First and foremost, I wish everyone a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Twenty-twenty-two has been a good year as far as my writing goes. I published four eBooks as well as turned six of my novels into audiobooks. The downloads of my eBooks increased by over ten percent from last year and I also saw an increase in royalty payments. From now until the end of the year all of my eBooks at amazon.com are only 99 cents. I am looking forward to a great twenty-twenty-three. My novel, Invasions (book five in the Space Corps Chronicles ) is now on pre-sale at amazon.com and I also have a few more audiobooks in the works. If you would like to listen to one of my audiobooks you can listen for free by signing up for their free trial or if you are already a member let me know and I will send you a free PROM code. All I ask is that you leave an honest review. Check out the links below, and sign up for my author newsletter to stay in the loop. Also, do not forget to read the short story below. It’s your Christmas present. Feel free to leave a comment and have a Merry Christmas and a happy New Year.
Order now while its on pre-sale for only 99 cents.
Hey my first Audiobook is live on audible.com and I need some reviews. If you are not on audible you can download it free by agreeing to their free trial. If you are, already on audible, or if you don’t want to accept the free trial send me a message and I will send you a free promo code. Click the link to download.
For your reading enjoyment check out the first two chapters.
Tale Spinner
Chapter 1
It was a cold April morning in 2003, the day my world went south. It started like any other morning. My cheap wind-up alarm clock woke me at five AM; its tiny hammer beat against the small bells on the top of the alarm clock. Its loud ringing pounded through my brain bringing me up from a dead sleep. My cat Fluffy jumped up, landed on my chest, and said, “Meow.” I stroked her soft downy coat, set her on the floor, and turned off the alarm clock. Sitting up in bed, I leaned against the headboard rubbing sleep from my eyes. My feet found the floor. Goosebumps appeared on my legs and arms. The hardwood floor of my modest Manhattan apartment felt cold against my bare feet. Stifling a yawn, I put on my house slippers. I climbed out of bed, shuffled across the bedroom, out the door, and down the hall to the bathroom. I was wearing nothing but my boxer shorts.
Turning on the light, I drained my bladder and washed my hands using antibacterial soap. Finished with my hands, I looked in the mirror.
“Look at me. The wild man from Borneo.” The image in the mirror showed a tall skinny young man with a weak chin. It had a pocked marked face: remnants from old acne scars. My long blond hair cascaded around my shoulders and into my face. Standing five feet ten inches tall, I am not a very imposing figure. Usually, I wear my hair tied back in a ponytail. My nose is button-shaped and it looks too small for my face. The only good-looking thing about me is my blue-green eyes, I thought as I studied my reflection. Not exactly, the dashing figure that women go for.
My thoughts flash forward to the day ahead of me. My heart raced and my breathing accelerated. Sweat formed up in my palms. I hope Amy’s at work today. She’s been sick lately. God, please let it be a good day. Amy would be pretty if she knew how to dress and fix her hair. That’s why they pick on her too. She looks different. The widow to the bathroom stood open. A car backfired on the street making me jump. It sounded like a gunshot. Someone yelled and then the car sped away. The smell of the city drifted up from below. For a moment, I paused looking down at the street, and then closed the window.
I loved my work, but the people I worked with intimidated me. Most of them were bullies and the others looked at me with contempt. They called me names behind my back, like nerd or geek. Imagine that, a bunch of accountants calling someone else a nerd or a geek? Sometimes I heard them laughing behind my back. It used to make me mad, but I was too afraid to stand up for myself. Amy was the only person who was kind to me. She was like me, an outcast. Numbers were my life’s work. I had two passions in life: numbers and the written word. I made my living crunching numbers; I unwind by reading a good book. It doesn’t matter whether it’s, a science fiction novel, a mystery, or a Western. As long as the author tells a good tale, I’m hooked. At work, I would lose myself in the numbers. That was my way of dealing with the BS at the office. At home, I’d curl up on the couch with Fluffy in my lap and read a good book.
I didn’t go out much back then, except to the bookstore. Once in a while, I’d go to the movies. Riding the subway terrified me. Some tough-looking character always stared. It creeps me out when people stare. It makes me nervous, or it did back then. They mugged me once or twice and broke my nose once. When I would go to the movies, by the time I got off the subway I felt too keyed up to enjoy myself. When I got inside the theater I would have to rush to the toilet to throw up, but enough about me. Let’s get on with the day my world went south.
In the kitchen, Fluffy let out another meow. Taking a box of cat food from a cabinet, I filled one side of her dish with cat food. I took a carton of milk out of the refrigerator. I filled the other side of Fluffy’s dish with milk, and then poured myself a bowl of Honey Pops. Still, in my Boxer shorts, I sat at the kitchen table and ate my cereal. The Honey Pops tasted good. I love a bowl of cereal in the morning. My eyes wandered about my modest digs. My one-bedroom apartment near 96th and Columbus Avenue had a small kitchen. It also had a small bedroom and a modest-sized sunken living room. The hardwood floors and the balcony were what attracted me to the apartment. At night, I used to sit out on the balcony and read. It made me feel removed from all the nonsense below. My apartment was on the fifth floor. One thing I liked about the building is that it had a twenty-four-hour doorman. No one got in the building unless they lived there.
Finished with my cereal, I put the bowl in the sink and put a pot of water on to boil for tea. Shuffling back to my bedroom, I put on a pair of black slacks, a blue dress, a shirt, and a pair of black dress shoes. In the bathroom, I brushed my hair and tied it back in a ponytail using rubber bands. I brushed my teeth and gargled with Listerine. Back in the kitchen, the teakettle started to whistle. I took down a Barnes & Noble ceramic cup and poured myself a cup of scalding hot tea. I put in two tablespoons of sugar and a dab of honey. Bringing the cup to my mouth, I took a tentative sip.
“Son of a bitch!” I said blowing across the top of the cup trying to cool the hot liquid. “Fluffy, why don’t you catch a mouse or something while I’m at work? You’re getting lazy and fat,” I said to the feline while I waited for the tea to cool. Fluffy gave me an indignant look. I took a bagel from the frig put it into the toaster and waited for it to pop. My stomach rumbled. Fluffy jumped when the bagel popped and ran into the hallway. I laughed. Fluffy dropped a bomb in her litter box. A foul odor filtered into the kitchen. “Let’s have a little courtesy here. Cover that,” I said. Buttering my bagel, I poured myself another cup of tea and headed into the living room. Fluffy strutted into the room. I sat down on my beige love seat and turned on the brass lamp on the end table. I picked up an old tattered novel setting next to the lamp and took a bite out of my bagel. It tasted delicious. Fluffy jumped onto my lap and started to purr. The novel was a Western that was now out of print entitled: the Mojave Kid’s Last ride. It was one of those serial deals where the author writes several books using the same characters. This was the last of the series.
The reason for waking up at five every morning was to give me time to read before leaving for work. Out the door at seven AM, I would head down to the bus stop and take the bus to the subway station. I opened the book to where I had left a bookmarker from the night before and read a chapter. My eyes darted to my front door. My pulse quickened.
“Come on. Quit being stupid,” I said to myself. My mind wandered, my thoughts turning to Tom Baxter. I hope Tom doesn’t show up for work today. Not likely. Tom shows up every day, I thought. Tom was my nemesis. When I was hired on at the firm, I was twenty-four years old. I had worked my way through junior college and accounting school. Tom was hired out a year later. Tom was a big fat bully. He must have had a complex about his weight. Tom tried to make up for it by bullying other people. One time after he was first hired, I played a practical joke on him. Right now, I don’t even remember what it was. Everyone laughed. Tom’s face turned red but he didn’t say anything. He just walked away. Later, he caught me outside, shoved my head against the wall, and bloodied my nose. My hands balled up into fists at my sides, my heart hammered in my chest and my face reddened. I felt like spitting nails, but I didn’t do anything. I stood paralyzed with fear.
From then on, Tom and others like him made my life a living hell. The only respite was the work itself. Boy, could I lose myself in the numbers. At lunchtime, I would eat at my desk and dive into the particular novel that I was reading at the time. Pushing thoughts of Tom Baxter aside, I finished my bagel and wiped crumbs from my shirt. I continued to read. I reached the part in the book where the outlaws take the town. It seemed so real that I could almost hear the gunfire. The thought of actually being in a shootout terrified me. The main character, a Civil War veteran they called the Mojave Kid, was tough. He wasn’t afraid of anything. He could outshoot, outfight, and outride anyone in the territory.
The character reminded me of what my mother said my father was like. She said that he wouldn’t take shit from anyone. My father was a war veteran also. He died in Vietnam when I was a baby. My mother was an alcoholic who would fly into a rage and beat me at the least provocation. The smell of her sleeping covered in vomit and urine was still fresh in my mind. Then there was the sting of her belt across my back. None of her boyfriends gave a rat’s ass about me. Growing up, I never had much in the way of a father’s influence.
There was one guy who took an interest. He used to take me fishing and to the park to throw a baseball around. He seemed like a nice guy, but my mom’s drinking and raging forced him to leave. When my mom went on a tangent, she would scream for hours. The day he left, I thought I was going to explode. It was her fault. The only man I ever looked up to as a father left because of her.
***
Sometimes on rare occasions, I would venture out on the streets. I would see families out together. Some of them seemed so happy. It made me wonder what my life would have been like if my father had lived. Maybe Mom wouldn’t have turned into a drunk. My mother died when I was thirteen. I wasn’t sad. Somehow, I felt relieved. The state sent me to live with my grandmother. She was okay, but there weren’t kids in the neighborhood that I could play with. Most of the kids at school picked on me, so I dived into the world of books. Early on, I discovered that I had a gift with numbers. You show me a math problem and I see the answer. It seems to come to me.
I changed my position on the love seat, trying to concentrate on my reading, and looked at my watch. It said six-thirty AM. In a half-hour, I had to face the world. A creaking sound came from my bedroom. The old building I lived in creaked and groaned from time to time. Sounds like that drives me nuts. My breath caught in my throat and my heart pounded inside my chest. My stomach churned. Maybe I’m coming down with something? I’d better call in sick? No, I can’t do that. Mr. Bullard is strict on attendance. I’ve got to go. Leaping to my feet, I ran to the bathroom. Fluffy dived off my lap and ran to the kitchen. I almost didn’t make it to the toilet before a gush of diarrhea shot out of me. My stomach settled and my bowels emptied. A foul odor rose from the toilet bowl. I fanned the air in front of my face, finished my business, and went back to the love seat.
“Ah that feels much better,” I said to myself and then started to read once more. My eyes found the door. In the book, some unnamed character was trying to rally the town’s people to help the Mojave Kid with the outlaws. I looked at the door again. My heart shifted into overdrive. Fluffy jumped back onto my lap and started to purr. My tea spilled burning my hand.
“I bet you think your master is some kind of weird duck,” I said stroking Fluffy’s back while I continued to read. A noise came from the hallway. A shiver went down my spine. What is it? Why am I so afraid? I was usually anxious every morning when it came close to the time for me to leave for work, but this was different. What is behind that door? What diabolical evil thing is going to befall me today? Footsteps echoed from the hallway. My heart leaped in my throat. “Get a grip, Merryweather. It’s one of your neighbors going to work.” My watch said six forty-five AM. A sharp pain shot through my stomach. It felt like someone was squeezing it in a vice. On my feet once more, I ran to the bathroom and barely made it in time. Another gush of diarrhea shot out of me. “Good Lord,” I moaned. “I am coming down with something.” When my stomach settled, I pulled up my pants. I sprayed some air fresher in the bathroom, and then went back to the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator and picked up a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. I opened the childproof cap and chugalugged the foul-tasting pink liquid.
“The breakfast of champions,” I said and then put the Pepto-Bismol away. After making a couple of sandwiches, I put them into a brown paper bag. I tossed in an orange, a banana, and a small container of yogurt. With the book in hand, I headed to the front door. At the front door, I paused next to the telephone mounted on the wall. Chills ran up my back.
I should call in? I could tell them I’m sick. After all, I did have diarrhea. If I call in, Bullard will be pissed. He’ll mark me down for absenteeism. My hand reached toward the phone. The telephone let out a shrill ring. I jumped back, letting out a startled gasp, and then picked up the receiver.
“Hello,” I said.
At first, I heard nothing but someone’s faint breathing. Then a gravelly voice, that was so faint that I could barely hear it said, “Finish the tale.”
I slammed down the receiver. “That was weird,” I said rubbing sweat from my brow as I headed for the door. My hands shook when I touched the doorknob. In the hallway, I stood for a few seconds. Bright light reflected off the white marble tile. It made me squint. “God, you can be so stupid sometimes, Merryweather,” I said.
My footfalls echoed down the hall as I headed to the elevator. At the elevator, I stood waiting for the doors to open. All feelings of nervousness and dread left me. Then I thought what if someone is in the elevator? My knees started to shake. The doors slid open. The elevator car stood empty. Maybe the elevator is going to malfunction?
“Come on Merryweather,” I said to myself. Inside the elevator, I turned to punch the round blue button for the lobby. The sound of boot heels clicking echoed in the hallway.
“Hold the elevator!” A female voice resonated down the corridor. I stuck my arm between the sliding doors. They slid back into the wall. A good-looking woman with long blonde hair and a shapely figure stepped in. She looked to be in her early twenties. I took in her long golden locks, her large round breasts, and her long legs. She had tiny hazel flakes sprinkled through her ocean blue eyes. I liked her dark blue satin blouse and tight-fitting jeans. She turned to press the button for the lobby. My eyes dropped to her shapely bottom. I imagined what she would look like naked for an instant. This might not be such a bad day after all? I thought.
“Hello, Brandon. How are you this morning?” the pretty woman asked. Cute little dimples formed in her cheeks when she smiled. She took my breath away. The smell of her perfume filled the elevator. A tingling sensation shot through my lower regions.
“I’m sorry. I’m at a loss here. You seem familiar and I’ve seen you around, but we’ve never spoken.” I said as she stepped closer and took my arm for a second. Her right breast brushed up against my left bicep. My face flushed and I fought to control my breathing. My heart pounded inside my chest and a chill went down my spine.
