Welcome to the Borderlands Chapter 2

The waves have been perfect, it’s late afternoon, I’m still surfing, and I’ve discovered the tiny radio I wear in my ear is waterproof. Shadows are lengthening but I’m not worried; Larry’s promise to come back before day’s end was enough for me. And so when, true to his word and at the same time the sun touched the horizon, I saw him paddling out on a classic longboard I wasn’t surprised.

 

“You didn’t really think,” laughed Larry, “I’d leave you here to catch all these waves by yourself did you?

 

Watching Larry wheel around and begin a smooth no-paddle takeoff I shouted, “I never doubted, and besides everyone knows Old School chopper builders are really just Old Soul surfers that ride motorcycles.” 

 

Quick to his feet, Larry faded further left than I would’ve thought possible before cranking a hard right turn under the crest; a short step to the front part of his board put him in trim and his ponytail just ahead of the curl. Reminiscent of Midget Farrelly surfing Rincon in the late ‘60s he rode rocking from rail to rail, walking the board, as one with the wave. When he was almost to the shore he kicked out. The song “One Love” by Bob Marley had been playing in my ear radio at the same time all of this was happening.

 

Knee paddling back to where I was waiting, Larry matter-of-factly said, “Are you up for another adventure? It’ll mean leaving our bikes and except for the shorts we’re wearing the rest of our clothes here.”

 

I was taken by surprise, “We won’t be able to ride to where we’re going?”

 

Larry laughed, “Oh, we’ll be doing some riding, just not from here.”

 

“Not from here means you’re talking about another here, I mean there? I’m confused.”

 

Larry was still grinning, “Don’t be. It was by accident I discovered this Borderland borders another Borderland that can only be reached by riding through the tube of what I call the Twilight Wave.”

 

Knowing I needed to know more, Larry continued, “When surfing here some time ago I caught a wave that breaks only at sunset. Instead of coming out of its tube in this Borderland I came out in another, one with a similar beach but next to what looks to be an abandoned city. I’ve since been exploring the city and in the course of exploring found a small warehouse with upstairs apartments and a couple of bikes.”

 

“Choppers?”

 

Larry’s eyes lit up like a kid hearing dessert’s ready, “I wish. No, they’re a pair of Yamaha Road Warriors and I’ve almost got them running; the place we’ll be staying even has a machine shop. But hey, a Road Warrior is what it is. It makes no apologies for being a very powerful Japanese V-twin that’ll never be mistaken for your Wide Glide, let alone my bike, or for using engine technology well in advance of American manufactures. In essence, it’s ‘not’ a Harley wannabe.”

 

Convinced it was worth the risk, I said, “Let’s go.”

 

Larry turned, “It’ll mean the two of us catching the Twilight Wave at the same time; so stay close and keep in mind it breaks to the left. Oh, and wipeouts aren’t an option.”

 

Glancing over my shoulder in the direction Larry was looking I saw the sun drop below the horizon sending as he said it would the most beautiful of all waves. Overhead and growing higher, it rolled closer. Normally you’d never take off on a wave like this together, but then nothing about what we were doing was normal. Just the thought of riding a wave from one Borderland to another seemed beyond normal for this already abnormal place I was visiting.

 

Like a shadow I followed his every move down and across the steep getting steeper wall of water. Too quickly the wave began to curl and we became like two stones skipped beneath a waterfall. After exiting the tube by riding up and over the back of the wave we paddled to the beach. Two minutes later we’d left our surfboards where the sand ended and were walking into the city. Tall buildings and elevated highways soon surrounded us. We’d entered another Borderland.

 

Three blocks from the beach Larry stopped, “There’s a bicycle around the corner left from my last trip. I’ll pilot from the handlebars, you pedal.”

 

Leaving a bicycle unlocked in the middle of any city was an invitation for it to be stolen and yet Larry’s rusty old Schwinn was exactly where he said it would be. Not knowing why allowed memories of the movies I AM LEGEND and ZOMBIELAND to creep into my thoughts.

