"Milsbury, 5CM," said Moriarty, as they stood on the side of the road. The roadsign was wooden, like Pangaw's, but it looked better. It looked as if it had been built by a carpenter, and the directions were burned on with a steady, accurate hand. There was even an arrow drawn below, indicating that the town was straight on. It was early evening, and Moriarty felt the sun bearing down on his face, having a glorious last stand before it left them for the night. The highway was surrounded by sparse green trees and lush grass.

"Where else would it be?" queried Fring flatly, running his finger over the arrow. "Travellers will know it's this direction. They just came from Pangaw, or the bypass. Seems…redundant to me."

"You're nitpicking," Moriarty replied casually, brushing the dust from his trousers. "The arrow was probably just an artistic choice."

Fring nodded, and headed back towards the car. He climbed into the passenger seat, and Moriarty jumped into the driver's seat after him. He stuck the Allan key into the ignition, pedalled, and the car responded with a vicious coughing and spluttering. The sound was unlike anything made by a car on earth, and it made Moriarty realise how different the engine of these bizarre vehicles must have been. The car moved, but slowly, crawling along the road at a weak, pathetic pace. Moriarty jumped out of the car with a growled curse. Fring followed him.

"What is it?" he asked, anxiously.

"Whatever it is, it's dogged us since we left Pangaw," Moriarty replied. "Not this bad, but the car was giving me some serious resistance before we stopped."

"Do you suppose Van Kreike sabotaged it? To stop us getting further?"

"Doubt it," he replied. He scanned the side of the vehicle and noticed a rusted metal flap, that he took to be the petrol cap. It was much larger than that of an earth car, and he opened it with some difficulty. He peered inside the large opening, and groaned softly.

"What is it?" Fring demanded.

"Would you believe…we're out of fucking petrol?" Moriarty said, through gritted teeth. "Stupid! Stupid! The driver's seat doesn't have a fuel gage, but I should have refulled before we left! Idiot! You're an idiot, Jim, an idiot!"

Fring ignored this display of self-debasement. "This is as much the car's failing as yours," he said, in a sympathetic tone that did not suit him. "It's a ridiculous shortcoming. How are people supposed to know they're out of gas if their vehicle doesn't have a fuel gage?"

"They probably wait until the thing starts to cough and splutter," said Moriarty. "Maybe they're accustomed to checking the tank every few miles? Our dead friend could have been coming to Pangaw to gas up."

"Perhaps," said Fring. "That doesn't matter. Four miles to Milsbury…I certainly don't intend to walk that once it becomes pitch-black. There aren't a lot of lights over this stretch of the highway."

"We can camp out here tonight," he replied. "Tomorrow, one of us walks into town, the other stays here with the car. No one wants a double carjacking."

"Alright," he said, giving a short chuckle. Moriarty jumped back in the car, using the last of its juice to bring it off the road. Fring started to collect some fallen branches from the trees that were dotted along the highway. Thankfully, they had not had any rain (did rain happen in this new world? He hadn't seen it, but he assumed so) so the firewood was bone-dry. He started to gather it, and Moriarty joined him in his task. They made a large pile of dry branches and sticks, tearing out the long grass around the pile to stop the fire spreading once it started.

"I'm not much of a woodsman, Jim," said Fring. "Do you know how to start a fire by rubbing sticks together."

"That's not exactly how it works," said Moriarty. You take a large log, a small, firm stick, you carve a divot, and you rotate it – fast – until it catches fire."

"That sounds exactly like rubbing sticks together. How do we carve a divot?"

"With this," said Moriarty. He walked over to the car, opened the driver's door and retrieving something. He strode back over to the fire, and in his hand was a large, machete-like knife.

"Where on earth did you get that?" asked Fring, alarmed.

"I stole it from that copper Jay as we walked back to the car. Right out of his belt loop."

"Are you insane?" Fring demanded. "What if he'd found you out? We'd be in jail now!"

"Trust me, I've picked the pockets of much cleverer people. That idiot wouldn't have noticed if I ripped it off his belt and disembowelled him with it. And believe me, that was exactly what I wanted to do."

"Why do you do these things?" Fring asked. "You almost seem to enjoy these…acts of yours. You didn't just kill that man because it was a necessity. You relished it. I could tell."

