Chapter 11

Beyond the bar, there is a convenient store and a gas station and the lights in these places are actually on. Which means people are still awake. Which means there's actually hope for us. No warning alarms go off, not even as we near the bar and the music reaches my ear and the guys in the front look to be smoking a suspicious looking cigarette.  It's not until my eyes roam over the collection of Harvey Davidson's that I realize this is a biker bar. A biker bar?  It seems so cliche if you ask me. A biker bar. Out in the middle of nowhere. My god, if this doesn't scream trouble, I don't know what does.  I didn't even know biker's existed until now. Bikers were a thing of the past, weren't they? Apparently not. For some reason, as we walked into the bar, I expected to see men clad in leather jackets and bandannas and perhaps some beards and tattoos, but all I find is some middle-aged men in flannel. Perhaps they didn't get