Marisa squeezed her thighs around the chassis, opened the throttle, and felt the thunder of 2000cc’s of power course through her petite frame. The chrome on her Harley flashed daggers of light as she passed mile upon mile of sandy highways, parched barrens, and distant glimpses of mountains.

The hog’s fuel gauge read 1/4 tank when she pulled into the abandoned Amoco station. The horizon radiated electric orange. She unstrapped the shotgun from her back, unzipped the pocket of her black-leather jacket, pulled out two shotgun shells. She rolled them between her fingers like precious jewels, staring down at the brass tips and red-plastic casings for several seconds. She shoved them down the neck of her gun in a smooth arc.

Her hair was a rat’s nest of windblown tangles and knots, but she didn’t seem to notice. Other thoughts occupied her mind — food, sleep, being hunted. Foremost on her mind at this moment was gasoline, the life blood that kept her hog alive and precious distance between her and her pursuers.