Seagn found herself knocking on the back of a truck that Moose was staying in. The Sidewinders had not stopped, and were in the process of singing “Viva Las Vegas” for the seventh time. Moose opened the door. “They’re your friends.” “They’re not my friends.” “You brought them here.” “They came here on their own!
Someone banging on the truck woke Seagn up. “What?” she yelled, pulling the sheet over her head. “Someone out here to see you,” called Moose. She checked her phone. Six thirty, for God’s sake. “It better not be Webby,” she muttered. “Or I’ll be very disappointed.” She pulled on clothes and opened the door. Moose
An hour later, everything closed down except the bars along the the beach. Moose and Joe came over. Maggie was no where to be seen. “Where’s Maggie?” “She got her period,” said Joe. “She’s back at the Ranch.” Seagn rolled her eyes. “It’s not like having your period is a sickness.” “With her it is.”
It was dark when Seagn finally got to Maine, so she had to pick her way to the road leading to the Ranch. Landmarks weren’t clear in the headlights of the truck, and she found herself going down a couple of dirt tracks that ended in a house or a decrepit barn. She went down
Like Salem was a mecca for witches of all sorts, Laconia was the same for bikers. Seagn could tell as they pulled into the city limits. Motorcycle shops, repair shops, gift stores were everywhere. “A themed tourist trap, like Salem,” said Seagn, as she followed the line of bikers slowly down the street. Gray broke
The Motel 6 was a testament to its brand. Just a step above flea-bitten, but way below the Hiltons of the world. Located near the Outlets in Kittery, it catered to the touristy crowd or people who were to inebriated to get out of the Outlet restaurant territory and go home. They played Rock-paper-scissors to
Seagn pulled into the farm and got out of the truck. Tilly greeted her again. “Hey, puppy, where’s your pa?” Tilly didn’t seem to care where his owner was, as he was happy enough to roll on the ground in front of Seagn, exposing his belly for her to scratch. Seagn finally stopped, and the
Moose seemed to like classic rock, so switched the stations, gaining and losing them as they moved through zones. Seagn missed satellite radio, where she could listen to No Shoes Radio, modern and some classic country. “Where are you from, anyway?” asked Seagn about ten miles out. “Manville,” he said. “Rhode Island.” “Is that where you