“I’ve been your neighbor for the last five years. You need to get out more. I’m Kathleen. We, went to Junior High together remember? Everyone called me Kat?” Memory flooded back. I put my arm around her. She looked up at me and smiled. For a moment, I fell into the deep dark well of her pretty blue eyes.
“Oh yeah, Kat. How have you been? What have you been up to since school?”
“I work at an ad agency. How about you?” she said.
I shrugged. My stomach dropped when the elevator car began its descent. “I’m an accountant.”
She smiled again. “You were always good with math. That doesn’t surprise me.”
We made small talk. For once, I didn’t feel nervous and there were no long awkward pauses. God, I can’t believe how at ease I feel with her. I’ve never felt that way around any woman except Amy. Visions of Kat and I making mad passionate love flashed through my brain. Then I thought about Amy. If she were to get a makeover, she would be as pretty as Kat. My mind wandered. Images of Kat and Amy together with me naked in my bedroom flashed through my head. Heat rose in my cheeks and something else rose in my britches.
“What?” Kat asked.
My face reddened and my ears felt hot. “Nothing. Just wool-gathering.” The elevator stopped, I dropped my arm to my side and we stood waiting for the doors to open.
“If you’re not busy come by my apartment. We could watch a movie or something. I’ll cook you dinner,” Kat said.
My bottom jaw dropped. How could this beautiful woman be, interested in me? I bet she feels sorry for me? “Yeah. I’d like that,” I said.
We strolled across the lobby to the exit. Kathleen walked so close to me that our shoulders touched. The smell of her perfume and the sound of her bubbly laughter made me forget all my earlier fear and anxiety. This has the makings for a hell of a good day, I thought. The doorman, an older gentleman in his late fifties with black hair stood by the exit. He wore his maroon uniform. He looked at us and his features softened into a smile.
“You folks have a nice day,” he said and then opened the door. The sound of the traffic in the street wafted on the wind. A mass of people filled the sidewalk.
“You too Alex,” Kathleen said. Realization hit me. In the past five years that I had lived in the building, I had never taken the time to learn the doorman’s name. A weird-looking character wearing a leather jacket stood leaning against the wall. He looked like a biker. He stroked his goatee and watched us emerge from the building. His eyes focused on me. Kathleen and I stepped out the door. A crack of thunder reverberated down the street. I caught a scent of burning ozone. I saw a blinding flash of blue light and felt myself shoot forward propelled by some unknown force. My eyes clenched shut, my heart jackhammered in my chest and my breathing accelerated. I opened my eyes.
New York City and Kathleen were gone. The smell of dust and horse manure filled the air. I stumbled across a rough wooden boardwalk and staggered into the middle of a rocky dirt street. Someone screamed, a dog barked and horses whinnied. I looked up. A big burly man with a long black beard sawed the reins back and forth on a horse-drawn wagon. He was trying to keep the massive animals under control. I’m dead, I thought, and then passed out in the middle of the street.
***
Chapter 2
I woke up in a cloud of dust. It caked the inside of my lungs making it hard to breathe; I let out a violent cough. Gritty sand covered my entire body. The hot Mojave sun beat down upon me. Sweat formed up, on my brow. Someone grabbed me and dragged me back onto the boardwalk. Horses squealed. The man in the wagon box yelled. “Hell’s flames! I almost killed that son of a bitch!” My eyes fluttered open revealing an older gray-headed man looking down at me. He wore a homespun cotton shirt and blue denim jeans under a green canvas apron. His face looked like scared-up saddle leather.
“You scared me to death, Tale Spinner. I thought you were, done for,” the man said. He knelt over me.
Tale Spinner? I caught a trace of whiskey on his breath. Glancing around, I saw wagons pulled by horses. I saw horses tied to hitching rails, and buggies pulled by mules. A couple of donkeys stood hobbled on a side street. The smell of dirt, horse droppings, and cheap whiskey drifted in the wind. People on the boardwalk stopped and stared. My God. I’m in the twilight zone, I thought.
“Are you hurt?” the man asked. He wore a look of concern on his face.
“No. I scraped up my arm a bit,” I said. Beads of sweat dripped down my forehead. The man helped me to my feet. Turning around, I looked at the doorway behind me. The batwing doors of a saloon faced me. Maybe if I go through those doors, I’ll wind up back where I came from. “Where am I?” I asked taking in my surroundings.
“Son, you’re in the armpit of Southern California. Welcome to Greedy Gulch.” Greedy Gulch? Where have I heard that name before? I wondered.
“What year is this?” I asked.
The man standing next to me gave me a peculiar look. “Why it’s eighteen eighty-three.” The man driving the wagon got control of his team. He parked the wagon and stepped onto the boardwalk shaking his head.
“Young feller, you liked to give me heart failure. Where’d you come from?”
I shrugged. “New York City.”
“New York City?” Both of the men facing me said at once and laughed.
“This boy’s touched in the head,” the big burly wagon master said. “Chad. You’d best get him up to see the doc.”
By now, a crowd had gathered. I looked down. My clothes seemed to be deteriorating. A warm breeze hit my legs.
“Jack. I’d best get him over to my store before his clothes fall off. He does have the look of a city slicker though. His clothes, what’s left of them, seem a might queer,” the older man in the green apron said.
“What’s your name, young feller?” the big burly man asked.
“Brandon. Brandon Merryweather.”
He slapped me on the back. “Folks call me Jack Bidwell. I own the freighting business. This feller is Dunbar. Chad Dunbar. He owns the mercantile. Go with Chad and get some new duds, and don’t be stepping in front of freight wagons anymore. Mayhap next time you won’t be so lucky,” Bidwell said and then went back to his wagon.
Dunbar took my arm. “Come on. We’re drawin’ a crowd. My place is up the street. Let’s get you some decent clothes before you’re standing here with your dingus hanging out.”
My eyes dropped to my lower regions. Large holes had formed in my pants and shirt. My shoes were starting to dissolve before my eyes. Tiny pieces of shoe leather floated in the breeze. God. What the hell is happening to me? Maybe I fell asleep on my couch and this is all a dream? Dunbar held onto my arm and hurried me along. On the street, I heard the crack of a bullwhip and the sound of horses’ hooves clopping against the ground. A dust cloud formed in the air, above the street. I let out a cough. A stagecoach rumbled into town. The man in the wagon box wore a bandana over his nose to protect himself from the dust. Next to him sat a small wiry fellow holding a shotgun. The aroma of animal sweat, greasy cooking, and dust filled the air. Something was missing. Then it hit me: smog. There wasn’t a trace of diesel or automobile exhaust or any other trace of big-city pollution. The sky seemed larger somehow, bluer maybe. A pretty blonde-haired woman in a red dress climbed down from the stagecoach.
Various businesses lined the street. We passed a saddle shop, a gunsmith, a dry goods store, and a barbershop. Across the street, I saw a livery stable, a black smith’s shop, and a bathhouse. An old China man stood in the doorway of the bathhouse watching us pass by. The sound of the black smith’s hammer resonated out of the black smith’s shop. We waited to let a man on horseback pass and then crossed a side street that intersected with the main drag. The man tipped his hat. A black and white dog ran along next to us and barked.
“Get on out of here you mangy cur!” Dunbar yelled. The dog cocked its head, giving us a curious look, and then continued on its way. We crossed the street and stepped up onto the adjacent boardwalk. This place seemed familiar to me. Across the street set a hotel and a restaurant. Next to the hotel set a bank and a post office. Dunbar led me past another saloon and gambling hall. The smell of fresh-baked bread caused my mouth to water when we passed a bakery. Dunbar stopped next to a building with glass windows. I read the words: Dunbar’s Mercantile and Emporium across the glass in blood-red letters. “This is my place.” Dunbar pushed open a large wooden door. A bell hanging over the door dinged when we stepped inside.
The store held what I would have called antiques but the merchandise looked brand new. A fat woman with gray hair and a pretty smile stood behind a counter. She reminded me of Ante Bee from the old Andy Griffith show. She had an ample bosom that strained the fabric of her blue cotton dress. Glasses with large lenses and a leather thong attached to the earpieces hung from her neck. I breathed in her fresh motherly scent. Dunbar looked up at her and grinned.
“Martha, this feller needs a new outfit. Let’s set him up with some clothes.” Martha looked me over. Her glasses slipped down onto the bridge of her nose. A bead of sweat tracked down her face.
“His clothes look a little threadbare and strange too. Is he who I think he is?”
Dunbar shrugged. “I reckon so. You fix him up while we have a cup of coffee.” Dunbar led me across the rectangular storeroom. We stepped through a door next to the service counter on the far wall. The door opened to a back room. A small wooden table was set in the center of the room next to a potbellied stove. A pot of coffee was set on the stove. Boxes of merchandise set stacked against the walls. The room smelled of dust and wood smoke. “Have a seat. I’ll pour us a cup of coffee.”
I pulled out a rickety chair from the table and sat down. “I don’t drink coffee. I prefer tea” I said.
Dunbar laughed. “We’re fresh out.” He turned to the wood stove, poured coffee, and then turned around. Dunbar set a cup in front of me then sat down across from me holding his, own cup. Breathing in the rich aroma, I took a tentative sip. The hot liquid burned my mouth. The coffee was stronger than any espresso I’d ever had at Starbucks. If I drank this stuff regularly, I’d die from acid reflux, I thought. “Good Lord that stuff is strong,” I said glancing at the middle-aged shopkeeper.
Dunbar laughed. He took a cautious sip of his coffee. “Yep. Old Martha likes her coffee hot enough to thaw out an iceberg and strong enough to bend a horseshoe.”
“What did she mean when she said am I who she thinks I am?” I asked.
Dunbar gave me a vague look and then glanced away. “We don’t need to get into that just yet.” I picked up my coffee cup, blew across the surface of the hot liquid, and took another sip. The brew wasn’t so bad once it cooled a bit.
Thinking about my situation, I figured that I must be dreaming. I reached up and pinched my cheek. No. I’m not dreaming.
Dunbar’s eyes widened. “What’d you do that for?”
Icy fear settled into my stomach. “I thought I was dreaming,” I said drumming my fingers on the tabletop.
Dunbar laughed and then slapped his hands on his knees. “If you’re dreamin’ then I’m dreamin’ too.”
If I’m not dreaming, maybe I’m hallucinating. Maybe Dunbar and this place aren’t real? Before I could lose my nerve, I reached up and pinched Dunbar on the nose.
Dunbar let out a snort and pulled away jumping back in his chair. “What the hell did you do that for?”
“I thought you weren’t real, that I was hallucinating,” I said raising my hands in surrender.
A puzzled look crossed Dunbar’s face. “Halluca-what?”
“I thought you weren’t real, that you were a part of my imagination.”
Dunbar shook his head. “Whoever heard of such a dammed thing? I’m as real as the next old boy.” The door squeaked open. Martha waddled in with a stack of clothes in her hands. She looked down at me, giving me a red-faced smile, and looked away. I looked down at my body. My shoes were gone and the rest of my clothes had almost dissolved away. Crossing my arms over my lap, I felt a flush come over me.
“My goodness. I’ll say you need some new clothes. If you’d waited any longer you would be sitting there in your birthday suit,” Martha said. She laid the pile of clothes on the table. Reaching out, I touched the rough cotton fabric.
“Yep. He’s down to rags and tatters,” Dunbar said.
“Thank you. Mrs. Dunbar. I don’t have any money with me.”
Dunbar glanced at me. “I reckon we’ll start you up an account. You can settle up when you find work. What kind of work is it that you do?” The sound of a mouse scurrying around caught my ear. I leaned forward, placed my elbows on the table, and took another drink of coffee.
“I’m an accountant,” I said.
Dunbar scratched his chin. “Mayhap, they could use some help at the bank? Anyhow. You’ll find something here in town.” Dunbar reached over and patted my forearm.
“Come on now Chad. Let this youngster get dressed before he loses the rags that are covering him now. Where’d you say you’re from young feller?” Mrs. Dunbar asked.
“New York City,” I said and then looked up at her and smiled.
She shook her head. “They don’t make things as durable in them big cities as they do here in the West.” Mr. and Mrs. Dunbar stepped out of the storage room so I could change. Stripped out of the rags that remained on my body, I put on a pair of red Long Johns. They were the kind with the flap in the back and then pulled on a pair of denim jeans. After buttoning up my pants, I put on a dark blue button-up shirt and a pair of black cowboy boots. Strutting across the storage room, I looked in a mirror.
Look at me, I’m cowboy Bob, I thought studying the image in the mirror. Dressed, I ambled back through the door and into the main storeroom. Dunbar stood behind the counter.
“I reckon you’ll want a shootin’ iron. We’ll put that on your tab too,” Dunbar said.
“What? A gun? No thank you. I’m pro-gun control. Guns scare me,” I said.
Dunbar shook his head. “Pro what? Suit yourself, but you won’t last long in this town without one. At least pick out a hat. The sun out here will cook your brain if you don’t.” Crossing the room, I looked at the hats. After studying them for a few seconds, I settled on a black short-brimmed cowboy hat. It had a rattlesnake hatband. My fingers caressed the course rattlesnake band. “Fine choice,” Dunbar said and handed me a ledger.
“I’ll go see about that job at the bank. Thank you for your kindness, and tell your wife thank you too,” I said dipping the quill into the ink well.
“You can tell ‘er yourself when she comes back from the privy,” Dunbar said.
“No. I’d best be looking for that job over at the bank,” I said.
“That will be three dollars and fifty cents. Put your John Hancock down here.”
I signed his ledger. “I’ll pay you as soon as I can.”
Dunbar gave me a friendly smile. “No hurry. I’m sure you’ll find work somewhere,” he said.
