The dogs would have made for ideal travel companions if not for the stench of decay. They didn’t pant. They didn’t bark. Except for the occasional twitch, they barely even moved.

Two were Rottweilers, brutish and scarred from lives of guarding fields of junk and scrap. The pair had been deemed unfit for adoption when their owner had shuttered his business and abandoned them. The third was a Mastiff, a former family pet who had committed the crime of aging; the canine was so large that it was forced to lie prone in the station wagon’s cargo bed. The same veterinarian had euthanized all three and had made a profitable side venture of selling such carcasses when people like Isaac came calling.

Isaac adjusted the rearview mirror and glanced back at the animals. He wasn’t sure why they moved at all, but they did—a turn of the head, a shift of weight. The life-force sharing spell he had used to reanimate them should have rendered them incapable of independence. Every motion from them was like an IV drip from his vitality and he didn’t need them wasting it. He checked on them often, ready to scold. He couldn’t afford to grow more fatigued because one of them suddenly remembered how to lick its own balls.

Isaac grew anxious under the gaze of their dead eyes. When he turned the mirror away, he caught a glimpse of his reflection. While he wasn’t the most robust-looking individual on his best day, the spell had taken a toll on him. His fair skin was pale, and his wavy hair lay flat and lifeless against his scalp. Even his beard seemed thin like it lacked the strength to keep growing. He really looked like a man coming off a week-long bender.

It was clear he had overextended himself, which is why his original plan had only called for the two Rottweilers. Even after the vet had offered up the Mastiff, Isaac had been resistant to the idea until he read the ID tag on the dog’s collar. General. It had seemed too fortuitous. He couldn’t pass up the chance to have a pony-sized beast with such a fitting name lead his undead pack. Now he was paying the price.

The Sonoran Desert sped by outside the car’s windows. The setting sun cast a red glow across the sand and the towering saguaro cacti. Only a few minutes from his destination, he pulled off onto the next dirt road.

On the passenger seat lay a weathered leather satchel. He undid the clasp and removed a small paintbrush and a sealed glass jar. He held the jar up, allowing the dying sunlight to reflect through it. The contents resembled cereal soaking in a yellowish liquid. He shook the jar, opened it, dipped the brush, turned to the animals in the back, and said, “Smile”.

The dogs curled their lips back in a silent snarl.

***

The sun had set when Isaac pulled into the rocky parking lot. He stared in dismay at the ramshackle bar with its boarded-up windows. Most people would assume the place was abandoned if not for the flickering fluorescent over the battered front door. Someone had painted The Devil’s Hole in sloppy red letters next to the entrance in lieu of a sign.

“Yeesh, I wonder which hole? Maybe an unholy combo of them all,” Isaac joked to his undead audience and then sighed at their predictable response. He supposed he could command them to bark happily at his quips but that would be too self-indulging.

A rusty jeep and five motorcycles occupied the lot. Isaac didn’t know much about bikes, but he recognized that these were serious machines. Not the Japanese racers that college kids rode. No. These were Harley-Davidsons, covered in dust from traversing the desert roads.

He stepped out of the car and the cool air washed across his face. It stirred him up a little and made him forget his weakness for a moment. The stars glittered and the full moon shone, but neither did much to alleviate the absolute darkness of the desert night.

Isaac glanced up and down the road. No headlights. Even so, lingering didn’t seem to be an intelligent option. Following his commands, each dog lumbered out of the car and sat down facing him. They stood in a row, with the Rottweilers on either side of the Mastiff—two soldiers flanking the general. They stared silently; their eyes as black as the night. For a moment Isaac felt a little guilty using them in such a manner. Despite reanimated corpses making somewhat boring traveling companions, he had become oddly attached to them. Didn’t say much about his social skills, he supposed.

He whispered and they responded by disappearing into the desert.

