Chapter 3 - The Boy Named Eli
The impact jarred Tate’s shoulders, but he held fast, lifting the small bicycle straight up and steadying it until both tires were planted firmly on the ground.
The boy was barely seven years old. He was utterly exhausted, his body trembling violently from overexertion and sheer terror. His face was flushed bright red under a layer of dirt and dried salt, his sweaty brown hair plastered to his forehead beneath a cheap, oversized green bicycle helmet that was tilted sideways on his head. He wore a faded graphic T-shirt, dusty cargo shorts, and battered sneakers with shoelaces dragging in the dirt. Both of his knees were freshly scraped, raw and bleeding slightly from an earlier fall, with desert sand stuck to the dry blood. On his back was a heavy, bulging dark-blue school backpack that seemed almost too large for his small frame.
He was gasping for air in ragged, shallow gulps, his chest heaving up and down so fast he couldn't form words.
Tate held the boy's small shoulders with his large, steady hands, feeling the heat radiating off the child's small body.
"Woah, woah, easy, little man," Tate said softly, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble that instantly stood in stark contrast to his imposing appearance. "Easy. Breathe. I got you. You're safe."
The boy looked up, his wide, dark eyes filled with a terrifying mix of desperation, pain, and hope. Tears were streaking through the dust on his flushed cheeks, but he didn't cry out loud. He was fighting with every ounce of his small spirit to keep his voice steady.
"Are... are you..." the boy choked out, his throat dry as bone, his voice raspy from inhaling dust for miles. "Are you... the riders?"
Tate slowly knelt down on one knee right on the hot gravel, bringing his face level with the boy's. The eight other bikers had shut off their engines now, a heavy, expectant silence falling over the highway, broken only by the ticking of cooling exhaust pipes and the dry wind whistling through the spokes.
"We ride," Tate said gently, keeping his hands anchored on the boy's shoulders. "What are you doing out here on the highway by yourself, kid? Where's your mom? Where's your house?"
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The boy shook his head rapidly, a fresh wave of tears welling in his eyes. He wiped his nose with the back of his dirty sleeve, gasping for air.
"I... I rode from town," the boy sobbed out, his small knees shaking so hard they bumped against the top tube of his bicycle. "I saw your vests... at the gas station three miles back. I was trying to catch you... I pedaled as fast as I could... because... because you know my dad."