 

Glad there were no hills, my biggest problem became dodging vehicles left in the street. This obstacle course took us into an older industrial section where many of the buildings had been made into apartment lofts.

 

“We’re here,” said Larry, pointing to a brick two story hidden by darkness. “It was open when I first found it; it should be open now. There will be clothes and shoes in the upstairs units.”

 

Larry took the bicycle around back; I headed up the steps. Just inside the front door were two Yamaha Road Warriors parked in the middle of a large workroom equipped with a variety of metal working machines and tools. Entering the workroom activated a series of overhead lights.

 

“When built to be ridden through twisty switchbacks,” said Larry coming through the rear door at the same time, “choppers with wire wheels become the embodiment of Yin and Yang, 

sacred vessels, the Holy Grail of motorcycles. Your Wide Glide’s built with a bit of that magic. Conceived as metal sculpture, creating choppers is a rite of passage, a path to life’s mysteries; riding them alone along the right back road and at the right time leads to life’s answers.” 

 

Nodding at the two Warriors, Larry continued, “These, on the other hand, are the opposite of choppers. Built by combining the best parts of different bikes they’re monsters; Frankenstein would’ve loved them. And even though they’re powerful enough to pull fence posts or run forever in the triple digits; Road Warriors are still contradictions to everything that makes building and riding choppers spiritual.

 

“Defined solely by their superior speed and better handling, Road Warriors will always be, and with no disrespect intended, nothing but high tech alchemy. They’ll never be the Tao, the way, never the journey; designed by a committee, they’ll never be art.”

 

Not being a Taoist like Larry I couldn’t see beyond their aluminum frames and the fact that either one could’ve eaten his radial engine chopper and my Wide Glide for lunch in a race. Larry cut short my obvious admiration of high tech alchemy with a shout to get some sleep.

 

Night passed quickly, ending when the song “Get a Job” by The Silhouettes came blasting out of an antique jukebox accompanied by the deep roar of two 102 cubic inch Japanese V-twins being coaxed awake. Their roar coupled with the song made for morning’s reveille. 

 

“Breakfast,” shouted Larry over the noise. “Have a cup of what’s left of some coffee I found about a month ago. It’s gotta be strong, I used it to clean the throttle bodies I’m adjusting. Hey, I’m kidding; the coffee’s fresh. Just give me a few more minutes and I’ll have these two put back together and then we’re thumbs up to go.”

 

Last night more than a couple of the upstairs apartments proved generous. The first provided me with pants, tennis shoes and an O’Neill’s Surfboards sweatshirt; the second donated some amber tinted sunglasses. I was good to go.

 

Except for snagging a weather beaten Navy leather flight jacket with U.S.S. Lexington CVA 16 stenciled across the back, Larry was dressed the same…well almost. Larry’s upstairs search of apartments had found him a watch cap that looked more yarmulke than watch cap.

 

Using the bicycle to prop open the back door, Larry said, “I pedaled that old Schwinn everywhere looking for people; I couldn’t find one person. It was spooky like maybe they got beamed up or something.” Larry then pointed at the Warriors, “Today’s their maiden voyage and the first time I’ve actually looked for onramps leading up to the elevated highway.”

 

[page break] 

Throughout the morning and afternoon we looked for unblocked onramps. It wasn’t until near sundown we found one free enough of debris so we could pass.

 

Side by side, leaned over and in increasingly larger spirals we rode above the buildings. “Danger Zone” by Kenny Loggins was playing in my ear when we merged off and onto the elevated highway. Weaving our way through derelict vehicles, we were in seconds at sixty; at seventy the wind was painting smiles across our faces. Near eighty, and without warning, Larry began a rewind back to fifty; at thirty he signaled for us to stop.

 

Walking over to my bike, “Can you see him?”

 

Still smiling, I looked where he was pointing, “See who?”

 

Pointing to where the elevated highway vanished in a convergence of narrowing lines ending at the base of some small hills covered in brown grass, Larry said, “It’s a man standing beside a motorcycle waiting for us.”

