Blood on the Asphalt biker
From the elevated cab, I watched the world go by the moss-draped oaks of the Georgia line, the rusted skeletons of old gas stations, and the endless, shimmering heat waves rising from the asphalt.
As night fell, we pulled into a dilapidated lumber yard on the outskirts of Savannah. It was a graveyard of rotting cedar and rusted machinery, but it was walled and easily defensible. The Wolves set up a perimeter immediately, their flashlights cutting through the thick, humid air like lightsabers.