"Everything I do is for fun, Gus," said Moriarty. "Everything. Look at me…I'm one of the smartest people in the world. For the millions I made as the Napoleon of crime, I could have made trillions if I used my talents to start a legitimate business. But I've never even considered that, because it wouldn't be fun. Yes, Gus, I like hurting people. Stealing from them, torturing them, and yes, killing them. It makes me happy!" His voice had an insane edge to it, but then his tone softened. "Besides, we couldn't carve a divot with our bare hands."

With surgical precision, he took a large log, and carved a divot in its centre with the stolen knife. He worked carefully for around two minutes, before blowing sawdust away and admiring his handiwork. He took a thin stick and, pressing it together in the palms of his hands, started to rub it against the divot. He attacked the job, rubbing until he felt friction burn his palm. After ten minutes of consistent, fast rubbing, a spark appeared, and turned into a flame.

"What an outdoorsman," said Fring, holding a pile of branches over the fire so they would catch. The fire grew quickly, and they both took unused logs and sat on them, warming their hands. A silence set in, and around ten minutes later, the sun set properly, casting the woods and the highway in darkness apart from the dim light of the fire.

"I think dinner's out of the question," said Moriarty, to break the silence. He hunched over the fire, feeling the heat. "I haven't seen any animals around, and even if there were, I don't know how to build an effective trap. All I've got is my knife, and to be honest, I've got neither the energy nor the desire to go chasing rabbits around the woods at night."

"I thought you loved killing things," said Fring, dryly.

"Not if I have to spend a night chasing them around in the pitch black," he replied. "Once we get the car fuelled up tomorrow, we'll grab breakfast in Milsbury. "

"That sounds fine." Fring leaned further into the fire, trying to feel its warmth. His body was relaxed, and although it was early in the night, he looked as if he could drop off and go to sleep.

Suddenly, his features tensed. His ears pricked up, and he suddenly looked very intense. Moriarty looked at his sudden paranoid transition with bewilderment, but then he realised the why of it. About a mile down, in the direction of Pangaw, there was the sound of revved engines. There were at least four vehicles travelling in some sort of convoy, and there was no question from the sound that they were heading in their direction.

"Six, minimum," said Fring. "But as many as eight."

"I counted four, but it could be six," he hissed back. "What do you think? Van Kreike? Has he sent a posse after us?"

"I don't know. Should we put the fire out?"

"I don't have the energy to get it restarted. He'll have no trouble seeing us from the embers, anyway."

"Alright."

After around a minute, the convoy drew into view in the darkness, and made a path right for them. Moriarty could make out the vehicles and their riders now. To some, they would be a fearsome sight; they drove motorcycles, but they were motorcycles unlike anything on earth. They most resembled Harley Davidsons, but were almost twice as big – they had the general size of a small car, minus the width. They were misshapen and looked as if they'd been built from scratch, crudely. The riders wore leather jackets that looked as if they had stitched them with the same reckless abandon they had had when they built their bikes. They were a bizarre mix of fat and muscular, mostly pale and sunburned, except for their leader, who was out in front. He was a giant; Moriarty estimated him to be around six foot seven, and he was as wide and muscular as he was tall. He'd done enough arms deals with Afghan hill-warlords to know that ethnically, this man was a Pashtun. He had sharp, keen features, and his hair and beard were dark-brown instead of black. His eyes were blue, and they shone visibly despite the darkness. The bikers pulled up near the campfire, and dismounted. They strode towards the two men, and their Pashtun leader strode up to them with a fierce expression on his face.

"Evening, gentlemen. Walter Salamanca?" he asked, gesturing to Fring. Fring nodded, standing. "John Holmes?" This time Moriarty nodded, and they both stood facing their visitor. They were both taken aback; the man had one of the most bizarre accents they had ever heard. It was nothing that could remotely be expected to be heard in the Khyber Pass, or anywhere on earth. It could only be described as a bizarre mix of Minnesota Nice and valleys Welsh, with strange overtones of French, Polish and Scandinavian. The strangeness of the accent would have made Moriarty laugh if heard elsewhere, but in this situation, there was nothing funny about it.

