I-70 Cont.

Or anyway, it sounded like a car. What appeared was a motorcycle, or what passed for one these days. A little dull red paint clung to the tank, the rest of the frame coated with rust. The rider was barely distinguishable underneath layers of riding jackets, blankets, and a pre-war military helmet. Jack stopped to stare.
Vehicles weren’t unheard of, but still pretty rare. It wasn’t so much the hardware as it was the gasoline. That was one of the first things to be horded as the war came to a peak. It actually worked, sort of. There hadn’t been any crude refined in the States in more than five years, but there were still stores of it here and there. As rare as it was, the only time vehicles were used was when something pretty important came up. A courier, maybe?
The bike chugged to a stop a few feet in front of him. In retrospect, maybe he should have hid… oh, right, desert. The rider removed his – her – helmet, with a flourish of red hair. She was surprisingly pale – from a bunker? She gestured him closer.

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