FifteenI took a deep breath and shouted, “Warren!” He didn't flinch, so I used the name I'd secretly christened him with, “Biker – Biker, wake up!”
If the sound of my voice had worked in rousing him, it may have stopped one of the wild men rushing forward to strike me across the face with the back of his hand. The blow stung my eyes and I snapped my head towards him, glaring. This close up I could smell his stinking breath, peer into those twisted, gnarled features – a face of someone sub-human, without conscience, a primitive. I recoiled at the sight.
Beside me, Warren groaned. I turned to him and, not wishing to receive another blow, waited for him to raise his head and look at me. He grinned.
“Having fun?”
I sneered, “Who the hell are these people?”
“Remnants. Survivors. Call them