"Now that we've got that settled, I was wondering if yer'd mind tellin' me what kinda problem you got with the Hessians?" The penny dropped; this strange biker gang were the same group that they had heard so much about. Moriarty felt like he should have figured that as soon as they came into view.

"What are you talking about?" he asked. "Why would we have a problem with you? We've only just arrived in this world."

One of the figures got off his bike and stepped forward. Moriarty recognised him straight away; it was Mark, one of the regulars from the Red Lion. He had a leather jacket on, but the Hessian look certainly didn't suit him. Moriarty realised he must have been some sort of gang mole, taking on a cover as a local man to pass information to the gang.

"They definitely called us the murderers, Road Captain," he said, grimly.

"We did name your gang as the murderers, yes," said Fring.

"Least you admit it," said the huge road captain. "Why?"

"Because we committed the murder, and we needed an easy scapegoat. We assumed a murder would help your highway reputation. We didn't mean you any offence."

The road captain put a large hand on his shoulder, grinning. "You're not wrong, pal. Last time they thought we killed someone, everyone we ambushed on the road was so scared of us they didn't dare fight back. And you don't have any sort of vendetta against us?"

"Not remotely," said Moriarty. "In fact, we were interested in meeting you since we heard of your existence. I think our aims are pretty similar, to be honest."

"You want to join the Hessians?" queried the road captain, sceptically. "I don't know…takes a lot of guts to kill someone, but we don't take everyone. I don't know if youse would be a fit."

"Then maybe we should introduce ourselves properly," Moriarty replied. "Those names we gave the townspeople, those are pseudonyms. Our real names would probably get us thrown in jail if we said them around most people. But if you doubt that we're a match for your gang, then maybe you should hear them. I'm Jim Moriarty, and this is Gustavo Fring."

"Don't mean much to me, I'm afraid," said the road captain. "What about you boyos?"

"I'd take a step back if I were you, RC," said one of the men in the back, in a Brooklyn accent. He was large and fairly suntanned, with a shaved head and a beard. "I heard of both these guys. They're out of our pay-grade. By a fuckin' mile."

"Why'd you wanna ride with us, then?" asked the road captain, sceptically.

"Because I think we can go places together," Fring cut in. "We've got ambitions that go past robbing people on a lonely highway stretch, and we need muscle. If you want to make some serious money, and crack some serious heads, then join us."

The road captain was silent for around a minute, thinking. He clearly didn't know what to make of the two of them, but his fellow member's words had obviously given him food for thought. He turned to the same man and said, "you sure you can vouch for these lads, Jimmy?"

"World class, RC. I don't know how they died, but they're world class."

"Alright," the giant Pashtun replied. "Sounds like a plan to me. Nice to meet you, friends. My name's Mohammed, call me Mo. It's a short ride back to base, so do you wanna jump in your car and follow us? Big boss will wanna see you."

"I thought you were the boss?" asked Moriarty.

"I'm the road captain," he replied. "Big boss is the big boss. You ready to follow us?"

"We're out of gas," said Fring. "That's why we camped out."

"Don't worry, we bring spares when we can. You lucked in." He grabbed a petrol tank which was hung on the back of one of the bikes. It was made of the same heavy metal as the bikes, and instead of a cap, it had a flap that was nailed down. He produced a screwdriver from his pocket, opened the tank, and passed it to Moriarty.

Once the car was fuelled up and running, the bikers took off down the highway. Moriarty drove behind them at a steady pace, amazed at the stroke of luck that had hit them. The Hessians were not, from the looks of things, a serious outfit, but if they could persuade the big boss to get behind them, they would arrive in Nuevo with loyal muscle.

After about one Cadarian Mile, they split off from the highway. There were no more trees, but more green fields. They looked much different to the Elysian Fields, especially in the darkness. They rode across the field, the short grass being trampled under their wheels. After they drove for approximately ten minutes, they saw a dirt path under the car. The gang followed it, and after a while, they saw a light in the darkness. The light belonged to a large wooden bungalow at the end of the path, and was coming from the windows. As they got closer, Moriarty saw around ten more bikes parked in front of the bungalow. The riders stopped, and Moriarty stopped behind them.

