The sun was shinning through the window again when I woke, I could see the dust filling the room, the sun reflecting off of every single speck. I reached over and poured the last of the water out of the pitcher, now lukewarm and with a film of dust, to be fair, in the past week... I'd had worse. I gulped the last mouthful, before jumping to my feet. I could feel the pressure of my bladder, when had I last pissed? Still aching, but now at least able to walk, I made it over to the door of the bathroom. It was... Well used... But clean at least. The wood panelling was fading and scuffed, and the dark green wall paper was beginning to peel, but begets can't be choosers. I shuffled over, pulled myself out, and let it flow. I scratched my beard with my free hand, before yawning and stretching the free arm out brushing the dry, peeling wall with my still dry and rough fingertips. Finishing up, I washed my hands at the basin and slowly walked back into the bedroom. I noticed that a clean set of clothes had been laid over the back of a chair in the room. There was a lime green 'Mountain Dew' tshirt, my ragged black jeans, sturdy boots, a red flannel shirt and underwear. I dressed... Slowly, fumbling with buttons, my hands still trembling and unsure. I was tying my boots as I heard a board near the door creak. I looked up... There was Doc, in his Kutte. He smiled at me. "It's good to see your looking better, man... Come grab a drink" he said, that caring, yet haunted look in his eyes. I followed him through a long hallway, and through a set of saloon doors into the large bar area. There was a full sized pool table, a poker table, a renovated 50s jukebox and a scattering of chairs and tables. The bar was about 3 metres long, polished dark wood. It had 8 beer pumps, none I recognised, they looked like craft beers to me. Spirits and optics lined the wall behind, framing a large mirror. I got the first look of myself in 3 weeks, my beard was wild, my hair grown out. I could see that I had lost weight, my face looked gaunt. The bags under my eyes were dark and pronounced... I was a mess. As I stared at myself, Doc poured me a light amber beer, and passed it across to me. It was ice cold and tasted like nothing I'd tasted before. "What is this?... It's great" I asked, taking another sip. I placed the glass down onto the bar, and pulled up a stool. "It's called 'Permanent Revolution'... The clubs own brew. We get it shipped In from the charter in Connecticut." He answered, pouring one for himself before leaning onto the bar. Outside I could hear the engines roaring, same as the day before. They were getting closer, thundering din, reverberating off of the large formations that surrounded the clubhouse... For that is what I had worked out it was, and I was about to meet the men that called it home...

With his arm under mine, he helped me off of the Bike. We began the walk toward the bar. It seemed like an eternity, every step feeling like a #lifetime as my mind struggled to comprehend my change of condition. For days now it had been used to sickness, emptiness, solitude and focused on survival. Now it was almost exploding with information, as synapses sparked, new Ida's, old contemplations, questions, so many questions. My inner monologue began to take form, and eventually it became clearer and more articulated. Where am I? Who is this? Friend or foe? It wasn't until he kicked the door open, and we moved from the evening sunlight, into the dark, dusty interior that I could finally manage to speak. "W-where are we?" I asked, fighting at it was the most pressing issue. The who? The why? That could wait, for now... I needed the where. "You are in Arizona, about 30 miles from the nearest thing to a city, it's July 12th 2014, and this is our club house..." He said, straining a little as my entire wait pulled on an obviously injured shoulder. It was of course an old injury, but still, despite my 6 months shying away from civilisation and my week long fever, I wasn't exactly light. With a thud, he drooped me into a large double bed, covered with Native American blankets and an old duvet. My head found out self on a lumpy pillow, but to me it felt like a cloud after weeks of sleeping on the cold hard ground, I was glad of this little bit of comfort. I closed my eyes as he left the room. My mind was racing again... Everything he had said added up, right time, right place, the only thing that had puzzled me was the "our" who was this guy? Who were these people? These questions haunted me as I drifted off into a deep sleep, the deepest I had experienced in weeks. I awoke to the sound of several engines, followed by booted footsteps, maybe half a dozen by my reckoning. Stretching out, I took a deep breath in and released. My heart jumped as I looked down and realised that my clothes where gone, and I was wearing a pair of clean blue boxer shorts. I ran a finger through my hair and shouted. "What the fuck have you do e to me?". This was met my a roomful of laughter and the stranger appearing at the door. "You where covered in dirt and sweat. Plus. You stank! So I stripped you down and gave you a bed wash...Something I learned to do in the field hospital... I found a pair of clean underwear, and them on you....You were out for the count, I wanted you to wake up comfortable" he explained, a friendly smile on his face. His appearance had changed slightly, he was still in full regalia, but now he had a branded beer apron,a white towel over one shoulder and a pair of wire framed glasses sitting on his oft broken nose. "I'm Jimmy by the way... But the Guys call me 'doc' he added, whipping his wet hands on the cloth and once again smiling at me. He smiled a lot, that was slightly un-nerving... But I figured if he had wanted to hurt me... He'd have done it by now. "Alex...my name is Alex" I forced out... Before dropping down from the elbow that had been propping me up. Doc reached behind the doorway and picked up a large pitcher filled with water and ice, and a single red solo cup. He loaves it on the table beside the bed, ruffled my hair and wordlessly walked out of the room...

