideways.

Causing the machine to hit the motorcycle next to it. The second rider lost control, and hit the guardrail head on.

Finally the VW Thing moved up, standing up in the back seat was a man wearing a German helmet and holding a Smith &Wesson Model 76 submachine gun. He fired a burst at the mail truck, which hit the vehicle’s rear left tire. Making Deacon almost lose control of the mail truck.

The truck swerved from left to right, while black smoke issued forth like a blood trail.

While still flat on his back, Simon drew and fired all six rounds at the VW Thing. But his target wasn’t the gunman.

A slug penetrated the car’s front windshield, and then it penetrated the driver, turning his face into a pile of sickly pink goop. The last act of the driver was to slam his foot down on the brake, hard.

The gunman went flying over the car and hit face first onto the highway pavement. Transforming his neck bone into a semi powder.

The rest of the pack turned around and headed back the way they came, figuring the candle was not worth the price. "Aloha Adolph." said Simon as the Neo-Nazis disappeared out of site.

Deacon stopped the truck and Simon jumped out of the back at the same time the others exited out of the driver’s door. Which was good thing too, the truck was starting to slowly catch fire. With backpack in hand, Simon headed toward the wreaked motorcycles.

"You guys check out the car, I’m going to see if those pinheads have anything useful."

Deacon opened up the driver side door, and pulled the dead man out. It sounded sickingly  like spoiled oatmeal being tossed onto a flat rock, when the driver hit the pavement.

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