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    Bikers Don’t Use Brakes
     
    The car slowed without her letting up on the gas. This strange phenomenon brought Sonya Evans back to the here and now. She had been pondering her upcoming freelance assignment and considering what fresh angle she could use to write about the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta. The indicators on her instrument panel all seemed to be dropping, and the air conditioner was no longer pumping out coolness. Her radio cut out in the middle of a song. She checked her gas gauge and tried pushing harder on the pedal, but the car just continued to lose speed. Unsure what else to do, she pulled over to the side of the highway.
     
    It wasn’t a major highway, but her GPS had directed her to this route. Turning her head to take in her surroundings, she admired the desolate beauty of the rose-colored desert, but gulped when she realized that she could see no signs of civilization. Busy conjuring up descriptors for hot air balloons, she hadn’t even noticed whether or not there was any traffic. There must have been some, but she couldn’t recall any details. Also, she hadn’t taken note of road signs showing the nearest community.
     
    Sonya rolled down her window and was thankful that the car didn’t have electric windows because it didn’t seem to have any power. The heat hit her at about the same time as the silence. The lack of sound pressed in on her. She couldn’t ever remember experiencing anything like it. It was disorienting. She really was adrift in a lonely spot, she thought, and then pulled out her phone to determine her location and figure out how far away help could be.
     
    Debating whether the car would be hotter with the window open or closed, she heard the welcome sound of a vehicle approaching. She let out a deep breath that she hadn’t realized she was holding. The noise of motors multiplied into a deep rumble that seemed to echo from every direction. Then they were upon her.
     
    A long line of black-clad helmeted men on motorcycles filled her vision where moments before had been an empty stretch of road. Instinctively, she rolled up her window and locked her door. She ducked her head and without being obvious, watched the parade of about a dozen roaring vehicles power by her. She exhaled loudly again when they were past. Not the kind of roadside assistance she had been hoping for. Strangely though, they put her in mind of warriors off to do battle. Though, who the enemy was, she wasn’t sure. Not her, she hoped.
     
    Sonya turned to her phone and, using her GPS app, determined that the town of Elkington should be about twenty minutes down the road in the direction the bikers had gone. Then she attempted to locate a garage in that community.  While she was searching the business listings, a rusty white pickup truck came from the direction of the town and pulled up in front of her car. Two men climbed out of the cab and sauntered back towards her. Both wearing grimy grey wife-beaters, the bearded one was holding a beer in his hand and slapping the other on the shoulder. His leering grin showed gaps where teeth were missing. Help or harm? She gripped her phone and tried to make a snap decision.
     
    Before she could decide whether to roll down her window to thank them for stopping or dial 911, the throbbing of a motorcycle halted the men’s progress. One of the bikers had turned around and come back. He, too, pulled off the highway and parked his bike behind her car. Now she was truly trapped. Though it wasn’t like the car would go anywhere anyway. Were the three men in cahoots, she had time to wonder before the man in black strode past her window towards the other two.
     
    He stopped beside her front fender and stood still without saying anything. A crest showing a stylized bird with flaming wings was centered on the back of his black leather vest.  Hellbirds, Sonya read the word stitched in red below the picture.   The bearded man took a step back before he said,