 

“Hey, that’s gotta be good,” I said, wondering why the city and elevated highway ended abruptly at the hills. “You’ve been searching since you’ve discovered this place for someone to ask what has happened, maybe find out why we haven’t seen any other people.”

 

Answering the question I feared to ask, Larry said, “Let me do the talking. If anything goes wrong return immediately to the beach, don’t stop, don’t wait for me; catch the Twilight Wave back to our old Borderland.”

 

While still trying to decide what to do the stranger made the decision for us. Reminiscent of the opening scene in the 1990s TV series RENEGADE when the actor Lorenzo Lamas rode a Harley Softail out of an orange setting sun, the stranger grew in size until he became a familiar figure. When he was almost beside us I was certain I recognized him. I was also aware the hills had followed along behind him erasing the elevated highway. It was as if the background was a holographic projection tied to his rear fender; in essence the horizon looked as if it were being towed behind his bike.

 

With sandy blond hair tucked under a wool watch cap and wearing an Oklahoma State University sweatshirt cut off at the elbows, a pair of khaki pants and scuffed up chukka boots; I was pretty sure he was the Triumph rider that’d always meet me entering the Borderlands. He’d at each encounter yell something about escaping to Switzerland then motocross off across the hills. Except for a change in motorcycles, he was now riding a Road Warrior similar to ours; he looked the same as when I’d seen him in the past. When he finally came to a stop and I could see his features more clearly. I now had no doubts; he was, in fact, that same Triumph rider.

 

“I hate to be rude,” said the stranger who I was certain I’d seen before, “but who are you and why are you here?”

 

Forgetting Larry’s instructions I blurted back, “Who are we? Who are you?”

 

“Steve Mc…something, no Hilts, it’s confusing; it changes, but I’m pretty sure it’s Hilts. No matter, I’m here to warn you this whole place, the city, everything is about to disappear; you two need to leave now!”

 

Larry interrupted, “You look a lot like the lead character in a film I once saw; it was the sequel to a movie about captured allied pilots in WWII. In it you escape from the same German prison camp for a second time and finally succeed in jumping a motorcycle over a border barricade into Switzerland. As I remember you crashed filming that scene and spent the rest of the movie in a Swiss hospital.”

 

“The director didn’t want that second jump scene in the sequel. The irony is I insisted on it and on doing the jump myself. As a consequence, or maybe it was bad karma, the time I spent in the hospital recovering allowed the studio to write me out of the rest of the movie, which brings up why I came to warn you. I seem to be in that very hospital again. Everything you see, the elevated highway, the city, our bikes, I’m creating while in a coma and yet I was able to hear someone say they were going to electroshock me awake. They’re behind my bed at this moment with a defibrillator.

 

“If I don’t awaken to the electroshock they said they were going to smother me with my pillow; either way, awake or dead, this place will disappear.”

 

Larry then asked the big question, “Did you dream of, I mean create any people?”

 

“Yes, I was able to get all of them out as soon as I heard what was going to happen; I didn’t want them to suffer. I’ve been trying to get you boys out too, but couldn’t; you weren’t my creations.”

 

Larry glanced westward at a rapidly setting sun then at Hilts, “You’ve dreamt, I mean created everything including this freeway?”

 

“Yes, everything you see I’ve created in my dreams.”

 

“Then we’re going to need your help getting out of here; we’re going to need you to straighten the freeway so it runs straight to the beach. Can you do that?”

 

“Yes, but I’ve got to do it now; I can hear the defibrillator charging. You’ve got to leave!”

“We’re on our way.” said Larry as we ran for our bikes.

 

Seconds later, and at the same time Tom Petty’s song “Runnin’ Down a Dream” began playing in my ear radio, we started for the beach. Weaving in and out of lanes, our bikes were soon near their top speed. Hilts was straightening the freeway. Two to three hundred feet ahead turns would thankfully unbend before we ran into dividers. 