Feeling strangely alone, Isaac hefted his satchel over his shoulder and headed for the Devil’s Hole. As he passed the first motorcycle, he noticed the colorful design printed on its leather saddlebag. It was the devil—the old-school bright red man with horns, forked tail, and black pointy beard—riding a motorcycle with flaming wheels. A pitchfork lay across the handlebars, aimed like a jouster’s lance. The words Asphalt Devils, in scripted letters, were stitched above the design, and The Highway to Hell is Anywhere We Ride was below. Isaac looked from the emblem to the spray-painted sign that read Devil’s Hole.

“Shit,” he whispered. The last thing he needed to contend with was a biker gang. He naturally assumed he’d stand out in this crap-hole, but it seemed pretty definitive now. He’d never heard of the Asphalt Devils, but their lack of notoriety probably signaled inferiority complexes. At least the motorcycles gave him an adequate headcount. He pushed open the door and wrinkled his nose as a wave of body odor washed over him.

Isaac had seen movies where a stranger walked into a bar and the locals all stopped what they were doing to stare, but it had never actually happened to him. He’d spent five days without a shower, crossing the country with three dead dogs, and he still wasn’t skuzzy enough for this place.

There were five bikers and a bartender, and all froze and eyeballed him. Had this been an old west saloon the piano player would have stopped, and the ensuing silence would have made this even more uncomfortable. At least the jukebox was mindless enough to keep playing.

He nodded at them. It was the lowest-keyed, manliest greeting he could think of and completely for naught as no one acknowledged it.

Isaac took a seat on one of the rickety barstools, wondering briefly if it would even support his weight. The bartender, a portly man with a terrible comb-over, stared at him while repeatedly wiping the same glass, but not making it any cleaner. Finally, seeing that Isaac was just going to sit there and smile politely he asked, “Yeah?”

“A beer and a whiskey chaser.”

The bartender poured a shot from a bottle that Isaac had never heard of and pulled a semi-chilled beer from the cooler. He carelessly plunked them down, whiskey sloshing out of the glass. “You sure you want to drink here? You look a little soft for this place."

“You think? Even with my stubble?” Isaac rubbed his chin. “Actually, I come in here all the time. Well, I used to. Not too long ago I was a regular. I’d walk in and everyone would shout my name. Like the big guy on Cheers.”

“That so? I’ve run this place for the last ten years and I don’t remember you. And I’m good with faces.”

Isaac nearly said something about him not being very good with his own face but choked it down with a sip of watery whiskey. “You got me. Never been here before. But you got such good online reviews.” Isaac held the shot glass up. “I had to check it out.”

This may have nearly forced a smile onto the man, but Isaac couldn’t tell. The face wasn’t conducive to any expression other than irritation. “Fine. Whatever. I’m not going to complain about people spending money here. Just watch yourself and mind your own business. But don’t be surprised if I’m mopping up your blood at the end of the night.”

“Oh, I’ll help you with that. After all, it’d be my mess, right?”

The bartender snorted and having had enough of their banter, walked away. For a few moments, Isaac sat in silence. The crack of the billiards blended into the country music, which melded into the loud jabbering of the bikers, creating a cacophony of redneck clamoring. He managed to silence it all in his head by focusing on the drinks in front of him, hoping to wait thoughtlessly until his associate arrived. And he had just about managed it until someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was a rough tap, one that said, “give me your attention now” as opposed to “excuse me, good sir”.

One of the bikers stood there, a cocksure grin on his face. He wore a blood-red bandanna, which held back his long stringy hair, and a dark pair of sunglasses. Isaac wondered how the man saw anything in the dim place. On the right breast of the man’s leather jacket was an Asphalt Devil patch.

“You’re not from around here.” It was a statement, not a question.

Isaac—not sure how to respond—shook his head, then nodded, then did a combo shake-nod.

“We figured you weren’t.”

“I bet there’s a lot of figuring going on in here. Probably some heavy calculating as well.” Isaac looked over the man’s shoulder at his seated comrades.

