The Long Run to Ash River

The dust outside TB Mars shimmered like rusted glass when the club rolled out. Five engines snarled in unison, single file, not side-by-side. On Earth, they might’ve ridden two-by-two, tight and proud. But Mars wasn’t Earth. The trails weren’t wide freeways; they were carved paths of salt and shale, broken rover ruts, and the jagged lips of collapsed lava tubes. Out here, if you rode too close, you weren’t just risking paint—you were risking a wheel dropping into a crater.

Grit led the line, Widow rattling like bones in a tin can but still carrying herself with the dignity of a queen. Behind him came Dex, chrome gleaming with the arrogance of youth. Patch rode steady and square, a medic’s eye even on the throttle. Sol’s bike whispered instead of roared, his mods giving him an edge no one else could match. Torch trailed last, flames scorched into his tank and lighters jangling in his pockets. Behind them, two prospects—Brick and a new kid everyone just called Rookie—did their damnedest to keep up.

They were bound for Ash River, a trench of glowing minerals two hundred miles away. On Mars, that was a day’s ride, maybe more. And with the Shadow of Death, it meant plenty of stops along the way.

Stop One – The Rust Pit

Fifty miles out, the members pulled into a shack slapped together from old mining plates. A hand-painted sign read RUST PIT. Inside, the air smelled like oil fires and meat cooked too long.

They sat at steel tables while a wiry woman brought out skewers of glider-lizard. The meat was stringy, chewy, but spiced enough to pass for good. Dex bit in and grinned through grease. “Better than protein loaf,” he said.

Patch washed his down with a mug of algae beer, sour and green. “Hell, better than medicine.”

Out back, Sol refilled their fuel cells. Oxygen-boosted ethanol, black-market and barely legal. The Rust Pit’s pump coughed and hissed, leaking vapor. Rookie stood too close, curious. Torch shoved him back. “You wanna breathe fire, kid? Stand right there another minute.” Rookie shut up quick.

Stop Two – Glass Hollow

The next leg was rougher—salt pans under wheels, crunching like broken bones. By the time they reached Glass Hollow, the bikes were dust-coated and engines thirsty.

Glass Hollow had once been a dome. Now it was half-collapsed, patched with tarps, and lit by glowsticks wedged into cracks. They served fried fungus patties dusted with Martian chili. Torch wolfed his down, then coughed until Patch slapped his back. “Hot enough?” Patch asked. Torch only grinned, tears streaming.

When they went to top off their cells, the pump sputtered and died. Sol cursed, yanking off panels. Torch grabbed tools, muttering about “cheap dome trash.” They tore it apart together, grease-covered and swearing. Rookie leaned in to hand a wrench and dropped it straight into the pump’s belly.

Torch looked ready to throw him across the dome, but Grit’s voice cut through: “Fix the damn pump, not the kid.” They pulled it back together with copper wire and stubbornness. When the fuel finally flowed again, Torch muttered, “Next time, he’s the one crawling in there.”

Breakdown on the Ridge

Past Glass Hollow, the road narrowed to a ridge of jagged black rock. Widow’s Whisper—the custom bike Patch had pieced together from borrowed rover parts—hit a rut and buckled. A suspension strut snapped clean. The bike sagged to one side, spitting sparks.

Patch swore, kicking at the dust. Torch threw his gloves down. “Told you those MarsCo struts weren’t built for this ride.”

“And I told you,” Sol snapped back, “they’d hold if you didn’t ride like a lunatic on every ridge.”

The two squared off, helmets tilted close, words sharp enough to cut. Dex shifted uneasy. Rookie froze.

Grit cut in, voice flat and heavy as an anvil. “We fix bikes, not grudges. Shut it.”

Silence fell. Then they got to work. Sol scavenged struts off a dead rover they’d passed earlier. Torch welded them in, sparks bouncing across the ridge. Patch held Widow steady, muttering to her like she was flesh and blood. When the bike stood again, patched and running, the fight was forgotten. Or at least, buried.

Stop Three – Dead Rover Ridge

They stopped that night near the half-collapsed rover. Wind screamed thin and high, rattling their helmets. They camped around the bikes, engines idling low for warmth. Dex pulled out a homemade banjo and strummed until the notes vanished into the wind. Patch told stories of Earth—half true, half lies. Rookie listened wide-eyed, like every word was gospel.

Torch kept watch, staring into the dust. “Storm’s shifting,” he said. “We move at dawn.”

Ash River

By the time they reached Ash River, the sun was bleeding low. The trench glowed faintly, minerals catching the light until it looked like fire flowing through stone. They parked along the rim, engines cooling, helmets off.

Patch grilled the last of the glider meat. Rookie nearly burned it black, but nobody complained. Food was food, and after two hundred miles, it tasted holy.

They sat in the glow, dust on their boots and silence between them. No one said it out loud, but they all felt it: the run had tested them. The roads had tried to break them. They hadn’t broken.

The Ride Back

They rode home tighter than they’d left, single file but closer, engines humming like one long chord. Rookie kept pace without faltering. Widow’s new struts held. And though the roads still bit, the members bit back harder.

When TB Mars’ lights came into view, they rolled in quiet, engines popping, dust trailing behind them like ghosts. No crowd waited. No applause. Just the hangar bay and the familiar smell of oil and steel.

That was enough.

Because on Mars, every long run wasn’t just miles. It was brotherhood measured in breakdowns, mistakes, and the grit to ride through both.

And the Shadow of Death? They were still riding.