 

Where the blacktop ended I could see the beach; a streak of lightning arced above it. Electroshock must’ve started. Another bolt followed so close over our heads you could smell ozone; at the same time the end of the freeway moved about a hundred yards out and over the ocean. Hang in there Hilts, a.k.a. Steve Mc…something.

 

Approaching the end of the freeway much too fast to stop Larry suddenly started downshifting, bleeding off speed before finally locking his brakes in a controlled skid and sliding off the edge of the pavement. I followed a few seconds afterwards feeling like Evel Knievel.

Our bikes hit the water first; Larry and I hit a second later. Our surfboards were floating ten feet from where we landed. Shedding clothing as fast as we could, we began paddling to catch the Twilight Wave; I couldn’t resist looking over my shoulder. The city and freeway were beginning to fade. Had the electroshock awakened Hilts, thankfully not before he’d gotten us our surfboards, or had someone used a pillow? Either way he was free.

 

“Don’t look back!” shouted Larry. 

 

As if hearing its cue the sun dropped below the horizon sending towards us the same perfect Twilight Wave. Catching it, then standing up, I couldn’t help but see what was left of what had once been the Borderland city Hilts had created. All of it was gone; there was nothing but mist and then Larry and I were angling down the wave’s steep face, crouched inside its tube, cut off from everything but thoughts of not falling. Seconds passed before we were able to pass through the wave’s watery tunnel and back into our old Borderland.

 

After paddling to the beach we headed to where we’d left our bikes. Up on the road in the failing light of dusk was Larry’s chopper, next to it was my Wide Glide. Glancing down I realized we were following the same tire tracks I’d seen behind the Yamaha Road Warrior Hilts had been riding on the elevated highway. 

 

Piled next to my Wide Glide was a stack of wet clothes. Soggy khaki pants and an Oklahoma State University sweatshirt, coupled with soaked chukka boots and the Road Warrior’s tire tracks challenged the meaning of impossible.

 

“If these are his wet clothes and his Road Warrior’s tire tracks, how was Hilts able to get here before us? I thought he was in a Swiss hospital being awakened with electroshock or at the very worst being smothered with a pillow?” 

 

Larry reached down and took a folded paper from under his chopper’s rear wheel; unfolding it he made a point of reading it outloud, “Maybe this note will tell us or at least give us some clues as to what’s happening?”

 

 

 

 

[page break] 

WHO IS RAGGEDY MAN?  

“They’re Raggedy Man’s,” said Larry looking down at the footprints leading up from the pier.

 

“Do you mean,” I asked, “the man Hilts ran over with his Road Warrior then dumped in a bathtub to protect him from a spider with a human head for a body is the same carnival sideshow Raggedy Man that lured us here and was shredded through Elisa’s dreamcatcher? And if that’s true how’d he become whole again; and what’s with the glob of pizza that scuttled off to hide in a field of wrecked cars?”

 

“Raggedy Man was once normal; he wasn’t always grotesque or even known as Raggedy Man,” answered Larry.

 

Dusk had changed the pier into a dark black and white sketch of a pier with a charcoal horizon for background. Surrounding both sides of the pier was a spreading blackness bordered with the crashing sound of breaking waves. With the sun down the black upon white sketch was fast becoming more of a black upon blacker sketch.  

 

Larry paused for a long time before continuing, “Raggedy Man was once a visitor like you; his name was Andrew Boss. Hired by the Navy to restore then fly an F4U Corsair from Pensacola Florida to San Diego California; his plane upon arrival would’ve been auctioned for a charity called Angel Flight. Angel Flight’s a group of pilots that donate their time and airplanes to fly missions to help needy people in hard to reach areas get medical treatment. Unfortunately he got caught in a huge thunderstorm, became disoriented, flew into the Borderlands and ended up landing in a flooded alfalfa field near the town where we first met.

 

“He healed remarkably fast, first into what he originally looked like, then into what chased you. I met him when he was still known as Andrew, although he preferred being called Andy. Physically there was little change back then.