We shook hands. I stepped out the door and headed down the boardwalk. I didn’t plan to look for anything but a way back to Manhattan. The doorway of the saloon behind where I landed in the street might be the one to take me home I thought. I hurried down the boardwalk. My heartbeat was loud in my chest, my breathing accelerated and my palms began to sweat. What if I am stuck in this place forever? I wondered. People walking on the boardwalk and the people in the streets stopped and stared. The black and white mutt that had barked at us earlier ran up. It let out a ferocious bark and started nipping at my heels. A chicken pecked at bugs in the middle of the cross street that I had traversed with Dunbar. It let out a squawk and took flight. A small black feather floated down to the ground.
Stopping in my tracks, I looked around taking in the shabby wooden buildings. They looked in a state of disrepair. Everyone I had met so far plus the people on the street seemed familiar. The entire town seemed familiar. Then it hit me like a ten-pound bag of shit. Greedy Gulch. This is the town from the Mojave Kid’s Last Ride. That scared the dog shit out of me. For a few moments, I stood trembling. I wake up in the morning and head to work. When I step out of the front door of my apartment building, I find myself in the middle of a Western novel. In the novel, a minor character hangs around the edges. He first shows up stumbling into the middle of Main Street in front of a freight wagon. The writer doesn’t do much with him. He dies in the end, I thought.
Running across the street, I stumbled up onto the boardwalk. My heart pounded inside my chest and my breath came out in short little gasps. A big-breasted red-headed woman in a hoop skirt stood next to me. A horse at one of the hitching rails whinnied in fear. I bumped into the woman by accident.
“Why you ruffian! How dare you?” the woman said and slapped my face.
“I’m sorry, miss,” I said, touching my cheek, and stumbled into a skinny man wearing a black suit. “Excuse me,” I said. Elbowing my way through the crowded boardwalk, I stopped in front of the saloon. It was set next to the place in the street where I made my debut. The words painted on the false front of the building over the awning looked old and faded. The Last Chance Saloon, the words proclaimed. The saloon, like the rest of the town, looked in a state of disrepair. What paint that remained was peeling and parts of the buildings looked as though they held some dry rot. Tiny flakes of red and green paint lay on the boardwalk and blew in the breeze. “Well, that’s appropriate,” I said to myself. My eyes dropped to the batwing doors. “This may be my last chance.” Glancing over the batwing doors and into the dark interior of the saloon, I couldn’t see much. The smell of tobacco smoke, foul whisky, urine, and puke, floated through the doorway. The sound of people talking and a woman laughing drifted from the interior of the saloon. An off-key piano player banged away at the keys. My stomach growled and my heart thumped the insides of my chest. What if this is real? What if the door to my apartment building somehow transported me into the world of the Mojave Kid?
My legs shook. Sweat cropped up on my forehead and in the palms of my hands. I couldn’t control my breathing. That was a dangerous world. It was a world filled with outlaws, packing guns and they weren’t afraid to use them. It was a world filled with violent men who would fight at the drop of a hat and, they would toss down the hat. It was a world where cattle stampeded and where men died from rattlesnake bites. It was a world where people died in the desert from lack of water or died in mine cave-ins. It was a world where something that could kill you waited around every corner. It was not a world I wished to live in.
Clinching my eyes shut, I pushed through the batwing doors. I stumbled into the Last Chance Saloon. I hoped that when I opened them that I would find myself in my Manhattan apartment, or on a New York City street. The sound of the piano player and the laughter from inside the saloon ceased. I opened my eyes. Patrons of the Last Chance Saloon stared with their mouths agape. Even the old white-headed piano player sat on his piano stool turned away from the piano staring at me in wonder. He had a gravy stain on the front of his shirt.
“Come have a drink, lad. You look like you saw a ghost,” a red-headed green-eyed Irishman standing behind the bar said. Stumbling across the barroom, I wondered when this nightmare would end. Conversations resumed. The card payers resumed their game. The piano player banged away at the keys. I sat down on a barstool and had a good look around the room.
The Last Chance Saloon seemed like your typical cowboy bar. The kind that you would see on any TV Western or read about in your typical Western novel. Sawdust and peanut shells covered the floor. A brass railing ran along the bottom of the long Mahogany bar for the patrons to rest their feet on. A large mirror hung on the wall behind the bar. A picture of Lilly Lang Tree, a famous actress from the 1800s, adorned the wall next to the street. It hung on the wall to the left of the batwing doors. On the right side of the batwing doors hung a painting of Buffalo Bill. Paintings of various gunfighters and outlaws adorned the walls of the saloon. There were paintings of Wild Bill Hickok, Billy the Kid, Bat Masterson, Wyatt Earp, and Doc Holliday. Most of the paintings looked old and faded. Brass spittoons were set at each end of the bar.
“What ’ell you have me, lad?” Startled, I turned to face the bartender.
“Do you have Coke or Pepsi?” I asked.
The bartender gave me a strange look and then shook his head. “My name is Shawn McCoy. I’ve owned this place for several years now, and I’ve never heard of those drinks.”
I shrugged. “What do you have?”
McCoy wiped the bar down with a towel. “We have beer and whiskey.”
A sense of bravado passed through me. “What the hell. Give me a whisky.”
McCoy grinned. “Now there’s a lad after my own heart.” He set a shot glass on the bar. Picking up the shot glass, I lifted it to my nose. The dark liquor smelled potent. Several of the drinkers lining the bar stared. “Down the hatch,” McCoy said. My stomach churned and my hands shook. I would never have tried drinking whiskey at home.
What can it hurt? I downed the shot in one quick gulp. It seemed like I drank liquid fire. The whiskey burned, all the way down. Letting out a sputter, I coughed and then leaned over holding my stomach. McCoy reached over and slapped me on the back a couple of times.
“Easy lad. Don’t die on us,” McCoy said. The cowboys and miners lining the bar and sitting at the various tables laughed.
“Look at the tinhorn,” a sandy-headed cowboy sitting down at the bar said. He let out a mean-sounding laugh.
“Never you mind,” McCoy said. When I straightened up, he poured me another shot. “Have a hair of the dog.”
I raised my hands trying to wave him off. “I can’t pay for that. I don’t have any money,” I said.
McCoy smiled. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll start you a tab. You’re new in town. You’ll find work. I could use someone to clean up around this place.”
“Hey! tinhorn! Where are you from? I ain’t seen you around here,” the sandy-headed cowboy yelled. His voice boomed through the interior of the saloon. He looked as tough as nails. My knees shook and my heart quaked. Sweat formed up in the palms of my hands and on my forehead.
“N-New York City,” I stammered. Everyone laughed, except for Shawn McCoy.
“Not only a tinhorn but a city slicker all dressed up in fancy new clothes,” the cowboy said. He climbed to his feet and swaggered my way.
“Leave ‘em alone Barlow. This is our new Tale Spinner,” McCoy said.
“What do you mean by that? You’re the third person who’s said that to me so far,” I said. McCoy shrugged.
“Never mind. You’ll find out soon enough.” McCoy cleaned my shot glass with a towel and poured me another shot. Determined not to make a spectacle of myself, I downed the shot. It burned like the last one, but I managed not to let it show. My vision turned fuzzy for a few seconds.
“Hey tinhorn!” the cowboy yelled. A dark-haired saloon girl wearing a low-cut purple dress slid between the cowboy and me. I breathed in her fresh scent. My eyes dropped to the deep valley of cleavage between her breasts. Heat rose in my cheeks. The saloon girl’s dress had a split in it, which showed off a lot of, legs. She played with her long curly black hair twirling it around her fingers.
“Hey, handsome. Buy a girl a drink?” she said and then smiled. I looked at the bartender. McCoy grinned and poured her a shot. She downed it in one gulp. “What’s your name, handsome?” She ran her hand down my back. Chills shot through me.
“M-Merryweather. Brandon Merryweather,” I said.
“Come here, little sister. You need a real man, not this tinhorn,” the cowboy said. He grabbed the saloon girl around the waist and pulled her against his body. The jerking motion caused the front of the saloon girl’s dress to fall. Her breasts jutted forward and fall free. The cowboy’s hands found the saloon girl’s bosom.
“Craig Barlow! Get your filthy paws off me! If you want to play, you have to pay first!” the saloon girl yelled. The cowboy laughed. McCoy reached under the bar for something. I jumped to my feet. My knees quit shaking and my hands balled into fists.
“Leave her alone!” I yelled.
The cowboy laughed. “What are you gonna do, tinhorn?”
I raised my fists in front of my face. Who was I kidding? I’d never been in a fight. Usually, I got beat up and this was no exception.
“The tinhorn wants to fight?” the cowboy said. He shoved the saloon girl away and then lunged forward. He hit me with a hard right-hand fist, which connected with my left eye. Pain shot through my skull, I saw stars, and then the lights went out.
***
As always if you’d like to contact me feel free to leave a comment or message me. If you would like to hear about upcoming releases sign up for my author news letter. Peace Out!
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There is only twenty days left to order your copy of Tribes while it is in pre-sale and only $.99. When the release date comes, the price goes up to $2.99.
Straight from conspiracy theories on the internet, Tribes explores the premise of an alien invasion of Earth.
Earth’s top-secret Space Force is decimated when the Myrmidons, a race of ant-like creatures commonly known as the Brood, invade the Sol System. The Black Fleet and the Earth Defense Force Fleet, two breakaway societies whose sole mission is to protect the solar system flee and head to the Galactic Federation’s capital world. They address the federation council and bring help to fight the invaders. When the Myrmidons invade Earth and take out the power grid, the fabric of society breaks down. People band together for protection and flee the cities. They hide in the mountains and deserts forming into various tribes for protection.
John Carpenter, a US Army veteran is taken aboard a Brood ship and held as a slave. On Crylon-5, John is sold and forced on board a Myrmidon warship. He is trained to become a Mamluk, a warrior slave. In the process, John leads a slave rebellion and takes the ship with the help of his fellow slaves. The former slaves join forces with the Black Fleet and the Earth Defense Force Fleet and head back to Earth to rid the planet of the Brood. Will they be victorious and help user Earth into a new age of peace and prosperity, or will the Brood slaughter the population, taking humans as slaves and laying the planet to waste?https://www.amazon.com/Tribes-David-Donaghe-ebook/dp/B0B4MYVMQB/ref=sr_1_3?keywords=David+Donaghe&qid=1656779507&sr=8-3
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Click the link above to order your copy. Also, you only have 27 days left to order your copy of Don’t Bust the Piggy Bank: How to publish an eBook.
Don’t Bust the Piggy Bank: How to Publish an eBook is a common sense guide to self-publishing. You can write your novel, edit it, design a cover, and publish it without spending a lot of money. I wrote this book for the beginning author who is on a tight budget. This is not a get-rich-quick book. In this book, I reveal the things that I have learned along the way. I discuss how to write a damned good book, edit it, publish, and market it without busting the piggy bank. I also reveal my writing and editing process. I discuss the pros and cons of traditional publishing versus self-publishing. This is a basic guide for the beginning writer who is on a tight budget and doesn’t want to bust the piggy bank.https://www.amazon.com/Dont-Bust-Piggy-Bank-Publish-ebook/dp/B0B2LB3HYJ/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=David+Donaghe&qid=1656640948&sr=8-1
Click the link above the picture to order your copy before the price goes up on its release date.
I would also like to let you know that I have several of my books that are in the production phase to be released soon as Audiobooks. Enjoy the short story below, from Tales From the Lost Highway.
The Dark Rider
The Dark Rider rolled down the highway, traveling through the Arizona night. He pulled into the High Noon Saloon at midnight. Overhead, a dark ominous cloud covered the sky and a cold breeze blew across the land. Harley Davidson motorcycles filled the parking lot. Loud music emanated, from the building. The Dark Rider parked his black 2009 Harley Davidson Night Train in the shadows. He was underneath an elm tree at the edge of the gravel parking lot and killed the motor. He put the bike on its side stand and crossed the parking lot. He stepped on the boardwalk, standing in the shadows away from the door.
The front door of the bar opened. The light illuminated the area in front of the door, and the Dark Rider stepped back further into the shadows. Tracy had been up on the bar dancing topless for the last half hour. The bright lights of the barroom caused sweat to glisten off her tight body. She decided to take a break, so she stepped outside to cool off and smoke a cigarette. She stood in the doorway, looking out over the parking lot. Her wife-beater t-shirt clung to her body outlining her ample breasts. The cold night air caused her nipples to push up cotton. She took a pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of her Daisy Duke shorts. Shaking out a smoke, she noticed someone standing in the shadows.
Her hands shook when she put the smoke in her mouth. “Hello,” she said, stepping into the darkness. A lighter flared in her face, she lit her cigarette and said, “Thank you.” A nervous flutter of fear and excitement passed through her. She looked into the dark, feral eyes of the stranger peering out from the hood of his black cloak. A tingling sensation shot through her loins.
“Don’t mention it. Why don’t you step over here next to the building and we’ll talk,” the Dark Rider said.
Feeling lost in a fog, she was powerless to resist. Tracy stepped further into the darkness. She almost tripped when she reached the edge of the boardwalk. The Dark Rider took her arm, steadying her.
“You’re a bit drunk,” the Dark Rider whispered. “Here, let’s lean you up against the wall. I don’t want you falling, down.”
“You got me there,” Tracy said, leaning up against the side of the clubhouse. “I am a bit tipsy.” She took a hit from her cigarette and then dropped her hand holding the smoke to her side. The Dark Rider leaned against her; he gave her a quick kiss, his hand found her left breast and his teeth found her neck. Tray’s eyes shot wide open. The vamp sucked her neck. She felt light-headed. Her hand holding the cigarette shook, the cigarette fell to the ground and she soon followed.
Tracy woke up a half-hour later feeling cold and dizzy. Her stomach felt sick. She remembered the tall, dark stranger. He whispered something in her ear right before she fell. “Go to him,” he whispered. She was sure that he meant Chico. That’s right. Chico will know what to do, she thought. At the front door, she paused for a few seconds. One of the dancers opened the door.
“Can I come in?” she whined.
“Of course, you can come in. Girl, it’s cold outside. You look as white as a sheet. Where you been Tracy?” the dark-headed dancer said.
I passed out. I don’t feel so good.”
