Edward Llewellyn - Prelude to Chaos

The bikers were out in force; mating, inspecting machines, and riding in, out, and around the sandpits. Judy wove her way through the mob of men, women, and bikes until she reached the far side where she stopped and said, “Here we are!”

“Which is where?” I dismounted and stared at the biker hordes.

“The Bikers Bi-monthly Bargain Boozeup! The best buys in bikes, booze, and broads. Also grass, spares, customizing— babes or bikes. The last hold-out of unadulterated male chauvinism. Gross in the extreme!” She looked around with evident relish. “It’s nice to find some remnants of the old barbarism still exist.”

“This isn’t the kind of crowd I expected you to—”

“Cram your expectations, Gavin! This gang are totally irresponsible! They don’t give a damn about the President’s pleas, about prophets of doom, about the probability there’ll be no tomorrow. This is the swansong of a civilization. And these are people who have the guts to sing!”

“Judy, that’s nonsense. Anyway, why did you come here?” “Because nobody except a biker would dare to come searching through this mob. And most cops are too tight-assed these days to ride bikes. You can dehelmet now. Nobody recognizes anybody without an invitation. Like Sanctuary—or Saturnalia! I used to come here when I was a med student. Too seldom since then!” She had the satisfied air of an old grad at a homecoming. “Let’s go buy you a bike. That Slada’s about your speed. Light enough to go cross-country but fast enough if you wind her up to outrun most things on the road.”

Of all possible futures, becoming a biker again had never entered my prevision. I eyed a gleaming Slada while Judy haggled with its owner. Presently she asked, “Like to try it out on the track? It’s supposed to have only three thousand clicks on the clock. Or maybe you want me to test-ride it before I close with this crook?”

“I’ll test it myself if I’ve got to ride it!” I sat astride and touched the starter.

The Slada started sweetly and went well. Almost too well, for after a few cautious turns around the impromptu test track I opened the throttle as I had in the past and my front wheel climbed into the air. I completed part of the circuit with it still up, steering with desperate body-English in a controlled panic reaction. After that near miss I made several cautious circuits, trying to look as if I was listening for pis-ton-slap but actually gaining time for my pulse to drop back to near normal before I returned to Judy.

The design of motorbikes had plateaued in the last decade of the twentieth century. There was not much left to be done. A good bike had the best power-weight ratio of any roadworthy vehicle. If there had been tires to grip a bike could have raced up a vertical wall. Japanese engineers had produced a near-perfect machine, a superb example of engineering elegance, unmatched efficiency, and with the lethal potential of a ground-to-ground missile.

When my heart and breathing had steadied I coasted the Slada back to where Judy was watching with an expression of mixed approval, surprise, and chagrin. “Gavin—that was an unnecessary bit of showoffery. This is no time for risk-taking!”

I had been about to apologize for letting the bike get away from me, but sank in a surge of adolescent pride. “Just seeing what she’ll do!”

A bearded beer-bellied brute who had been adjusting the triple carbs on a machine that looked like several generations of Guzzi-DKW-Harley cross-breeding, joined the conversation. “That was as pretty a wheel-up as I’ve seen today.” He scowled at Judy. “Slap that chick back if she’s uppity. It’s what she really wants. They like it!” And he returned to adjusting his carburetors with the care of a first-violinist tuning his instrument.

I moved back from the expected explosion and winced when Judy laughed. “See what I mean? Last hold-out of the hogs this side Georgia! But they care about what they’re doing and they want to do things right. That’s enough to make me love ’em.” She pulled on her helmet and went astride her Yama. “Now—let’s go!” She roared her motor and was away across the rough ground, standing up on her rests and waving me to follow.

Beer-belly yelled, “Slap her down when you catch her!” I grinned despite myself, got the Slada started, and took off after the bouncing seat of Judy’s tight jumpsuit. God knows what role she was playing now or where she was leading me. For the moment I was happy to admire and be led.

When she reached the hardtop she waited for me and waved toward a cluster of bikers warming up before taking off. “We’ll join that squadron!” she yelled. “Now we’re criminals we might as well get the benefits!” And the whole gang roared away before she had time to explain.

About twenty kilometers outside Frederick I realized the reason for her maneuver. There was a police roadblock and at least a hundred automobiles were lined up with the cops checking the papers of the occupants in each car. The leading bikers simply swooped over onto the shoulder or out into the opposite lane, weaving among cursing drivers and shouting policemen. One bike skidded and the rider went sprawling. The cops rushed to grab him. The rest of the gang swerved past the roadblock and then, without any apparent order, half a dozen, including Judy, circled back to harrass the police while the fallen biker grabbed his machine and got away to yells of triumph.

Criminal behavior, antisocial in the extreme. Why so exhilarating when it represented everything decadent about our society? I had no answer by the time dusk came, the mob split up, and Judy turned off the highway to park behind a barn.

I joined her as she took off her helmet and shook out her glorious hair. “Those cops were after us,” she said. “They’ll probably have stake-outs on all motels. We’re pretty important people apparently. But they’ll be looking for two crooks on one bike—though I’ll bet they’ll assume we’re acting our age and have got ourselves an automobile.”

She was probably right. Even if I had been hunting us I doubt I would have considered that we might have acquired a second bike and were riding together. Riding to where?

She waved toward the barn. “Want to join me in the hay?” “It’s a warm night,” I agreed.

“Then bring in your bike. No lights. I’ve got some iron rations in my panniers.”

We wheeled the bikes into the sweet-smelling warmth of the barn and sat side by side in the darkness chewing hardtack. Presently she put her head on my shoulder. “Gavin.” “Yes?”

“Today should have been the worst of my life. I thought we’d had it half-a-dozen times. I thought you’d gone crazy and about to get yourself killed and me flogged. I discovered that those bastards who control Sherando are making a deal with the devil. I’ve behaved like the worst kind of hooligan. But I’ve felt more alive than I have in years.”

I put my arm round her. “My crazy spell is gone for good. Sherando can have Futrell, and he can have Sherando. He can have the whole goddamn United States for all I care. He’ll go to hell with the rest of us.”

“But we’re not going to hell,” said Judith. “We’re going to Sutton Settlement. At least I hope you are.” She reached up to touch my cheek. “Gav, I would have married you if only that sanctimonious bastard Anslinger hadn’t ordered me to.” “Judy, I wouldn’t have married you anyway.” I kissed her. The kiss turned into an embrace. Horses and motorbikes are powerful aphrodisiacs and Judy had felt the effect as much as I had. Presently she whispered, “Gav—remember my promise? Any time, any way?”

“To hell with that! What matters is your time, your way!” “Is it?” She kissed me. “Then how about now?” And she began to unzip her jumpsuit.