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Instead of the older, leather-clad and long grey-haired passengers that Rick so often associated with the sound, he instead saw young riders, two to a bike, their heads shaved bald or short and their exposed skin covered with ink. None of the riders wore helmets, though they all had makeshift bandoleers with ammunition on the front and rifles and shotguns on the back. Their style of dress seemed to be as much of a statement as it was a uniform—blue jeans and white or grey wife beaters and unzipped jackets that weren’t doing much to combat the cold. They pulled close to the Harry S. Truman building across the street and stopped, then the leader got off of his motorcycle, grabbed his shotgun and looked around. “All right! Looks like those assholes decided to finally move on, so they won’t be giving us trouble any more. Spread out and get to searching for supplies! We meet back here in twenty!”
“They must be talking about Recker’s men. Damn!” Rick hissed to himself as he pressed up against the wall and slunk into a crouch, watching as the dozen riders spread out, weapons in hand, as half of them went towards the Truman building and the other half began meandering towards the general direction of Navy Hill. While the locked gate would slow them down, it wouldn’t stop them, and Rick knew that if they wanted to get into the compound they could do so in a very short amount of time. Outmanned and outgunned, Rick racked his brain, furiously trying to figure out what to do before he, Dr. Evans and Jane were spotted.