“Come on in here. I’ll pour you a shot of Tequila.”
The dark-haired dancer led Tracy back into the bar. All eyes turned to her, noticing her pale complexion, but no one looked at the mirror behind the bar. If they would have, they wouldn’t have seen Tracy’s reflection. Once inside the clubhouse, Tracy made a beeline to the bar where Chico sat drinking with Lead Belly and Tiny. She climbed onto a barstool and snuggled up next to Chico.
“Trace you look like you’re about frozen to death. Are you all right?” Chico said and put his arm around her. Barbra, the dark-headed dancer went behind the bar and poured Tracy her shot.
Tracy tossed it back and said, “I’m fine now.” She nuzzled Chico’s neck and put her hand on his thigh. A deep hunger filled her belly and for a minute, she thought that she was going to be sick. “Why don’t we go into the back room and have our, own little party?” She glanced up at Barbra; Barbra nodded and then arched her eyebrows at another one of the dancers.
“Sure, why not?” Chico said and rose to his feet. He looked at Lead Belly and Tiny. “What about you guys? You feel like having a private party in the back?”
Lead Belly laughed. “You must be trying to get me killed. Janet would skin me alive.”
“What about you Tiny?” Chico asked.
The massive biker shook his head. “No way bro. Those young things like that will kill you.”
Chico nodded at two prospects, and they followed him, along with the women into the back room. Chico plopped down on a couch; Tracy crawled onto his lap and took off her shirt while Barbra turned on the music. Tracy brushed her breasts against Chico’s face and then moved her mouth to his neck. The other girls joined them on the couch. Their clothes came off, and their bodies became entwined as Tracy lured them into a hot sweaty orgy of sex and pain. Before the party was over they all passed out on the couch. Tracy had bitten them all, including the other dancers from the bar.
***
Chico woke up, three hours later, and stumbled out of the back room. The dancers and the prospects were gone. Sweat covered Chico’s brow, chills ran up and down his spine, his head throbbed and his stomach lurched. For a few seconds, he leaned on the doorjamb, thinking that he might pass out.
“The dead have arisen. We were gonna go in there and check on you,” Lead Belly said.
“Where’d everyone go?” Chico asked.
“Everyone’s gone home, but us,” Tiny said.
Chico glanced over at Tiny, Dirty Dan, and Lead Belly. His vision was fuzzy. “What time is it anyway?”
“Almost two-thirty,” Lead Belly said.
“God, I feel like a warm bag of shit. I think I’m coming down with something.”
“You don’t look so good. I better give you a ride home,” Dirty Dan said.
“No, no, I’ll take my bike. You guys close up the bar.” Chico stumbled across the room. He pushed through the batwing doors of the bar, and almost tripped off the edge of the boardwalk. He staggered across the parking lot. He climbed onto his scooter and pulled out onto the highway, and headed to town. Weaving around on the road, he was barely able to control the motorcycle. He glanced in the rearview mirror, and his eyes widened in horror. He couldn’t see his, own reflection.
“Oh God, oh God, what happened in that back room?” Chico said to himself. Pulling up to a stoplight, Chico glanced over to the curb and saw a redheaded prostitute.
“Hey, lover. Let’s party,” the woman said.
Feeling a hunger so deep that his whole body quaked, Chico parked his scooter. He staggered over to the prostitute and grabbed her.
“Hey! You have to pay first!” the red-headed hooker yelled and then screamed.
Chico jerked her to him by the shoulders, his teeth found her neck and he began to feed.
Across town, the Dark Rider parked his motorcycle in the shadows next to a Seven-Eleven. He waited, sitting on his scooter, for the right person to come along. Finally, he saw a young housewife pull up. She went inside the store and came out with a bag of groceries. Halfway to her car, she dropped a two-liter of Pepsi.
“Shit,” the woman said, and bent down to pick up the bottle of soda. The Dark Rider knelt, down and offered his hand to help her to her feet.
“Don’t worry about that,” the Dark Rider said. The two-liter bottle fell back to the ground. “Let’s step over by my motorcycle and talk,” he said leading her into the darkness. Unable to resist, she followed. After he bit her, the Dark Rider whispered in her ear and said, “Go home. Make love to your husband. Make him one of us.” Dazed and reeling, the young woman sat behind the wheel of her car and headed home.
***
Three days later
Tiny, Dirty Dan, and Lead Belly sat at the bar inside the High Noon Saloon. Fifteen patched members and four prospects sat at the bar in the clubhouse. Their wives and girlfriends were there too. Bikers guarded the doors and windows and a sense of tension filled the air. Janet sat at the bar, next to Lead Belly holding his hand in fear.
“What are we going to do when it gets dark?” Janet asked.
“We’ve got about a gallon of holy water. We’ve got several crucifixes plus some garlic. We won’t let them get in,” Lead Belly said.
“Yeah, but we can’t stay here forever. I’d be safer out at the cabin,” Tiny said.
“I know. We’ll head out there in the morning. It’d be too dangerous at night,” Dirty Dan said.
During the past three days, the virus had spread. Not only through the Road Dogs members, but also throughout the town as well. As the sun went down, vampires filled the streets. They felt a hunger that only human blood would satisfy.
“I can’t get over Chico becoming one of those things,” Lead Belly said.
“Where are these Halo Riders? You’d think they would show up at a time like this?” Dirty Dan said.
“I don’t know man. You never know about that crew,” Tiny said.
The sound of moaning filled the parking lot. “Here they come!” a prospect guarding the front door said. Vampires filled the gravel parking lot and staggered up onto the boardwalk. Chico stumbled up to the front door and knocked.
“Let me in, man it’s me, Chico.”
“I can’t bro. You’re sick,” the prospect said.
“Open the door. I’m not sick. I feel fine bro.”
The prospect opened the door a crack
“No!” Dirty Dan yelled, jumping to his feet.
“Don’t look in his eyes!” Lead Belly yelled, but it was too late. The prospect opened the door a crack, and his eyes locked onto Chico’s.
“Hey bro. Aren’t you gonna invite me inside?” Chico asked.
The prospect seemed to fall into a trance. “Sure bro. Come on in,” the prospect said.
Chico pushed through the door, and took the prospect to the floor, sinking his teeth into his neck. The horde of bloodsuckers in the parking lot followed him inside. Dirty Dan, Tiny and Lead Belly opened up on the undead vampires with their guns and ran out the back. Half of the people inside the club didn’t make it out. Lead Belly jumped on his scooter, Janet jumped on behind him and he gunned the throttle. A rooster tail of dirt and gravel flew into the air. Dirty Dan, Tiny, and eight other patched members, along with two prospects followed.
“Let’s head out to the cabin!” Lead Belly yelled.
They cranked the throttle heading west, but when they came around the curve, Lead Belly hit his brakes. A bottleneck of crashed and burned-out cars and trucks blocked the highway. A gaggle of vampires milled about among the wreckage.
“We’ll never make it past that!” Dirty Dan yelled.
“Where else can we go?” Tiny asked.
“Let’s turn around. We’ll go to that little Baptist church on the edge of town. It’s holy ground. We’ll be safe there,” Lead Belly said.
They spun around, cranking their throttles, and headed back toward Harlem Springs. A few minutes later, they pulled up to the church. A crowd of vamps blocked the entranceway to the parking lot. The Road dogs gunned their throttles. They fought their way through and rolled into the parking lot. Parking their scooters, they hurried up to the front door and entered their place of refuge.
***
Hey bro, this is Cave Man again. It seems like the bros down on Earth can’t keep out of trouble these days. We were in the middle of a party up in Biker Heaven. Elvis and Roy Orbison were rocking out and we were having a good time. The folks in charge up here called out the Halo Riders. They mentioned something about some blood-sucking vampire that folks called the Dark Rider. They said that the Road Dogs were in trouble. I tucked my bottle of Jack into my vest pocket we climbed onto our spirit bikes and headed back.
Our bikes changed into older Harley Davidson motorcycles as we touched down. We were on the outskirts of Harlem Springs Arizona. We motored toward town but had to pull up short at the town limits. We saw a gaggle of the undead SOBs blocking the road. It was well after dark, and they were hungry for blood. Vampires think they own the night, but they’ve never come up against a group of bikers from the great beyond. When one of my bros in the Road Dogs is in trouble, there’s no stopping me. I took a vow, a long time ago. Road Dogs in life, Road Dogs in death. Damned if I’ll let some blood-sucking vampire, drag a bro’s soul down to hell if I can help it.
The bloodsuckers had us surrounded. I laughed when one smelly vampire raised her hands and lunged forward trying to give me a big hickey on my neck. She wore a dirty red dress that sported a lot of undead cleavage. Already you could smell the decay rolling off her unwashed body. I reached into my vest, grabbed some garlic from my vest pocket, took a chaw, and breathed in her face. She let out a hiss, jumping back and the skin on her face began to boil. Little Danny Boy slapped a crucifix against the forehead of a vamp wearing a policeman’s uniform. The skin on the vamp’s forehead began to sizzle; he let out an evil screech and jumped back.
Old School pulled a Super Soaker from underneath his vest. Three vamps approached him. “You undead bastards ain’t never seen holy water like this. I filled this up from the stream behind the clubhouse in Biker Heaven. That stream is a runoff from the spring of living water inside the emerald city. It doesn’t get any more holy than that,” he said and opened up on the vamps with the Super Soaker. The vampires burst into flames and ran around like a flock of chickens with their heads chopped off. We motored on through the undead crowd and pulled into the parking lot of the Baptist church.
We parked our scooters next to the ones already in the parking lot and headed up to the front door. I rapped on the door and the door squeaked open. I looked into the eyes of a bear of a man with massive biceps, and a black woolly beard, wearing a black suit. I grinned, recognizing a warrior with a pure heart. Dirty Dan stepped around the preacher and said, “It’s about time you guys got here. We lost Chico.”
We did some hugging and back-slapping. “We came as soon as we got the word,” I said and then looked at the preacher. “Introduce me to the sky pilot.”
“This is Reverend Blackwood. William Blackwood. His wife and kids are here, plus a few people from his church. We have a few of the bros here plus a few of the old ladies. The rest of the club, shit. Sorry reverend, the rest of the town got themselves infected.”
“Call me Pastor Bill. It’s good to meet you. I’m sorry it can’t be under better circumstances,” the preacher said. We shook hands.
“It’s okay Pastor Bill, you look like one of us,” I said taking in his stocky features and his long black beard. He looked like a refrigerator with a big head. “Are you ready for war?” I asked.
“I can do all things, through the power of the Lord God who strengthens me,” he said.
I nodded, pulled him to me, and gave him a big hug. “I like that. You’ve got spunk and a pure heart. Those smelly vamps don’t stand a chance.”
“We’ve set up living quarters in the fellowship hall. We have food and coffee if you people are hungry,” the reverend said.
The Halo Riders grinned. “Let’s go put on the feed bag,” I said and we followed the preacher into the fellowship hall. After we finished eating, I glanced about at the people in the fellowship hall. My eyes locked onto the preacher. “Say, preacher man. You wouldn’t happen to have any wooden stakes and a few wooden mallets lying around anywhere, would you?” I asked.
The preacher nodded. “I have some in the basement, but they’re not too sharp. We used them when we built the new parking lot.”
“How about holy water? Do you have any holy water?” I asked.
The preacher shook his head. “No. We’re not Catholic. We don’t do holy water.”
“What about regular water? You could bless it and say a prayer over it.”
“That I could do,” Pastor Bill said.
“We’ll need several gallons.”
“We have a couple of fifty-five-gallon drums in the basement and a hand pump. We could fill up some gallon jugs. At this church, we believe in being prepared.”
“That’s a good thing,” I said and glanced at Dirty Dan.
Dirty Dan nodded and then looked at the two prospects. “You guys go with the reverend and get those stakes and help him fill up those jugs of water.”
The preacher led the prospects down into the basement. I finished my supper and poured myself a cup of coffee. I sat down next to Little Danny Boy and said, “What do you think?”
“About the preacher? He’s a fighter. He’ll stand and be true.”
I nodded. “I guess you want to get an early start?” I asked.
“As soon as the sun comes up and they head back to their nest. We’ll fan out across the town and start putting the stake to them old boys.”
“What about Chico?” I asked.
Little Danny Boy let go with a long sigh. “That depends on if we can find this one they call, the Dark Rider. If we take him out, then Chico has a chance, but if not, you know what we have to do.”
“Yeah, yeah I do. When it’s time, I’ll take care of it. You don’t think the boys in charge upstairs might bend the rules and give us a hand?”
“You mean like a miracle? I doubt it.”
I glanced about the fellowship hall at the people from the church. They looked scared, but they also looked determined. These are good folks, I thought. If it comes down to it, they’ll stand and fight.
The prospects came back with the wooden stakes and several gallon jugs filled with water. The Road Dogs pulled out their knives and we spent the rest of the evening sharpening the wooden stakes.
We knocked off at about three AM and crashed for two hours. A half-hour before sunrise, we rolled out. The reverend made coffee and insisted that we say a prayer before we went to war. We gathered in the sanctuary, linked hands and the preacher led us in prayer. I felt a powerful force of goodness and light pass through us.
“Lord as we set out to do battle against the forces of evil we ask that you protect us. Send your archangel Michael to help us and watch over us. We will send these evil ones back to hell where they belong,” the preacher said.
“A man, reverend. Now if you’ll say a blessing over these water jugs, we’ll get to work.” The reverend nodded and said a prayer over the water. We divided the wooden stakes, putting them in canvas duffle bags. We put a wooden mallet in each bag along with a super soaker squirt gun and a jug of water. When we stepped to the front door of the church, the reverend joined us.
We headed out the front door and tied our gear onto the back of our bikes, and then climbed on. We fired up the scooters. The preacher climbed into his little pickup truck and followed us out of the parking lot and onto the street. We cruised the town taking in the empty, litter-filled streets. Dirty Dan pulled over in front of a shopping center and we pulled in behind him.
“What’s the plan?” Dirty Dan asked.