 

“When his appearance became repulsive the townspeople began calling him Raggedy Man, laughing at him, giving him ragged clothes to wear; they made him an outcast. Not until recently did he start harassing visitors. When his harassing escalated into attempts to capture you and Elisa so he could leave the Borderlands, I knew something had to be done.”

 

Dusk had nearly disappeared before we finally started a fire and I asked, “Do the Borderlands always change the way people look? I mean, Raggedy Man could’ve been a cartoon, some type of zombie created for a comic book.”

 

“In the Borderlands we all, so don’t judge people you meet here by looks alone, become caricatures of ourselves,” Larry answered while at the same time feeding bits of driftwood to the flames. “Most of the time the changes are minor. Andy’s changes were different; it was almost as if he’d been infected and becoming Raggedy Man was the symptom. Which brings up the point, have you seen yourself lately?”

 

“Why, what’s happened to me?”

 

The thought that I’d changed into something even remotely resembling Raggedy Man made me want to search for a full length mirror.

 

“Relax,” replied Larry chuckling, “you’ve the same personality. It’s your looks that have changed, especially since our journey to the Borderland city; that trip must’ve accelerated the process.”

 

I’d often been called a gangly worn out version of the actor Randolph Scott; gangly is a polite way of saying ugly. Scott had starred in 1940s and ‘50s Western movies.  
 

“My changes,” continued Larry, “match my fascination with always wanting answers, always wanting to meet the ‘Little Man’ behind the Mystery of Life curtain. Once in the Borderlands that curiosity resulted in me developing acute vision, smell and hearing. The changes to my looks are even more of an exaggeration than yours and have caused people at times to mistake me for an older Jack Earle Haley.” 

 

“Now that I think of it,” I said, “you do look a bit like an older version of the character actor Jack Earle Haley. Your heightened senses explain how you spotted Hilts; I couldn’t see him until you pointed him out.”

 

Larry’s chuckle had grown into a hard to hold back laugh, “Hey, at least we didn’t end up like a guy I once met that was on such a downer his whole life had become a half empty glass. When he got to the Borderlands his scowl connected to his double chin giving him the face of a bloodhound.”

 

Collecting driftwood I noticed some broken pallets; one had San Miguel Winery stamped on it. Holding it up to the firelight so Larry could see the writing, “How could one of its pallets have gotten into the Borderlands?”

 

“It’s really not that unusual;” Larry answered, “the fact is flotsam from both worlds often ebbs and flows across boundaries. Bits of the Borderlands can drift across in the form of a stranger that sits next to you at an all night café or appear as an unexpected patch of midnight fog along a backroad. Ride through it and there’s no telling where you’ll end up. I once knew a guy who rode through some late night fog along the Hudson Valley and came out of it on Route 66 in 1933. When I saw him again he looked in his nineties.

 

“Tao Wop music, you called it Doo Wop, was a bit of the Borderlands that drifted into your world in the 1950s then drifted back; it’s magic will be missed. Soul Surfers and Old School chopper builders share that magic. Characters from your myths and legends, books and movies often come here before they’re forgotten. Sometimes they’re sent to the Borderlands because their followers want them to live beyond the end of their stories; to do that those followers must give up large parts of their own lives.” 

 

“That’s it, that’s how Hilts got here,” I interrupted. “You said it yourself; you said he looks a lot like a character you saw in a movie. Maybe the obsession of his fans coupled with his own desire to have a life beyond the end of his movies explains why he came into the Borderlands.”

 

Larry continued, “Not everyone comes here on purpose, many are lost. For some it’s one of several stopovers on the way to a final destination, for others it’s to fulfill a bargain.” 

 

“And you, Larry, what’s your story?” 

 

“Penance, bargain, I guess it depends on how you look at it,” the answer came easily. “I agreed to help visitors like you ask the right questions to find the right answers. The Twilight Wave adventure, however, left more questions than answers.”

 

Knowing that Raggedy Man, a.k.a. Andy Boss, was in a bathtub somewhere nearby and that there was a head attached to a hand that ran off into a nearby field of wrecked cars remained in the back of mind as I listened to Larry.

