“All of them.”
Eli climbed fifteen feet to the eastern rim carrying a signal flare.
He waited forty-three minutes.
Then he heard the engines.
The vibration reached the canyon floor before the motorcycles became visible. It began as a low tremor in the stones and grew into one unified roar.
The first bike rounded the bend. Then ten. Then thirty. Then more than two hundred motorcycles filled the fire-access road in disciplined formation, black leather and chrome moving across the desert like a storm.
Eli raised the flare.
Red smoke exploded into the sky.
The lead rider stopped ten feet from him. He was a broad man in his mid-fifties with a silver beard and a vest marked PRESIDENT.
Eli did not move aside.
“Show me the bell,” he said.
The rider called Spike studied him but did not question the demand. He leaned his motorcycle and revealed a small brass guardian bell hanging beneath the frame.
Eli examined it for three full seconds.
Then he reached into his pocket and produced a second bell.
“I found this beside Cade’s motorcycle,” he said. “I kept it for him.”
Spike accepted it carefully.
“You kept him alive for three days?” “Yes.” “Lead us in.”
Four bikers carried a stretcher into the canyon. Tank, a former combat medic, reached Cade first.
He examined the broken leg and swore quietly.
“This needs surgery.” “I know.”
Tank studied the splint. “Who built this?”
Cade pointed toward Eli.
“The kid.”
Tank looked at the boy, then at the windbreak and repaired fuel line.
“He kept my temperature stable,” Cade said. “Filtered water. Rationed food. Closed my head wound. Made four attempts to get help and got redirected to Callaway every time.”