“Let’s split up, and canvas the street. We’ll check every building on the street and then move to the next block,” I said.
“What do we do if we find Chico?” Tiny asked.
“Mark the outside of the building. Use a can of red spray paint. We’ll come back to him after we finish with the rest of the town,” I said.
“What about this Dark Rider?”
“If you find him, come and get me. The Halo Riders will deal with him. I have a feeling that that old boy is going to be hard to kill,” I said.
We moved into the buildings of the shopping center. Pastor Bill and I stepped through the glass doors of a Basher’s grocery store. Cans of food, bags of potato chips, and other trash littered the floor. The smell of rotten meat and produce filled the air. We found five vamps sleeping in the back room. I knelt and placed a crucifix on the forehead of the former store manager. The vamp’s skin sizzled, his eyes shot open and he let out a blood-curdling screech. The putrid smell of burning flesh filled the air. Pastor Bill put the point on a stake against the vamp’s chest and drove it home with a wooden mallet. Blood splattered against his face. The rest of the vamps woke up and shot up to the ceiling, flying around like a barrel of monkeys on crack. I pulled a Super Soaker out of the duffle bag, handed it to Pastor Bill, and took one for myself. We opened up on the smelly vampires with the Super Soakers. When the holy water touched their skin, they burst into flames. Finished inside Bashers, I glanced at the preacher and grinned.
“How you makin’ out preach?”
The reverend shrugged. A resolute look crossed his face. “No one said that going about the Lord’s business would be easy,” he said.
I grinned and slapped the preacher on the back. “That’s the spirit, Pastor Bill. I knew you were a fighter when I first laid eyes on you. You’re known, over on the other side as a hard charger. Let’s check out this record store,” I said motioning to the music store next to the market.
The preacher laughed. “They’re called CDs now,” he said.
We headed into the music store. I stopped, checking out the debris covering the floor and the broken windows. A cold breeze whispered through the store.
“This place looks empty,” the preacher said.
A rotten smell wafted across the room. “I don’t think so. Let’s check in the back,” I said. We went behind the counter and stepped into a dark musty storage room. A bare light bulb hung from the ceiling with a twine cord that you pulled to turn on the light. I saw a smelly vamp sleeping underneath a threadbare, moldy Army blanket. It was the chubby, former music store clerk. His white shirt was in tatters and blood-soaked his black slacks. “I’ll take care of this one, Preach,” I said and stepped forward. The preacher grabbed my arm.
“No, I’ll do this one. I knew this young boy.” The reverend stepped forward. He removed the tattered Army blanket and stuck the tip of a stake against the young man’s chest. “I’m sorry, Timothy.”
When the preacher touched the young man’s chest with the tip of the stake, the chubby vampire’s eyes shot open. He let out a hiss and spit in the preacher’s face. Pastor Bill drove the point home. Blood spewed into the preacher’s face, the vamp’s legs kicked and he died, this time for good. I felt a presence brush past me.
Finished inside the music store, we headed down the street, searching each building. We left the business district behind. We searched several houses and rendezvoused at the motorcycles two hours later.
“Did anyone find Chico or The Dark Rider?” Tiny asked.
No one replied. “We’ve still got most of the town to search, but we may not find that dude they call the Dark Rider here in town. He might be hiding in some abandoned building or house on the outskirts somewhere,” I said.
“Did anyone find some live people?” Lead Belly asked.
Old school nodded. “Tiny and I found a family hidin’ out in their basement. We gave them some holy water and painted a cross on their front door.”
“I’d say that less than half of the people that lived here are still alive,” I said, “but they’ll rebuild.”
“We’d best get back to work. We’ve got lots of work to do, and miles to go before we sleep,” Pastor Bill said. “Sundown comes early this time of year.”
I chuckled. “I told you this bible slinger was a fighter, and he likes poetry too. After this is over, he’ll probably go and buy himself a motor scooter.”
“I bet he’d love a spirit, bike,” Little Danny Boy said.
“A spirit bike? What’s that?” Pastor Bill asked.
“I know you don’t ride reverend, but try to think of your dream bike, and then multiply that by one hundred,” I said.
“I used to ride. I used to have a Triumph Bonneville. It was a sweet machine, now let’s roll up our sleeves and go to work.”
We searched the rest of the town, street by street. We dispatched the blood-sucking vampires, wherever we found them. We had one major dust-up in the high school gymnasium with a squad of undead cheerleaders. When we stepped into the gym, they were all over us like a cyclone. They waved their pompoms in the air, while they dived down at us from up near the ceiling. Their cheerleader uniforms were in tatters. They showed off a lot of pasty white flesh. That didn’t stop them from trying to latch on to our necks with their fangs to bleed us dry. We opened up, on them with our super soakers and they went down in flames, lighting up the gym. Sundown found us on the edge of town and we took refuge at a small Catholic church. We motored into the parking lot, parked our scooters and the preacher parked his pickup. We stepped up to the front door. I banged on the door.
“If you demons think you’re coming in here, you got another thing comin’. You’d a better chance at kicking the leprechaun’s ass and takin’ his gold. This here’s holy ground.”
I let out a chuckle. “Another one of God’s warriors.”
“Father Murphy. It’s me, Pastor Bill. We’re not infected. Let us in,” Pastor Bill said.
A short stocky, redheaded Irish priest opened the door and we stepped inside the church.
A group of ten to twelve of the priest’s parishioners had gathered inside the church. They looked tired and scared. Outside, storm clouds gathered over the land.
“It looks as if we’ve got a storm blowing in,” the priest said. A large gust of wind rattled the stained glass windows of the church.
An eerie feeling shot down my spine. “This storm doesn’t feel right. It seems like something right from the pits of hell,” I said.
“The dark forces at work in this town are, upset about the work we did today,” Pastor Bill said.
“Maybe so,” I said. “Father, the bros and I are about as hungry as an anorexic polar bear. You wouldn’t happen to have anything to eat?” I asked.
The redheaded Irish priest laughed. “The ladies fried up some chicken in the fellowship hall. If you’ll follow me,” the priest said. We followed Father Murphy into the fellowship hall and the ladies from the church set out a fine spread. They had folding tables set up along with folding chairs. We sat down at the end of the building near a blazing fireplace. The church ladies brought us food. They brought plates filled with fried chicken, potato salad, rolls, and fresh vegetables. After we finished eating, I leaned back in my chair and stifled a belch.
“What’s the plan now?” Little Danny Boy asked.
“We stay put until daylight and then search the outlying areas outside of town,” I said.
“Do you think there will be any vamps out roaming tonight?” Old School asked.
A thunderclap shook the church and outside, rain hammered the landscape.
I paused. “I don’t think so. We took care of most of them. We may have to deal with a few of the Devil’s imps,” I said.
“What about Chico and the Dark Rider?” Tiny asked.
I paused, for a moment, thinking. “They’ll be out on the prowl, but they won’t step foot on the church property. It’s holy ground.”
Pastor Bill stuck his head in the doorway of the fellowship hall. “Father Murphy and I are going to hold a prayer meeting in the sanctuary. You could join us if you like,” he said.
“Thank you reverend, but the bros and I will get comfortable around this fireplace and try to get some rest. I have a feeling that it’s going to be a long night,” I said.
Once Pastor Bill and Father Murphy left the fellowship hall, I pulled out a bottle of Jack. The good kind from Biker Heaven, not that stuff they sell on Earth, took a shot and passed the bottle around. “I thought those sky pilots were never going to leave us alone. An old boy could die of thirst,” Fat Bob said.
“They don’t know any better. It’s not about what you put in your gut that counts, it’s what’s inside your heart,” I said.
Outside, the storm continued to shake the windows and rattle the walls. We huddled planning our search of the outlying areas. We had been in the fellowship hall for about three hours. Father Murphy and Pastor Bill poked their heads in the door.
“You lads might want to come and see this,” Father Murphy said.
“What’s happenin’?” I asked.
“We got visitors,” Pastor Bill said.
I climbed to my feet and followed the sky pilots to the front door of the church. The Halo Riders and the rest of the Road Dogs followed along behind us. A little girl who looked to be no more than nine years old sat on the front pew holding her mother’s hand. A scared look crossed her face. I give her a grin. “Don’t worry little sister. Things are gonna get better,” I said.
The priest opened the front door of the church and gale force winds almost blew the door out of his hand. I stepped out onto the front porch and glanced out at the street. Chico and the Dark Rider sat on their scooters at the entrance to the parking lot.
“Cave Man. It’s me, Chico. Bring the bros out here to the street. We need to talk. Road Dogs in life and Road dogs in death, remember?” Chico said. He glanced at the Dark Rider. “Come serve the master.”
Glancing up, I noticed a demonic host hovering in the air, above their heads.
“I serve a master, but it ain’t that blood suckin’ SOB. My master sits on the throne in the emerald city west of Biker Heaven.”
“I’m still the president of this chapter! Get the bros out here!” Chico demanded.
“I don’t take orders from blood-sucking vampires. You don’t know what you’re saying. It’s not your fault that he talked that little bitch into biting you on the neck but don’t worry. We’ll deal with you and your blood-sucking master tomorrow morning,” I said.
The Dark Rider let out a screech launching himself through the air. Chico launched himself through the air behind him. Father Murphy pushed me out of the way and slammed a crucifix against the Dark Rider’s chest. The vamp’s clothes caught on fire and his skin sizzled. The smell of burning decayed flesh filled the air. The Dark Rider fell back onto his back and let out a blood-curdling scream when his back touched the holy ground. He leaped to his feet, hopping around like a frog on a hotbed of coals, and flew back through the air toward the street. His back looked burned and smoke billowed from his feet. I lifted my hand and a bolt of blue light hit Chico in his upper chest. He tumbled through the air and landed on the street. The demonic host attacked.
Both Father Murphy and Pastor Bill Stood their ground. They held their crucifixes in the air. Light radiated from the crosses. The Halo Riders stepped up, flinging balls of light and firing bolts of lightning with their gats. I fired my 357 at an ugly two-headed demon with a face full of scaly warts. Bluish-green lightning shot from the barrel of my pistol. When it hit the evil SOB, he exploded in a flash of white light. An ugly little demon stabbed Fat Bob with his sword. Old School slammed his knife into the top of the demon’s head and it exploded. Fat Bob stumbled to his knees, while I mixed it up with two hooded demons in black robes. I stood my ground slashing with my knife and shooting my 357.
I was about to get overrun by the evil shits, but my pops and Teddy bear joined the fight. The rest of the Road Dogs looked on in shock. The attack broke off.
“This ain’t over!” Chico yelled and climbed onto his scooter.
The Dark Rider stood next to his chopper for a second. “You road scum will be my minions for eternity. I’ll dine on your blood while your bodies rot,” the Dark Rider said. His voice was barely above a whisper, but the sound floated on the dissipating wind.
“We’ll see about that come daylight, asshole,” I said.
The Dark Rider climbed onto his chopper and he burned rubber. Chico smoked his tires and peeled out after him. The skies cleared and the demonic host hovering over the land disappeared.
I glanced over at the two sky pilots. “You two need to start ridin’ motorcycles and prospect into the club. The Road Dogs could use a couple of Chaplains,” I said. “Especially a couple of hard chargers like you two.” Old School helped Fat Bob to his feet, and we went back inside the church.
***
The night passed slowly, the storm passed and there were no more attacks on the church. We heard Chico and The Dark Rider cruising up and down the street, trying to feed the hunger. We tried to get some sleep but most of the bros seemed too keyed up to rest. The sun poked its warm fingers across the landscape at five-thirty AM. We gathered our gear and prepared to go on the hunt. After tanking up on coffee and doughnuts, we gathered in the sanctuary. Pastor Bill and Father Murphy insisted on saying a quick prayer. We gathered in a circle and took each other’s hands.
“Good Lord we ask for your protection as we go into battle. We know that these evil creatures think that they are immortal and untouchable. Greater is he that is within me than he that is in the world.”
I glanced around the circle and had to laugh. There stood several hairy, tattooed bikers holding hands. Their eyes closed listening to every word of the prayer. Once the sky pilots finished praying, I slapped Pastor Bill on the back and said, “Time to go to work. Why don’t you stay here with Father Murphy and his flock?”
“I’m going with you,” Pastor Bill said.
“Me too,” Father Murphy added.
“Are you sure? This is going to be bloody,” I said.
Both the priest and the reverend nodded. “I know where they might be hiding. There’s that old house out on Sidewinder Road,” Pastor Bill said. “An old couple and their teen-aged son live there, but it’s the perfect place.”
“I wouldn’t put it past the Dark Rider to turn the old couple if he wanted their house,” I said.
“Then there’s the Beckett house. It’s out by the highway, about ten miles east of town. That house has been abandoned for years,” Father Murphy said.
“We’ll check the places closer in first then we’ll head further out,” I said.
We packed our gear. The Road Dogs fired up their scooters and headed out. Father Murphy and Pastor Bill followed along behind in Pastor Bill’s pickup truck. We searched every abandoned, building, and empty house near the outskirts of town. We found nothing.
“Where to now?” Dirty Dan asked.
I shrugged. “Why don’t we take a ride out to Sidewinder Road?”
We rolled out of town heading east on a two-lane pothole-riddled highway. The road snaked its way south through the surrounding hillside. Socorro cactus lined both sides of the road. We cranked the throttle getting lost in the wind. Pastor Bill and Father Murphy followed the motorcycles in the pastor’s pickup truck. About ten miles outside of town, we pulled off onto a dirt road that led to an old farmhouse. We slowed down on the dirt and then pulled up in front of the rickety old house. To the left of the house set an old rustic barn that looked as if you leaned on it, that it might fall, down. I climbed off the scooter, pulled a bottle of Jack from my vest pocket, and took a shot. The two sky pilots gave me a dirty look.
“Let’s search the house first. Then we’ll have a look inside the barn,” I said to my bros.
I stepped up onto the porch and almost fell through. Much of the wood underneath my feet was rotten.
“Whoa there, bro. Watch out,” Old School said. He stepped up onto the porch behind me and took my arm.
