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The tiny postapocalyptic biker gang sets up a series of tiny settlements across the south belly of the desert, and no, a couple of them don’t make it through summer, but over time the rest struggle into some sort of establishment. They clash over borders with the six-eyed naked bear tribes, but eventually the bike raiders beat them back to the treeline. They begin to sustain each other.

Tatters is always busy, queuing up buildings and balancing food harvest against production, trying to start a decent school. He hasn’t ridden in five years. He still oils his gun every night.


The tiny postapocalyptic biker gang buries Patch under a pile of stones not far off the highway, wearing his chaps and shotgun, the way he would have wanted. Tatters gets his bike.

“You’re a man now,” explains Rackham gruffly. “You ride midpack. You carry your share and when we raid, you’re out there with us, gun oiled and clean. You understand?”

Tatters nods, trying not to itch his nascent mustache.

At night, encamped, he smears aloe on his neck and listens to the soft steady click of the Geiger on his lanyard. The moon whirls above him, stippled in 255 colors.