One biker looked like a skid-row Santa Claus, with a long grey beard and a body so wide he must have needed two motorcycles strapped together. The second was an intimidating fellow. Even seated he was a giant of a man. His beard and hair were trimmed short and neat, probably so no one could grab it in a fight. Whereas the other Devils all wore smug grins he simply had a cold, hard stare like there was nothing in this world worth smiling about. Isaac glanced over his other shoulder at the pool players. Their game had slowed and in between turns they watched Isaac’s interaction with the same smirks Bandana-man wore.

“What’s that you said?”

“I was just saying, good guess. I’m not from around here.”

“Just like we figured,” he said again, and Isaac nearly rolled his eyes. “Because if you were you would have realized that this is kind of our private bar. Now, we sometimes extend a courtesy to other bikers, sometimes even truckers, but you don’t look much like either.”

Isaac feigned surprised. “Really? Well, my bike’s in the shop and I left my chaps at my old lady’s place. But I’m a trucker. No. Wait. Biker. I’m a biker.”

“That so? What’re your colors?” the biker asked, clearly wondering how far Isaac would take this lie.

“Huh? I’m a white guy.”

“No, asshole. Who do you ride with?”

“The Flying Wombats. Out of Pittsburgh.”

“The Wombats?”

“Yep.”

“What the fuck is a wombat?”

Isaac thought about telling the truth but opted for something cooler. “A breed of giant vampire bat.”

The bartender, positioned at the other end of the bar with his index finger second knuckle deep in his left nostril, chimed in. “A wombat is an Australian marsupial. Looks kind of like a groundhog.” He kept digging around in his nose.

“Thanks, Ed,” the biker said.

“Yeah, thanks Ed,” Isaac mimed.

“A vampire bat eh...” Bandana-man grumbled. “So, either you think you’re funny or you think we’re stupid.”

“I’m not that funny.”

He thought for a second, realized that Isaac was poking fun at him again. “You looking for trouble?”

Isaac realized he needed to curb his sardonic tendencies before things really went sour. There were a dozen ways this evening could blow up in his face and he didn’t need to start with an unexpected barfight that he would probably lose. “I tell you what, I’d like to donate a couple of bottles. That should be enough to rent space for a few hours.”

Bandana-man, pleased with Isaac’s submission, turned to his seated comrades and shouted, “Hey Panzer, two bottles?” The giant called Panzer nodded. Bandana-man turned back to Isaac. “Fine. Two bottles of bourbon. But mind your step. Stay out of our way and don’t mess with the jukebox.”

Ed, who had been eavesdropping the whole time, set two bottles of bourbon on the bar. Bandana-man picked up one in each hand and with a mocking sneer on his face said, “Oh, and the shitter is ours. You need to piss you go outside. Watch out for the rattlers.” He walked off, holding the bottles up like a pirate with freshly acquired booty.

Isaac turned back to his drink and noted, with revulsion, Ed’s grimy hand palm up in front of his face. With a sigh, Isaac dug in his pocket and handed over waded-up bills. He didn’t bother asking for change.

“A word of advice,” Ed offered. “That was a smart move with the bottles. If I were you, I’d clear out before they got too drunk.”

“I can’t. I’m meeting a client. Believe me, I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“A client? Here?” Ed looked incredulous. “He must be a stupid son of a bitch.”

“You’re at least partly right.” Isaac chuckled and for a moment he debated trying to warn off the lot of them, but he knew it would achieve nothing. It would probably just aggravate them. Troublemakers never shied away from trouble.

Ed shook his head. “Something tells me that, before this night is over, I’m going to be glad I ain’t you.”

So, Isaac, already exhausted, settled onto the uncomfortable stool with his cheap booze and ruminated on the fact that this sleazy dive-bar bartender was happy to not be him. It wasn’t the best start to the evening, and he had a hunch it was only going to get worse.