We entered the house and I stood for a second gazing around the living room. Someone had overturned the furniture. They broke out windows and trash along with tiny pieces of glass littered the hardwood floor.
“The place looks disserted,” Pastor Bill said.
“No, there’s someone here. I can feel a presence. Can’t you?” I asked.
Pastor Bill paused for a second. “Now that you mention it, I do.”
“It smells like something crawled in here and died,” Father Murphy added.”
“Let’s see if this place has a basement or a cellar,” I said.
We fanned out, searching the house, and inside the kitchen; I found a small wooden door leading down to a damp cellar.
“I don’t know if I want to go down there,” Tiny said, gazing down the ramshackle wooden staircase into the dark vault below.
“Yeah, but we’ve got it to do. If these damned bloodsuckers are still here, they’d be down there,” I said and stepped down the first step. Tiny stepped down behind me, followed by Pastor Bill, Father Murphy, and the rest of the Road Dogs. The smell wafting up from below hit me like a freight train.
“God. That smells like ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag,” Tiny said.
“Yeah, these vamps are some stinky boys,” I said and let out a chuckle. At the bottom of the staircase, I sat my duffle bag down on the floor and retrieved a flashlight. I panned it around the interior of the dark underground chamber. I pointed the light into a dark corner and then moved it to the other side of the room.
“Stop. Go back. Shine your light back into that corner, lad,” Father Murphy said. I shined the flashlight back in the corner and saw what looked like an old comforter. “There’s something under that old blanket.”
“It looks like, someone’s foot,” I said. We crossed the underground room and I knelt, down, and pulled the comforter away.
What had once been an old farmer in tattered bib overalls, lurched up from the floor letting out a feral growl. His blood-red eyes glowed in the dark basement, and beside him, what had once been his wife, jumped to her feet. They had both joined the ranks of the undead. The farmer, now a full-fledged vampire, knocked me over backward bringing his mouth down to my neck. His undead wife jumped on Tiny knocking him backward.
“You smelly bitch,” Tiny said and punched her in the nose, knocking her to the floor.
I rolled from underneath her undead husband and gave him the toe of my boot. He squealed jumping back when the silver tip on the toe of my boot touched his side. The place where my toe touched his side burst into flames. Father Murphy and Pastor Bill stepped forward holding their crucifixes in the air. Light emanated from the crucifixes filling the room. The vamps retreated into their corner. I pulled a Super Soaker from my duffle bag and hosed them down with holy water. The vamps let out a screech and flew up to the ceiling flying around like a couple of cats with their tails on fire.
“It’s easier when we catch these SOBs napping,” Dirty Dan said. He opened up on the vamps with his Super Soaker. The farmer and his wife burst into flames and fell to the floor. We waited for a few minutes for the fire to die down and then I stepped up to the chard corpse that had once been a farmer.
“In the end, it all comes down to the basics,” I said and drove a stake through his heart. Father Murphy took care of the farmer’s wife.
“What now?” Little Danny Boy, who stood watching the show with Old School on the staircase said.
“Now, let’s go check the barn,” I said.
We found a pack of the undead bastards in the hayloft above the barn. What must have once been the farmer’s son lay sleeping with five of his girlfriends. They looked to be in their late teens or early twenties when they joined the ranks of the undead. We found them underneath the hay. They must have just finished with an orgy of sorts. All the undead females were either naked or half-naked. They jumped up out of the hay like a pack of she-wolves and were on us like stink on a dead skunk. With their titties flappin’, and their hair flying, they flew up into the air. They let out a collective shriek. They dropped down upon us slashing with their long nails and biting with their teeth. Their undead boyfriend stepped back, a cocky grin crossing his face, and watched the show. A blonde-headed vamp clamped her legs around my chest. Her breasts brushed the side of my face and leaned back trying to gouge my eyes out. Pushing her away, I grabbed my Super Soaker and hosed her down with holy water. She let out a screech and burst into flames. Two of the she-devils had a hold of Old School and they were pulling his hair, while another tried to bite his neck. Old School fell back, and one of the vixens landed on top of him with her crotch in his face. She grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head against the wooden floor of the hayloft. I let out a chuckle and hosed her down.
Being a biker, all though one from the other side of the grave, I like a wet t-shirt contest. This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. The female vamp burst into flames, the barn caught fire and we beat a hasty retreat. The vamps had nowhere to go. They would either die in the flames or leave the barn. Then the sunlight would turn them into crispy critters. We stood watching the barn burn and listened to their screams. We stood there until the barn was nothing more than a pile of smoldering ashes.
“We’re burning daylight,” Pastor Bill said.
I nodded. “Yeah, let’s go check out this Beckett House. Let’s ride,” I said to the Road Dogs. We hit the highway, heading back toward town. Pastor Bill and Father Murphy followed along in the pickup truck. When we reached Harlem Springs, we took the main highway and headed east. Ten miles outside of town, we pulled up to an old Victorian-style mansion. It looked abandoned for at least a century. I stepped up onto the front porch and a warm summer breeze caused the screen door to bag open. The old oak front door squeaked on its hinges when I opened it. We stepped into a dusty old parlor. Little Danny Boy and Old School stepped up beside me. Little Danny boy sighed.
“They’re here. I can feel it,” Little Danny Boy said.
“I know. I can feel it too. There’s three of them,” I said.
“Who’s the third?” Old School asked.
“One’s Chico, the other’s this Dark Rider. I can feel that evil SOB’s presence the most, but I can’t tell too much about the third, only that it’s female,” I said.
Dirty Dan stepped up overhearing the last of our conversation. “It’s probably that bitch that bit Chico. When we find her, I’ll do the bitch.”
“What about when we find Chico? You know what we have to do,” Old School said.
“I’ll take care of it. I don’t want that on one of the bro’s conscious. The hard part will come after. You know what they told us to do. It’s gonna take all the strength we have,” I said.
Pastor Bill and Father Murphy stepped up. “Lads we best get with it. We’re losing daylight,” Father Murphy said.
I nodded. “Let’s split up. Father, why don’t you two sky pilots take the second floor? The bros and I’ll search down here.”
The priest and the preacher headed upstairs.
“You sendin’ them on a wild goose chase?” Old School said.
“They’ve done good so far, but when it comes to Chico, he’s our business. As for the Dark Rider, I don’t know if they’ll be able to handle him. That old boy’s gonna be hard to kill.”
Pastor Bill and Father Murphy led half the crew. The Halo Riders and most of the Road Dogs searched the bottom floor.
“Keep your eyes out for a basement or cellar,” I said while we searched the first floor.
We searched the bottom floor room by room. The creepy old house made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I kept hearing doors slam and the sound of whispering voices. Now and then we would pass through a cold spot where the temperature would drop several degrees. We found nothing on the bottom floor. When we entered the kitchen, I found a door leading down into a dark musty basement. Little Danny Boy’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared when I opened the door. “They’re down there. Can’t you smell the evil?” he said.
“That be the Dark Rider,” I said.
We descended into the dark underground basement. I brought a flashlight out of my duffle bag and turned it on. The basement was huge and encompassed several rooms. We searched the place room by room. I kept hearing strange noises. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and I kept seeing shadows move out of the corner of my eye. We found Chico and Tracy asleep in an old moldy feather bed. Feathers covered the floor and I noticed mice droppings. The moldy old quilt that covered them had, a mouse dropping on it and the corners looked chewed on by rats. I pulled the cover off of them. Chico lay in his jeans with his shirt off and Tracy lay in the nude.
“I’ll take care of this bitch,” Dirty Dan said. He took a stake, out of his duffle bag, and put the point between Tracy’s breasts. Tracy’s eyes shot open, she let out an evil hiss and scratched his face trying to gouge out his eyes.
“Fuck off and die, bitch!” Dirty Dan said and drove the point home. Black, stinky blood shot out of her chest, she let out a screech and died. Chico’s eyes fluttered and opened wide. A tear tracked down Dirty Dan’s face. “I’m sorry, bro,’ he said and grabbed another stake. He moved the stake toward Chico’s chest, but I grabbed his hand.
“Please bro,” Chico said.
“I’ll handle this,” I said to Dirty Dan and took the stake and mallet. I looked down at Chico and said, “Sorry bro,” and drove the point home. Bloodshot out of his chest, his body shuttered and he died. The Road Dogs gathered around their former chapter president. Tears streamed down their faces. “We’ll have to grieve later,” I said. “Right now we need to find the Dark Rider.”
We searched the rest of the basement but found nothing more.
“He’s got to be here,” Little Danny Boy said.
“He’s got to be deeper. There must be some kind of sub-basement or something. We need to look for the entrance,” I said. “We’re running out of time.” We searched for another half hour as the sun sank over the Arizona desert. I finally found a trap door, covered by an old throw rug. It led down to what once must have been some type of underground storage area for coal. I opened the trap door and we descended a slimy set of stone steps into the underground vault. We found the Dark Rider sleeping in what appeared to be some type of coal bin. When we approached the coal bin, he shot up into the air and slammed into me knocking me back against the wall. Coal dust covered his face and clothes. He let out an evil hiss, I jumped to my feet and he grabbed me by the neck and flung me across the room. Old School jumped on him with his knife and the Dark Rider, flung him into the coal bin. Little Danny Boys charged forward and stopped looking the Dark Rider dead in the eyes.
“Stop you evil Son of a bitch! I command you in the name of all that’s holy! Go back to hell where you came from!”
The Dark Rider let out a hiss and shot up to the ceiling. I pulled myself from the floor, grabbed my Super Soaker and we opened up on him using the last of the holy water. He burst into flames, went shooting back and forth around the room up near the ceiling, and then dropped down on me. I grabbed a stake from my duffle back and held it up. “In the King’s name!” I yelled holding up the stake.
The Dark Rider tried to stop his momentum, but it was too late. He impaled himself on the stake, blood shot out of his chest his eyes widened in pain and he died. I dropped his body to the floor, pulled my sheath knife, and cut off his head. Finished with that grizzly deed, I took a bag of garlic from my duffle bag and stuffed his mouth full of garlic. “We’ll need to take that head somewhere and throw it in the water.”
In shock, Dirty Dan said, “There’s Lost Lake north of town.”
“We’ll need to put the head in a gunny sack along with some rocks, and then toss it into the lake. Now let’s go see about Chico,” I said.
We climbed the stone staircase back up to the basement to where we left Chico’s body. By this time, Father Murphy and Pastor Bill had finished searching the upper story and joined us. The Road Dogs, silenced by grief stepped up to Chico’s body. Tiny reached down to remove the stake.
“Stop,” I said. “Dude, you guys need to step back. We’ll handle this.” The Road Dogs stepped away and the Halo Riders formed a circle around the body. I looked over to where Father Murphy and Pastor Bill stood to the side. “You two sky pilots need to join us. We need your strength.”
Pastor Bill and Father Murphy joined our circle and we knelt, down next to the body. I grabbed the stake, yanked it from his chest, and then we laid hands on the body. My arms started to tingle. I felt numb and electricity crackled. A bluish-green light formed flowing down our arms to our hands and into Chico’s body. My head throbbed, my legs went weak and I felt like I was going to pass out. The air around Chico’s body crackled. A gale-force wind filled the basement. A black vapor that looked like a swarm of locusts rose, up from the body disappearing in the wind. The wind stopped. Chico’s chalky white face, turned pink, the hole in his chest closed before our eyes and his heart began to beat.
Chico’s eyes opened. “I’m sorry bro,” he said.
“Forget about it. It wasn’t your fault,” I said and tried to stand, but I staggered to my knees. Bringing Chico back from the dead took everything we had.
The bros helped us to our feet, we did some hugging and there wasn’t a dry eye in that old basement.
After taking a ride out to Lost Lake and tossing the Dark Rider’s head, we rode back to the High Noon Saloon. We arrived around midnight and crashed, in the back room. The next morning Chico and I sat down at the bar.
“I don’t know how to thank you, guys. It seems like you always show up when we need you,” Chico said.
I took a pull from my bottle of Jack and handed it to Chico. “That’s why we wear the halo patch,” I said.
“I hope you don’t have to rush off too soon,” Chico said and handed me back the bottle.
“No, we’ll stick around for a few days. Bringing you back from the great beyond took a lot out of us. We need to recharge our batteries. For the next few days, we’ll do what bikers do best. We’ll party,” I said and took another shot.
If you enjoyed the Dark Rider click the link above to download the entire series, Tales From the Lost Highway.
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I thought I would give everyone an update on what’s new and exciting in my world. I am currently in the process of turning all of my novels into audiobooks. I have been listening to auditions for narrators. I have a new science fiction novel titled Tribes that will be on pre-order soon and my new nonfiction novel, Don’t Bust The Piggy Bank: How to Self-Publish an eBook is in pre-order now. Its release date is July 29th. Click the link below the cover picture and orders your copy while it’s only ninety-nine cents. I am in the editing process on the rough draft of the fourth book in my science fiction series, Space Corps Chronicles titled the Galactic War. I am almost finished with the rough draft of the fifth book in my Mike McDonald Action Adventure Saga, Mendoza’s Revenge. Checkout the cover for Tribes.
Order your copy of don’t Bust The Piggy Bank: How to Publish an eBook before it comes out and save some money.
Also enjoy the short story below. It is the sixth story in Tales From the Lost Highway.
The Wooly Boys
Lightning flashed across the desert and thunder rolled across the land. Thunder Paw looked over at Wolf Boy and howled. Wolf Boy grinned and let go with a wild feral howl himself that echoed across the desert. Behind them, White Fang gunned the throttle. He pulled his custom chopper over the centerline and pulled up next to Thunder Paw.
“I’m hungry!” White Fang yelled, trying to make his voice heard over the rushing wind.
Thunder Paw glanced in his rearview mirror, taking in the pack. He noticed the course hair sporting up, on his neck.
“I know! We all need to feed! There’s a town up ahead! The locals call it Harlem Springs! We’ll stop there!” Thunder Paw yelled.