 

Finally on fire, their lettering changing from ink to ash, the pallets began to burn in earnest; the flames gave strobe light glimpses of the slope behind us. Using that flickering light I pieced together clothes from my bag. Hilts had taken the best, leaving me some jeans, an old windbreaker and a pair of tennis shoes. Larry was luckier; neither his chopper nor his clothes had been touched.

 

“The irony is,” said Larry, “Andy was once a friend; he helped me build my chopper, let me use his shop, well, not exactly. Actually I found his shop, an old Quonset hut at the end of an overgrown runway a few miles from where you and I first met. Thinking it was abandoned I began collecting parts and had already started fabricating my bike when he showed up. At first he was cool about it; he even helped me mate the V-twin motor I’d laser cut from the crop duster’s Pratt and Whitney radial engine to the Indian’s frame. He even helped design the modifications that allowed it to handle the extra torque; the guy’s an expert engineer. 

 

“It was Andy that came up with the idea of making the forward cylinder an integral part of the frame instead of using the bike’s down tubes. Yamaha did it with their Virago series and since I’d also cut my engine to be a near ninety-degree V-twin I knew it would work. At the same time I was working on my chopper he was working on the Corsair. How he’d gotten it from where he’d belly landed to his shop I’ll never know; what I do know is the man’s a master at solving problems.

 

“Things were going great until I came back one morning to find myself locked out of the shop. The note on the door said he’d been called away; the problem was I could hear Andy working inside. Not trusting him, I waited until night then broke in and took my bike. He’s been angry at me since. In his defense his physical changes had accelerated to the point where they’d altered his behavior; maybe if the townspeople hadn’t made him an outcast?”

 

“You mean had the villagers not feared Frankenstein’s creature he wouldn’t have acted like a monster?”

 

“I mean,” answered Larry, “that once Andy was exiled his frustration and paranoia fed on the townspeople’s fear until he grew into the thing you saw at the pier.”

 

“Hey Larry, I appreciate the accolades, but could you and your friend see your way to giving me a hand?” 

 

Raggedy Man’s voice came from the darkness on the other side of the road. Subdued and with none of its former threat, its sound still brought memories of being chased by a ‘40 Ford driven by a hideous looking man with a larger than life head and huge hands.

 

Larry shouted back, “Andy, you sound in a bit of hurt.”

 

“I only wanted your friend’s help; I instead scared him into jumping onto a motorcycle and taking off. The second mistake I made was standing in front of him. I awakened inside an old bathtub and have been in the ditch on this side of the road since; I can barely move.”

 

Picking up a burning branch, Larry shouted, “We’re on our way over; if it turns out to be a trap you’re toast. You’ve great recuperative powers even after being cut to pieces by the dreamcatcher, but not from ashes.”

 

“Understood, and thanks for calling me Andy.”

 

Larry made sure both of us had burning branches before we began walking to the top of the road. On the opposite side beyond the reach of our firelight was blackness.

 

“Over here.”

 

We followed Raggedy Man’s voice down the slope past a junkyard of debris. Shrunken and pale and just a shadow of his former formidable self he lay inside the bathtub where Hilts had left him. Wrecked cars surrounded us out to the edge of our light, one of which had as a passenger a human head that could scuttle around like a spider. Larry motioned for me to grab the tub’s other side. Back up and over the road we dragged it and then all the way down to where we had camped, finally stopping next to our fire. Not until we’d sat down did Larry say anything.

 

“Out of respect for my old friend Andy I’ll keep calling you Andy.”

 

“No more lies,” replied Andy, once Raggedy Man, “and if for some reason I do start to change back into Raggedy Man I want you two to do whatever you have to do to destroy him. Hating everything and everyone around me isn’t living.”

 

A burst of blue flame from a pocket of dried salt in the burning driftwood separated us from what Andy said next. 

 

“I would’ve really hurt someone back at the pier; I was at the point where I was blaming everyone for what was happening to me. It was just a matter of time before someone would’ve been seriously injured or worse. Luckily you tricked me into getting close to the dreamcatcher; I got myself shredded for being too eager to trap the two of you.