I must have passed out again, because the next thing I can remember is looking up at a rough looking man, about my height, with shoulder length black hair and a thick beard, a smell patch of white under his chin. He had scars on both cheeks, and a node that looked like it had been broken more than I Cared to imagine. There was a serious, stern even, but friendly look on his face, as he slapped lightly at my red hot cheek. "Hey... You alright there?" Hey said, in a strained, aged voice. You could see by the look in his eyes that this man had seen and done things that he would take to the grave. He was not a happy man, yet he seemed compassionate. Once my eyes had adjusted, and my breathing settled, I smiled at him. He had no Idea just how much his stopping would effect me. "I'm sick man... I need meds" I managed. My throat was dry, and bleeding. I could taste the iron on the back of my tongue. As my thoughts started to finally began to settle, I looked him up and down. He was about 6'4" with striking green eyes, and thick arms, covered with tattoos. I spotted a few skulls, a pin up, an eagle and a welcome sight, a hammer and sickle. This guy was no nazi. I'd been brought up to hate fascism, but my run in with a skinhead gang a month previously had made me even more weary. The guy took a canteen from his bike and poured the water into my my mouth. I swallowed greedily and watched as he knelt next to me and smiled again. "I don't know why you are out here? Or how you ended up like this? But I'm not about to leave you to rot... You think you can handle the ride back to my place?" He asked, placing a callused, workers hand onto my own. I nodded in agreement and shivered as the fever twisted the proverbial knife. I could feel that heat from the sun on my face, but inside I was cold as ice and aching from the sickness. He helped me to my feet, this mysterious saviour, and together we got me onto the back of the bike. My head lolled as I watched him strap my pack to the back. I could feel the bike sink with our combined weight on top of its pristine black and chrome body. A beautiful Harley Davidson, with learner tassels and saddlebags. American Iron as they like to call it. Before I could protest, and with a swift kick, the engine burst into ice and we were off, heading down the blacktop, heading for the horizon, chasing the now almost setting sun. Cacti and rock formations that had seemed to be so solid and substantial to me over the last week, soon melted into a blur as we thundered down this lost desert road... I feel myself drift in and out of consciousness as we travel, my eyes transfixed by the colours on the back of this guys leather kutte. Again, I cannot tell if minutes or hours have passed, but I'm shocked out of my haze as the engine cuts out, and we come to a stop outside of a large wooden building, one side lined the bikes, the other with tables and chairs. It's clear that nothing had been done to maintain the place since Bush was in power, but there was a strange charm to the place, the neon on the window, and soft blasting from a radio gave it an inviting energy. Was I home?

"I am lost and alone, my mind scattered, my body broken... I'm 22 years old, and the red sand of the desert bellow me is beginning to stick to my back, as the cold sweat from the fever that has been my constant companion for the past week pools... Beside me lies my rucksack, containing all of my worldly possessions. It's a simple green canvas backpack, dark brown leather straps. I don't need much anymore, not out here, not on my own. So all it contains is two flannel shirts, 3 pairs of boxer shorts, 4 odd socks, a small survival pack (housed in an ancient cigar box) and 4 books, well read, Along with some food and a large canvas sheet and a sleeping bag, my shelter. On my person, I have the clothes I stand up (or in this sorry case, lay down in) a small leather wallet containing a few dollars in change, and a photo of a girl I knew long a go, and my knife, with a blade about 4 inches long, serrated the final inch. And that is me, all that I am, all that I have. I'm staring up at the sky above me, watching the birds sore, knowing that soon they will begin to circle, because they know, as well as I do, that the end is nye... I passed out, minutes could have passed? Hours? I could not be sure. The sun is still besting down, the birds I was following with my eyes, now a memory. Gone but not forgotten. Rolling over on to my stomach, I could see the road ahead, slightly raised, a black ribbon across the arid red wasteland that surrounded me. It could not have been half a mile away, but every muscle in my body ached at the thought of it. I needed to get there, that road meant water, it meant food, ultimately it meant salvation. By this point, it had been two weeks since I had last seen another human being, three since I had interacted with anyone. My cross country oddessey been running for 6 months, and already it had changed me. I wish I had been more carful, I know that I could have lasted longer if I hadn't eaten that fucking bird, I knew it was cooked right, but still it could be the end of me. I'd prepared it right, just as I had been shown, maybe it wasn't cooked enough? After two days of sickness... I didn't care about the how or the why... I just needed to get out if this hell hole and back to strength, before I could get back on track, I had bigger fish to fry, as they say, bigger mountains to climb in my quest for the ultimate prize. That was my drive, that is what would get me out of the desert, back into the belly of the beast. Reaching out, without really thinking... I grabbed my bag, and pulled myself up onto it, wincing as my leg muscles flared in protest. In the heat of the midday sun, I got myself to my feet, put the bag over my shoulder and walked, one step at a time, toward the road. My skin was drum tight, where it was not cracked, after what was now 2 days without protection. The pain I was in had to be put aside, if I was going to survive this, I needed to focus on my goal, think of precious little else. Thanks to my time away from society, there was very little I cared for besides myself, and those I loved... No sports teams, no reality tv, no political vote rigging or religious genocide. Yes it was selfish, but I craved this emptiness in order to truly find myself. I was sick of the media fetishising celebrity, whitewashing political debate and dictating our wants and needs. Finally after staggering for what felt like hours, I felt the ground beneath me get smoother, and smoother, until I felt a lip, and the think blacktop sprawled ahead of me. A simple two way highway, with faded paint lines, and a pot whole that I could fit my head into. I was there, I had made it to the road. I felt a wave of euphoria as I realised that I was going to be okay, now it was simply a case of sitting, and waiting. Sure, it could take hours for a vehicle to pass, but it would come..."