White Fang backed off on the throttle. He let Thunder Paw roll by on his flashy blue chopper and took his place in the pack. The clouds parted and a full moon rose into the sky. The Woolly Boys rolled through the night toward Harlem Springs Arizona. Five miles outside of town, they pulled into the gravel parking lot of the High Noon Saloon.
Chico, Tiny, Dirty Dan, and Lead Belly sat at the bar inside the High Noon Saloon. When they heard motorcycles pull up out front. The smell of tobacco smoke and stale beer filled the air. Loud rock and roll music emanated from the building. Thinking that some more of the bros had pulled up out front, they glanced at the front door wondering who they were. Chico’s eyes widened when a group of bikers sauntered into the bar. They weren’t Road Dogs.
“Damn. Those are some hairy sons of bitches,” Dirty Dan said. “They’re even hairier than you are, Tiny.”
Lead Belly laughed. “That’s pretty damned hairy.”
“I ain’t never seen that patch before. The Woolly Boys? You heard of them, Chico?” Tiny asked.
Chico shook his head and then said, “What the hell?” when they began to remove their clothing.
“I hate to waste a good pair of jeans and my club vest,” Thunder Paw said and then grinned.
The Road Dogs inside the bar stood to their feet and turned to face the new arrivals. The Wooly Boys now fully nude, began to sprout coarse hair and their bodies changed morphing into wolves. The Road Dogs stepped back. Thunder Paw, now changed into a wolf extended his claws and let out a howl. Chico pulled his 45 and shot him in the chest. The loud bang of gunfire filled the room. The bullet knocked Thunder Paw on his ass, but he rose to his feet and stepped forward. “That one hurt a bit. What kind of loads are you shooting in that thing?”
“Hand loaded,” Chico said and shot him again.
Thunder Paw flew backward once more but climbed back to his feet. Blood soaked his fur. The wounds in his chest were already healing. “You’re gonna pay for that,” Thunder Paw said. The werewolves charged forward launching themselves at the Road Dogs. Thunder Paw, grabbed the nearest Road Dog by his head, ripped it from his shoulders, and tossed it across the room. The head bounced off the wall and rolled across the floor. The rest of the Woolly Boys attacked slashing with their claws and snapping with their teeth. Blood and body parts flew into the air.
Chico, standing next to Tiny, Dirty Dan, and Lead Belly, opened up on the hairy beasts. The bullets seemed to have little effect. They would knock the werewolves down, but the hairy beasts would get back up again with a bad attitude. The Woolly Boys slaughtered the Road Dogs nearest to the front door and ripped them asunder.
“This ain’t working! Let’s get out of here!” Chico yelled. Chico, Dirty Dan, Tiny and Lead Belly ran out the back door. Behind the bar, Chico flipped open his cell phone and sent out a text message to all the bros on his contact list. The text said, “911-Meet at the cabin. Bring all your gear.”
“I need to get hold of Janet,” Lead Belly said.
“Tell her to take the truck! Tell her to bring all your guns and camping gear, but tell her to hurry!”
The back door of the High Noon Saloon burst open. Thunder Paw and White Fang came storming out the door, with blood covering their jowls.
“Oh fuck! Let’s get out of here!” Chico yelled and ran to his bike with Dirty Dan, Tiny, and Lead Belly hot on his heels. They jumped onto their scooters, fired them up, and gunned the throttles. Their rear tires sent rooster tails of dirt and gravel flying up into the air. Once they hit the highway, they headed west at a high rate of speed and disappeared into the Arizona night.
“Should we go after them?” Wolf Boy asked.
“No not with all that fresh meat inside. We’ll finish up and then lay up here during the daytime. Tomorrow night, we’ll take the town. After that, we’ll hunt down them red-neck peckerwoods. My chest still hurts where that bastard shot me,” Thunder Paw said.
“It’s a good thing for us that they weren’t using silver.”
Thunder Paw nodded glanced up at the full moon and let out a blood-curdling howl.
***
Our tires chirped when we hit the highway. Our spirit bikes changed to older Harley Davidson motorcycles. We rolled down a lonely desert highway heading to Harlem Springs Arizona. An evil foreboding cloud loomed in the east, only this wasn’t a normal cloud. This cloud blew in from the pits of hell and the Devil’s imps came with it. I could almost smell the embers floating in the breeze. This is Cave Man again and if you’ve been paying attention then you know that I’ve been dead since sixty-eight. Up in Biker Heaven, after I kissed a tree at over one hundred miles an hour, I decided to join the Halo Riders. The Halos, a division of the Road Dogs motorcycle club, is a group of troubleshooters from the other side. Whenever there is trouble in the biker world, they send us.
Riding up front was Little Danny Boy, next to him was Fat Bob, and behind them rode Teddy Bear and Chops. Sonny, Old School, My Pops, and I rolled along at the rear. We headed down a lonely stretch of the highway toward Harlem Springs Arizona. Little Danny Boy pulled over to the side of the road next to an old oak tree. We parked next to the road, to give ourselves a butt break and climbed off our scooters. One thing about being mortal was that we were subject to the same aches and pains as when we were alive.
“Do you remember this place?” Little Danny Boy asked.
I chuckled. “How could I forget? That old oak tree smashed my head like a ripe honeydew melon when I hit it back in sixty-eight,” I said. I pulled a bottle of Jack from my coat pocket.
“Piss on this old oak tree,” Old School said stepping up next to me. He unzipped his pants, pulled out his pecker, and let fly. I chuckled and stepped up next to him. Soon we were all watering the oak tree and laughing like a pack of schoolboys. Old School was right behind me when I hit the tree. He flew over his handlebars and hit his noggin against that tree. The old tree smashed his head like you or I would squish a grape.
“I’m surprised this old tree is still here,” I said after we emptied our bladders.
“It’s a tough old tree, all right,” Little Danny boy said. We headed back to the bikes.
“Are we headin’ to the clubhouse?” Teddy Bear asked.
“No, we’re too late to help anyone there. The remnant is at the cabin.”
My pops stepped up next to me and took a swig from his bottle of Jack. “Good. My butt’s sore. It’ll feel good to sit by a warm fire and drink some brews with the bros,” Pops said.
“Yeah, but we’ve got our work cut out for us on this one. There won’t be a lot of time to party,” Little Danny Boy said.
“We’ll party after we slaughter all these hairy sons of bitches,” I said.
“It’s not so much the werewolves that I’m worried about,” Little Danny Boy said. “It’s their demonic friends.”
“From what I hear, these aren’t your average werewolves,” Chops said and then climbed onto his bike.
“No, they’re a bad bunch that’s come up from Mexico. They were friendly with the Hell-Raisers before we took those old boys out. They’ve allied with the Devil himself,” Little Danny Boy said.
“It doesn’t matter. There’s no demon in hell that can stand up to a bro with a pure heart,” I said and climbed onto the old Pan Head.
A few miles up the road, we pulled off onto a dirt trail leading into the hills. We passed through a small stand of pine trees and the weather turned chill. A dark menacing cloud hung over the land and out in the woods, I heard a wild feral growl. I saw red beady eyes peering at us from the tree line. A howl resonated across the land as the full moon rose into the sky.
“They’ve got scouts in the woods! A couple of wolves and some of the Devil’s imps!” Little Danny Boy yelled, projecting his voice over the rumble of our loud pipes. I saw an evil demon wearing a black hooded sweatshirt, standing in the middle of the road. He looked up as we approached and his skeletal feature changed into a demonic grin. Evil reddish-green light illuminated the darkness. The light came from the empty sockets where his eyes should be.
“Begone you, vile creature!” Little Danny Boy yelled and gunned the throttle. We plowed right into the evil creature and he disappeared into a cloud of smoke and ash. His evil laughter resonated through the forest. A few minutes later, we saw a light in the distance. Breaking through a clearing, we saw the cabin. Several motorcycles, a couple of pickup trucks, and a few cars set parked out front. Five prospects stood out on the front porch with rifles standing guard duty.
One of them hollered into the cabin and said, “You guys better come out here! We’ve got company!”
A group of bikers stepped out onto the front porch and they all had weapons. We pulled up to the cabin and killed the motors on our scooters. Our spirit bikes now resembled older Harley Davidson motorcycles.
“This shit keeps getting weirder and weirder,” Dirty Dan said. “There’s a picture of every one of those guys in the Book of the Dead.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I was half expecting those guys to show up,” Chico said.
“Yeah, remember when we had that trouble with the Hell-Raisers? Some of them showed up that time,” Tiny said.
“There’s old Cave Man. He saved my bacon a while back,” Lead Belly said.
We climbed off our scooters. “Aren’t you gonna offer a bro a drink? Make mine a Jack,” I said.
A grin spread across Chico’s face. “Come on up here bro. Bring in your crew. We’ll toss back a couple and then have a sit down about this little problem we’re having,” Chico said.
I stepped up onto the porch and the Halo Riders followed. When Chico saw Sonny, he grabbed him up in a big bear hug and said, “I missed you, bro.”
“I missed you too, son,” Sonny said.
We did some hugging with our brothers. A few of them felt a little tense at first. It ain’t every day that a group of bikers from the other side of the graveyard shows up at your door. Chico led us inside, and a couple of prospects handed out the beer. I pulled a bottle of Jack from my coat pocket and tossed back a shot. I sat down on a threadbare couch setting in the living room. The Halo Riders sat down beside me. Chico, Tiny, and Dirty Dan pulled up some folding chairs and sat facing us.
“You know, I was hoping you guys would show up. We were at the clubhouse when these hairy bikers showed up. They had patches on their vest that said, the Woolly Boys. They took off their clothes,” Chico said. “Like if that wasn’t weird enough? They changed, man. You’re not gonna believe this, but they turned into werewolves. They attacked us and ripped several of the bros to pieces. They were almost superhuman. Werewolves, can you believe this shit? I thought that was only on the movies.”
I shrugged and took a pull from a bottle of Jack. “Yeah bro, I can believe it, considering a damned zombie bit me back in sixty-eight. Don’t be so quick to brush something off because it’s weird.”
“What are we gonna do?” Chico asked. “We’ve got to take back the clubhouse.”
“There’s more than the clubhouse at stake. They’re after the town and they’ve got scouts out in the woods,” Little Danny Boy said.
“Isn’t there someone we could call, bro?” Dirty Dan said.
“Yeah, there’s this dude out in California named Monroe who deals with this kind of thing. It would take him a while to get here. These Woolly Boys brought some friends. We’ll take care of this shit ourselves. There’s a dark cloud hovering over the land and, it’s chuck full of the Devil’s imps. This is going to be a hard fight,” I said.
“What are we supposed to do?” Chico asked.
“You know all those silver coins and silver bars stored down in the basement with the survival gear?” I said.
“Yeah. They’re still there.”
“We need to melt that shit down and make some bullets,” I said.
“Silver bullets? You’ve got to be kidding?” Tiny said.
I looked him dead in the eyes. “Afraid not bro. It’s all about belief. You boys will take care of the werewolves, and we’ll deal with their friends.”
“We’d best get started. Those hairy bastards have a good sense of smell. Once they take Harlem Springs, they’ll come here,” Little Danny Boy said.
Chico nodded at a couple of prospects. “Let’s get the silver. We’ve got some bullet molds with the reloading equipment.”
“You’d best keep half the crew on guard duty. I heard something prowling the woods when we rolled up,” I said. The full moon hung over the cabin lighting up the Arizona night.
Chico stood to his feet. He instructed half his crew to guard the windows and doors. He led us Halo Riders and several prospects down into the basement. He instructed one of the prospects to fire up an old woodstove and then found the bullet molds. He took a green Army crate from underneath a shelf and opened it up. It held silver coins and silver bars. Rummaging around on a shelf, he found an old cast iron pot, filled it with silver coins, and set it on top of the woodstove.
“Once this silver melts, we’ll start making bullets,” Chico said.
The cold damp basement began to warm up, due to the fire in the woodstove. The pot on top of the stove got hot and the silver began to melt. Sweat beaded up on my forehead.
“Hey, Prospect. Why don’t you bring us some beer?” Tiny said to a short dark-haired prospect. He wiped the sweat from his brow.
“And bring a bottle of Jack,” Dirty Dan said.
“I brought my own,” I said, patting my vest.
“Yeah you brought the good stuff from the other side,” Chico said and then grinned.
I nodded. “It sure beats this stuff you drink here on Earth.”
The silver melted, turning into liquid, and Chico passed out the bullet molds. We spent the next few hours making bullets and loading ammunition. Around midnight someone called down from upstairs and said, “Hey you guys! You better get up here! Something is creeping around outside and I heard it scratching on the front door!”
We grabbed the guns and stuffed our pockets with silver bullets. A loud crash made everyone inside the cabin jump. I pulled the curtain aside and looked out the front window. A set of red beady eyes looked back at me. The hairy bastard leaped through the window, showering me with broken glass, and knocked me on my ass. The stinky SOB growled, slashing at me with his claws. I grabbed onto his furry cheeks with my left hand and punched him in the forehead with my right. My silver club ring burned into his forehead singing its fur. The evil creature let out a blood-curdling howl and jumped back. The smell of burning hair filled the air.
Chico stepped to the side and jacked a round into a thirty-thirty lever-action rifle. He raised the rifle to his shoulder and fired. The bullet hit the beast in the chest. It let out another screech, jumped back through the window, and disappeared into the night.
“That was intense,” I said and pulled my bottle of Jack from my vest. I took a shot.
Chico’s nostrils flared. “Damn that was a stinky son of a bitch.”
Behind the cabin, we heard something clawing at the back door. Another werewolf howled in the night. We heard more of them coming out of the woods.
I nodded at Chico. “We’d best cover all the windows and doors.”
The werewolves converged on the cabin and we opened up, on them. Our muzzle flashes lit up the night. Overhead, the full moon looked down on it all. An ugly wolf with crooked teeth stuck his head in the broken window. I pulled my three fifty-seven and put a silver bullet through his brainpan. The hairy bastard flew back off the porch, landing on its back. It withered in agony. The rest of the pack closed in.
