Blood on the Asphalt biker
Dax hit the ash, rolling violently at eighty miles an hour.
"Dax!" I screamed, instinctively hitting my brakes.
"Don't stop!" Dax's voice barked over the comms, breathless and full of static. He was already on his feet, sprinting through the ash. "Reaper! Grab my hand!"
Reaper, his bike barely coasting at forty miles an hour, steered toward Dax. As he passed, Dax grabbed the heavy steel luggage rack on the back of Reaper's dying bike, vaulting himself onto the pillion seat.