"This is the place," said Mo, gesturing for them to follow the gang inside. There was another Hessian keeping watch outside, a short black man with dreadlocks and a moustache. He flashed a friendly smile at Fring and Moriarty, but it had an edge of suspicion to it. Mo threw the doors open, and they saw inside. It was sparsely decorated, looking like the interior of a shack or a log cabin. The wooden wall was not painted, and the furniture looked like it had been built within the space of a few hours. There were chairs scattered around the main area, and several of the Hessians that had not joined in the convoy were sat around, drinking what smelt like heavy liquor from chipped glasses. At the end of the hall was a door; Mo and the others greeted their brothers, and headed over to it. The road captain knocked once and entered.

The small room they had stepped into was an office, of sorts. There was a large desk, which looked like it was made out of balsawood, and chairs on both sides of it. A man sat on the other end of the desk. He was clearly in his seventies, but had energy that defied his years. He wore a leather waistcoat with some abominable Hawaiian-style shirt underneath it. He was bald, and had a sharp expression on his face. He smoked a cigarette through an old-fashioned cigarette holder. He seemed immediately familiar to Moriarty, but he couldn't place him.

"Hey, Mo," he said, in a fast, Kentucky accent that was also immediately recognisable. "Who are these two guys?"

"Messrs Salamanca and Holmes," said Mo, smiling. "Guys, this is the Duke. He's the leader of our little operation."

"Those two guys? I said to rough 'em up and leave 'em where they were, not bring 'em."

"Nah, it's not like that, Duke," said the road captain. Over the course of the next five minutes he explained the circumstances that had led to Fring and Moriarty's presence in the Hessian headquarters. The Duke listened with interest, nodding. When the story was concluded, he regarded the two men with unmasked interest.

"What can I get you fellas?" he asked. His voice was like a machine gun. "We got some whiskey, some vodka, and some rye. And we got stronger stuff. Got some raw ether if it's your thing? Skunk? Got some amyls here fresh from Praxius. Got a hell of a kick."

"Whiskey's fine for me," said Moriarty. Fring politely declined. The Duke presented a bottle from under the desk, filled with an amber liquid. On the bottle was written the words 'Wild Turkey' in pencil.

"My favourite bourbon," explained the Duke. "The stuff we make don't taste that much like it, but it's near as damnit, and the name makes the taste buds think it's the same."

"That'll work just fine," said Moriarty. "Thanks."

"So, you want to join my crew?" he asked, as he passed him a glass of bourbon.

"Not exactly," Moriarty replied, nodding in gratitude for the drink. "We want to use our…considerable organisational skills to lead the gang. It would involve you stepping down as leader, but you wouldn't have to compromise any status or respect. We'd be making the decisions, but you'd have a hand in them. And our plans would make you a lot richer. You'd be changing this office…nice as it is…for a well-furnished study in the big city. And you'd get all the bourbon…real bourbon, although this really isn't bad," he added taking a sip. "We could make the Hessians a household name."

"The only problem is, I was grooming Mo to take over leadership of the gang when I passed on," said the Duke. He's what the gang has needed for a while. Strong. Smart. Commands respect. And he's a fighter. I think he could do good things with the gang. Not that I don't think you two could, but I wouldn't want to pull this opportunity away from my protégé at the first sign of someone who may be better."

"Can I be frank with you, Mo?" said Fring, suddenly. "I only just met you tonight, but I have no doubt that you would carry on the Duke's legacy. But the way things are clearly going, there's not going to be much room for biker gangs soon. If people start to hate you enough, and from what I understand, they have, they'll get more and more vigilant. Besides, the little I know about the way the roads work here, this is not the place for such a strong group as the Hessians. With motivation and planning, you…we…can all be rich."

"Jimmy said that he'd heard of both of you," said Mo. "When we were riding he told me more about what he knew, and personally, I think the opportunity to be led by you guys isn't something we should give up. I think you'll bring good things, and as long as you'll have me as a road captain then you've got my loyalty."

"Welcome to the Hessians, brothers," said Duke. He poured himself a glass of bourbon and insisted that Fring and Mo took one as well. They toasted, and each man drank theirs in a single gulp. "Come on. Let's meet the boys."