Defiled by the Biker Gang

Twigs and dried leaves crack beneath my heavy boots.

This might’ve been a bad idea.

My lungs expand, gasping for air as I labor beneath the forest canopy. Emerald leaves hang high above, allowing sparse beams of light to rain down on the underbrush. This is a scene of serenity, but a hidden sense of unease saturates the air. There’s absolute stillness here. No wind. No birds.

Only emptiness.

Where have all the animals gone? Are they avoiding this place?

I thought a solo backpacking trip through the Appalachian Mountains would be the perfect way to spend my summer. I just finished my first year of college, and I’ve been eager to get away from the high-stress world of campus life. A bit of an introvert, nature has always been my sanctuary. Nothing beats a quiet afternoon hidden in the bushes while birdwatching. Seeing colorful wings fluttering against the sky never fails to soothe me. It pulls me away from modern society and connects my mind to a primal, long-forgotten past.

But I’ve overestimated myself.

The backpack bears down on my shoulders, causing sweat to pour from my sunburned face. My damp hair is matted with dirt and debris. My body reeks of filth. This was supposed to be a months-long journey, but I’m ready to give up after only a couple weeks. The terrain is rough and unforgiving, and my supplies are running low.

I drop my things and extract my map. My planned route is traced in red marker, with resupply points clearly marked. It looks like I won’t reach the next town along the trail for another couple days. I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it that long with my current inventory.

I scan for any towns off the main trail. Just west of here, a tiny dot labeled “WEEPING PINES” indicates civilization. I’ve heard warnings about leaving the trail. This is a deeply isolated part of America and it’s unfriendly to outsiders. These towns are filled with families who’ve lived here for generations, and they rarely see visitors.

It’s not like I have a choice though. Hell, maybe I can find a room to rent. Some hikers think that’s cheating, but I’d give anything for a warm bath.

Staring at my compass, I hoist my pack onto my back and turn off the trail, entering the unknown. There are stories here about “trail magic”. It refers to unexpected acts of kindness from strangers encountered in nature—people who provide supplies and shelter to hikers during the grueling journey. My interactions with others have been limited so far, but maybe I’m on the cusp of some magic of my own. Maybe the people I’ll find here will be filled with kindness. Maybe they’ll help me on my journey—like guardian angels.

I envision a picturesque American town nestled high in the mountains, but this idyllic image quickly vanishes. I step from the tree line and into a clearing. A cracked asphalt road stretches up ahead, winding past a small motel before running through town. The dilapidated, bleached frame of the motel looms like a decaying elephant carcass. If it weren’t for the people loitering in the parking lot, I’d have assumed the building was abandoned. Paint on the siding has peeled away, revealing patches of weathered wood. Several windows are pierced and cracked—are those bullet holes? A towering neon sign reading “WEEPING PINES MOTEL” has been stained by years of rain damage. I doubt the bulbs even still work. I wouldn’t want to be here at night to find out though.

But whatever. Even a trashy old mattress will be better than sleeping outdoors again.

I step into the parking lot, drawing the attention of roughly a dozen men loitering near the entrance. Gruff and bulky, they turn their harsh eyes toward me. They all wear sleeveless leather jackets with “Sons of Liberty” embroidered on the back. Below the text is an image of an eagle with a dead rabbit clutched in its beak.

Cigarette smoke and gasoline fumes assault my nose as I walk past the group. The parking lot is filled with motorcycles—this is a biker gang. Metal studs are affixed to their black jackets, gleaming in the sun and matching the chrome bars of their vehicles. Their wrinkled faces are obscured by sunglasses and unkempt beards, but I can still detect a level of aggression as they scowl.

Ugh. So much for “trail magic”.

“A boy like you shouldn’t be here.” One of the bikers steps forward and blocks my path.

He removes his sunglasses, and I stare up into a pair of bloodshot blue eyes. His wrinkled, leathery skin signals a life of hardship. His dense gray beard exudes a sense of wisdom. Tattoos depicting skulls and spiders trace up his muscular arms, highlighting the athleticism of his physique. Goddamn—this guy is old enough to be my grandfather, but he’s more muscular than I’ll ever be. He has a body most college dudes would envy. Despite the intimidating build, he possesses a calming sense of authority that draws me toward him.

I feel myself relaxing as I stare up into those blue eyes…

“I’m…looking for a room…” My voice grows quiet and dazed.

This feels like a bad idea. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t belong around these men.

“What’s your name, son?” A crooked smirk forms on his lips. “I’m Gabe.”

“I’m Dakota.” I force out the reply while another biker steps in close.

“Gabe, be nice to him. He’s like a lost kitten—you can see it in his eyes,” he says.

“Shut up, Phoenix,” Gabe glares at him.

Phoenix is younger than Gabe. His beard is thick and dark like chocolate, stretching down toward his chest and frizzing at the tips. His eyes are a gentle shade of brown, perfectly matching his shaggy locks. Like Gabe, he sports bulky, heavily tattooed arms. Belly fat bulges from his jacket though, giving him a pudgy aesthetic. He reminds me of a powerlifter—dense, meaty, and built like a brick house.

“C-can I please go inside?” My heart rate accelerates as other gang members remove their sunglasses, squinting at me with curiosity.

“Can you pay?” Gabe reaches out and grabs my chin, forcing me to look up while my muscles tense. “Our gang owns this motel. We don’t have time for vagrant boys like you.”

My eyes widen. It suddenly dawns on me how trashy I must look. I bet I smell like shit.

“B-backpacker…” I force the word out.

“He’s wandered away from the trail.” Phoenix smirks. “He needs a place to rest.”

“Like a calf who’s been abandoned by the herd.” Gabe’s voice grows low and quiet. “He can’t take care of himself. He needs to be adopted.”

Several of the bikers begin laughing.

“P-please! I can pay!” My jaw trembles in his rough, dirty hand.

“Alright, Dakota. We’ll let you stay in our motel—and we won’t even charge you. Hell, we’ll even show you around town.”

“R-really?!” My eyes widen.

“Yep. Get rested up, and we’ll stop by tonight. We’ll take you to the hottest bar in town. We’ll show you something you’ll never forget.”

“It’s the *only* bar in town,” Phoenix cuts in.

“Whatever, you get the idea.” Gabe releases my chin.

“T-thanks!” I give him a weak smile.

“You bet. Now go get cleaned up. You smell like ass.”