 

“It took some time for all the pieces to grow back together and as I healed I realized part of me was missing. When I saw your bikes I realized the missing part was the part that’d made me Raggedy Man and that it was still stuck in the dreamcatcher’s web. Your dreamcatcher cut it out of me and all I can say is good riddance.”

 

“The dreamcatcher did what it was supposed to do,” I said. “I’m not surprised it ripped the bad part out and left the good; actually I’m more surprised you survived the exorcism. It means there was more Jekyll than Hyde in you.”

 

“So what happened?” asked Larry. “Why’d you come running up here? You must have known that in your weakened state you were vulnerable to being possessed or infected again by whatever may have turned you into Raggedy Man.”

 

“I’d met the guy before and thought he could help. More importantly I felt I should warn him the Raggedy Man part of me was still stuck on the Harley’s sissy bar. 

 

The guy’s name is Hilts,” Larry added.

 

“Hilts, that was his name, we were friends,” continued Andy. “We were friends like you and I once were except the roles were reversed. Like I’d be telling him about stuff I needed to fix the Corsair or Ford and the next day he’d show up with it at the Quonset hut. Stuff like the welders I’d find inside the shop when I woke up in the morning.”

 

“Sorta like the Tooth Fairy…I mean Tool Fairy,” I added.

 

“Sorta like I figured out early on he either had a gift for finding things or he could conjure them. That’s why I ran up from the pier; I thought he’d remember me, maybe even help me. I didn’t count on him running me over.”

 

“He wouldn’t have run you over if you hadn’t jumped in front of him;” said Larry, “plus, he likely was still disoriented from being given electroshock.”

 

Larry then told Andy about our recent trip to the city. He purposely left out the part in the letter where Hilts saw a glob of what looked like pizza dough break free from the dreamcatcher, change into a giant spider with a human head for a body, then scuttle off into a nearby field of wrecked cars and trucks.

 

Down to coals, our fire radiated just enough light to show the grateful look on Andy’s face when Larry said, “Moving you might be risky, come morning we’re riding to the summit; Ma n’ Pa live there and I know for a fact Ma’s a healer.”

 

Andy glanced up at Larry, “I once met the couple you’re talking about; they seemed like good people. But what if I’ve changed back into Raggedy Man and he’s waiting in this tub when they get here? I can’t really protect them from him.”

 

Larry smiled, “I wouldn’t worry too much about Ma n’ Pa; to be honest, if my suspicions about them are true, my real concern would be more for Raggedy Man.”

 

Curling close to the fire I thought about us rescuing Andy, recently Raggedy Man, and as crazy it sounds I fell asleep knowing we’d done the right thing.

 

Larry’s “Wake up; we’re running late,” opened my eyes to the realization I’d slept through the night without dreaming. Andy looked much better now that he was wearing Hilts’ dry clothes.

 

Larry came over to add wood to the fire, “I woke up to check on things and could hear Andy shivering so badly he was rattling around inside the tub. Hilts’ clothes were dry so I gave them to him to wear; I figured the two of them can sort it out later. I also checked the bikes; we’re ready to ride. I still can’t figure out how Hilts got his motorcycle out of the city and ended up here.”  

 

Andy had been listening, “Best get started, you’ve left enough wood and water, I’ll be fine; oh, and if you see Hilts tell him I’ve no hard feelings about the accident.”

 

“If no one’s at the summit,” I said, walking over to stand beside Andy, “we’ll return.”

 

Checking once more to see there was enough firewood and water, we started our bikes. We agreed not to tell Andy about the head running around on fingers that looked like spider legs and that was hiding on the other side of the road in one of the derelict cars.

 

Once we’d ridden away neither of us looked back nor did we slow down until we came to the base of the mountains. After winding our way up through miles of switchbacks we reached the summit a little before noon.

 

 “With the right bike, on the right day, on the right road, I feel like I’m one with the Universe.”  —Indian Larry