“Get the women and little ones to the basement!” Chico yelled. Several prospects jumped to their feet. They hustled the old ladies and the youngsters to safety.
“We need to deal with their friends!” I yelled to Little Danny Boy.
Little Danny Boy nodded and after the attack broke off, he said. “Let’s step out onto the front porch.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Dirty Dan said. He crouched down by one of the windows.
“You can’t go out there. Those SOBs will rip you to shreds,” Chico said.
I grinned. “You all stay inside and watch the show.”
Little Danny Boy, Old School, and I filed out the front door. The rest of the Halo Riders followed. We stood on the front porch. A pack of werewolves moved towards us on all fours. As one man, we drew our arms back and flung them forward as if pitching a softball underhanded. Balls of blue light shot out of our hands and hit the wolves. What looked like electorally charged bolts of lightning crackled, scorching their fur. The werewolves leaped back in fear. Overhead, a host of evil demons swooped down on us. We pulled our weapons and fired.
Rather than silver bullets, our guns fired balls of red and blue light, as well as bolts of lightning. When we hit one of the evil sons of bitches, it would explode in a flash of white light.
Two evil little demons in grubby black robes scampered up on the porch. One of them launched itself at me, clawing at my face. I flung it to the ground and popped it in the head with my gat. Old School took care of the other two. The werewolves, along with their evil friends disappeared into the night.
“Damn. That looked like the fourth of July,” Chico said.
“Yeah, but I don’t think they’re done yet. Does that pond out back still have water in it?” I asked.
“Yeah, it’s pretty full. We had a storm a couple of days ago that was a gully washer,” Tiny said.
“Tomorrow morning, we’ll melt down some more of that silver and put it in the pond. Those hairy assholes have to go somewhere for water. We’ll give them a tummy ache,” I said and then laughed.
Releasing some tension, I pulled my bottle of Jack from the inner pocket of my vest and took a shot. The night wore on, and the werewolves attacked three more times, but we managed to keep them at bay. Things got quiet around four AM and we managed to get some sleep. Two hours later, the sun came up over the desert. We rolled out heading toward Harlem Springs Arizona. Before we left, we sent five prospects to the pond in the woods. They lit a campfire, melted down a couple of silver bars, and poured the liquid silver into the pond. Riding at the back of the pack, I cranked the throttle and put my face in the wind. One thing I enjoyed about being mortal was the feeling of the wind on my face when I rode my scooter.
***
We pulled into the gravel parking lot of the High Noon Saloon two and a half hours later. After parking our scooters, Chico stepped up to the front door and kicked it open. Cradling his thirty-thirty in his arms, he headed into the Road Dogs clubhouse and the rest of us followed. The werewolves, now back in their human form, lay in a drunken stupor. They lay on the bar and, on several tables scattered throughout the room. Blood and human body parts littered the floor and blood covered the walls.
“All right you hairy bastards! We’ve had about enough of you!” Chico yelled and opened up with his thirty-thirty. The rest of us followed suit. The loud bang of gunfire filled the room. Caught off guard while in their human form, the werewolves didn’t stand a chance. Some of them tried to make a fight of it, but we cut them down like the evil vermin they were. The silver bullets ripped through their flesh and their wounds wouldn’t heal.
Thunder Paw, let out an angry howl and charged out the back. Wolf Boy and White Fang ran after him. A tear tracked down Chico’s face when he shot three of his former bros. They got bit when the werewolves first attacked the clubhouse. The battle over, he set his rifle down on the nearest table. I laid a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s better this way. There is no cure, bro. You did them a favor by putting them down.”
“It doesn’t feel that way,” Chico said.
“Back in sixty-eight when we had that little zombie problem, I hit an oak tree at over one hundred miles an hour. I wanted to avoid becoming one of the undead. Believe me, it’s better this way.”
“What now?” Chico asked.
“Now, we head into Harlem Springs,” I said.
Back on our scooters, we motored on into town. Harlem Springs looked like a ghost town. We rode up and down several streets, but we saw not a sign of life.
“Where is everyone?” Chico asked.
“The people who didn’t get bit hunkered down in their homes. Those that have turned, along with what’s left of these Woolly Boys, are hiding out somewhere until the moon rises. Their bellies are full. Take a look around you.”
Chico glanced over and saw a puddle of blood on the sidewalk. He widened his gaze noticing blood on the walls of some of the houses and body parts on a couple of lawns. “What do we do now?” Chico asked.
“Does old man Dempsey still own that health food store over on Fourth Street?” I asked.
Chico shook his head. “No bro. The old man retired years ago. His son, Joe is running the place now.”
“Let’s take a ride over there,” I said.
A hot desert wind blew sand across the road as we motored across town. Harlem Spring had the look and the feel of a ghost town. Yet we felt someone eyeballin’ us from the buildings lining the street. A dark evil cloud covered the town. We turned onto Fourth Street. Our pipes rumbled off the surrounding buildings. We rode down to the health food store. We parked our scooters up against the curb and climbed off the machines. Chico stepped up to the front door of the health food store with Dirty Dan right beside him. Dirty Dan tried the door.
“It’s locked,” he said.
“No problem,” Chico said. He slammed the butt of his thirty-thirty against the glass door breaking it into tiny pieces. He looked at me. “What exactly are we looking for?”
“Colloidal Silver,” I said. “As much as we can find.”
Once we gained entrance, we searched the entire store. Five prospects stood out front watching our backs. We brought case after case of the stuff out to the sidewalk. We secured the stuff to the back of our bikes with bungee cords.
“What now?” Chico asked.
“Now we head over to the east end of town and climb up on the old water tower. We need to dump this shit into the town’s water supply, bro,” I said.
“Chico nodded and we climbed back onto our scooters. Hitting the highway, we headed east toward the town limits. We pulled over to the side of the road next to a massive water tower. Chico glanced up at the massive water tank towering above us and grinned. “Prospects! Time to go to work!” he yelled. I chuckled, pulled a bottle of Jack from my vest pocket, took a shot, and handed it to Chico. He took a shot and said, “What now?”
“They’ve got to drink. If they’ve not been bit, this won’t hurt them, but if they have, then they’ll be in a world of hurt.”
“How long will it take for this to take effect?”
“I shrugged. “We’ll wait for a couple of hours. Why don’t we head back to the clubhouse and clean the place up?” I said.
Chico nodded. We watched the prospects carry the colloidal silver up the metal ladder. They dump it into the town’s water supply. When they finished, we hit the highway headed west toward the High Noon Saloon.
While we motored back to the clubhouse, five werewolves stopped for a drink from the pond near the cabin. They died a painful death. Now back in their human forms, their bodies became part of the landscape. Three hours later, after cleaning up all the blood and carting off the dead bodies, we motored back into town. We cruised up and down every street. We dispatched sick werewolves wherever we found them. They stumbled around like drunken bums, bumping into each other. A few crawled along on their hands and knees. We pulled up next to three in front of a liquor store. An older man, with the remains of course brown hair on his neck crawled along puking up blood. Chico parked his bike, pulled his thirty-thirty, and put them out of their misery.
“It’s too bad it has to be this way,” Chico said, lowering the rifle. “Are you sure there’s no cure?”
I shook my head. “Wolf Bane can keep it at bay, but believe me, bro this is the best way,” I said. Once we finished ridding the town of the hairy beast, we headed back to the High Noon Saloon. We did what bikers do best: we partied.
As the sun went down over the desert and a full moon rose into the sky, Thunder Paw, White Fang, and Wolf Boy fled south on their Harleys on a lonely desert highway.
“It’s a good thing we didn’t drink the damned water!” Wolf Boy yelled.
“Yeah, those red-neck peckerwoods surprised me with that one. It won’t happen again!” Thunder Paw yelled.
“Where will we go?” White Fang asked.
“There’s a little town by the border known as Santa Rosa Springs. There’s a pack, gathering there.” Looking up at the full moon, Thunder Paw let go with a mournful howl. White Fang and Wolf Boy joined in on the chorus.
Inside the High Noon Saloon, Chico Lead Belly and I looked up as the sound of the woeful cry wafted on the breeze.
“I guess we missed a few,” Chico said.
“Don’t worry about it, bro. They’re heading south to a little spot by the Mexican border known as Santa Rosa Springs. That old boy I mentioned earlier: Monroe. He’ll deal with them,” I said.
“And you know this how?”
“You know these things, once you cross over. Time is different over there.”
“Different how?” Chico asked.
“You’ll have to wait until you get there to find out, but I’ll tell you this much. These spirit bikes we ride can travel through time. I just came back from a trip in the past when this shit started. I felt a need to get to know my pops a bit better. I wanted to see what he was like when he was young.” Pops stepped up and slapped me on the back.
“Yeah, those spirit bikes are the shit. You’ll love Biker Heaven. I went hog wild when I showed up,” Pops said.
“What was he like back then, when you went back in time?” Chico asked.
“Oh, that’s a story for another day. Why don’t we get some of these fine-looking mommas up on the bar and have us a wet t-shirt contest?” I said.
“That sounds like a plan,” Chico said.
A few minutes later, the women climbed up on the bar, iced themselves down with ice water, and started to dance. The prospects cranked up the music. I pulled my bottle of Jack out of my vest pocket and leaned back on the barstool to enjoy the show.
Hey I hope you enjoyed the short story. If you would like to know more about my writing leave me a comment or consider signing up for my email list and get a free eBook
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Hello. I thought I would let everyone know what’s going on with my writing. DON’T BUST THE PIGGY BANK: HOW TO PUBLISH AN eBook is now available on pre-order at amazon.com. You can order it on Amazon for only ninety-nine cents until its release date which is July 29th. Check out the description below:
Don’t Bust the Piggy Bank: How to Publish an eBook is a common sense guide to self-publishing. You can write your novel, edit it, design a cover and publish it, all without spending a lot of money. I wrote this book for the beginning author who is on a tight budget. This is not a get-rich-quick book. In this book, I reveal the things that I have learned along the way. I discuss how to write a damned good book, how to edit it how to publish and how to market it without busting the piggy bank. I also reveal my writing and editing process. I discuss the pros and cons of traditional publishing versus self-publishing. This is a basic guide for the beginning writer who is on a tight budget and doesn’t want to bust the piggy bank
Also, I am in the final editing stage of my new science fiction novel, Tribes. I have completed the rough draft of the fourth book in my science fiction series, the Space Corps Chronicles title the Galactic War. I am almost finished with the rough draft of Mendoza’s Revenge which is the fifth book in my Mike McDonald Action Adventure Saga. I am sorry that I haven’t posted in a while, but I have been busy writing. Below is a short story for your reading pleasure entitled Pops. It is among the stories published in Tales From the Lost Highway.
Pops
One of the things about being dead is that you have a lot of time on your hands. Back in 1968, after the zombie plague broke out, I was working at old Bud Hodgkin’s service station. The undead filth came pouring out of the graveyard across the street. They stumbled into the station. They smashed the front window and poured into the mechanic’s bay and I had to fight my way to the backroom to get my 357. In the process, one of the SOBs bit me. I managed to escape by busting out a back window and jumping down to the alleyway. I ran around to the front of the station, jumped on the old Pan Head, and burned rubber.
On the way out of town, I ran into Cynthia, a young high school girl that lived down the street and I gave her a ride. We headed out to the Road Dogs clubhouse, and I hooked up with my bros in the club. We figured to either hold out there at the clubhouse or head to Sonny’s Cabin. Sonny, our chapter president at the time had an old cabin about one hundred and fifty miles down the highway. We used the place to party once and a while. The undead SOBs attacked the clubhouse, so we bailed out and headed to the cabin. We helped the bros get to safety. Old School and I, another one of the bros that got bit by a zombie, decided to let the road take us and die like bikers. We hit an old oak tree at over one hundred miles per hour and that’s how I wound up here in Biker Heaven.
When I first got here, I partied for what seemed like an eternity. Up here in Biker Heaven, all the women are loose as well as good-looking. The booze flows free and the music never stops. The booze up here ain’t nothing like what you have down there on Earth. You can drink all you want, and you never get sick or get a hangover. You never tasted better Jack than we have up here. One time in church, I decided to join the Halo Riders. The Halos are a division of the Road Dogs motorcycle club, but you have to be dead to sign up. When you wear the halo patch, you get to go back once and a while to help the bros down on Earth when they need it. That gives me a chance to ride my spirit bike, so I signed up. You ain’t ever seen a bike like a spirit-bike. Imagine your dream bike and multiply that by ten. You can ride all day, they never need gas and they don’t leak oil.
The spirit bike can cruise down the highway on Earth, looking like your average Harley. Or it can soar up into the heavens like a shooting star. When they’re in their glory, they radiate light, and fire shoots out of their tailpipes like lightning. Another thing about the spirit bike is that it can travel through time.
My pops ticker gave out back in 1965 while I was off fighting in Vietnam. I heard that when he got to Biker Heaven he went hog wild. Old Pops always did like to party. When I arrived in 1968, I partied for what seemed like an eternity. I spent a good long while cruisin’ the streets of gold. I’d see my pops at church, but most of the time he’s off doing his own thing. I got to wondering what his life was like when he got back from World War Two before I was born. I came along three years after the war ended and Pops and some of his bros started up the Road Dogs back in the fifties. I patched in, back in 63 when I was fifteen and I was alive when they started the club, but I was a little shaver. I got to wonderin’ what my pops was like, back in the day when he was young. I climbed on my spirit bike and took a ride through time.
***
I touched down on a lonely desert highway sixty miles outside of Harlem Springs Arizona. The tires chirped. My spirit bike changed back to an older well used Harley Davidson motorcycle. A 1938 flatbed Ford pickup truck rattled by going the opposite direction, but the driver didn’t see me. This wasn’t my reality. I was a spectator on this trip. I rolled on the throttle enjoying the feel of the wind in my face and motored on down the highway. Five miles outside of town, I passed the High Noon Saloon. The building looked newer than it did in my time. It wasn’t the Road Dogs clubhouse right now; that wouldn’t come about for a few more years. Speaking of years, I guess I had better clue you in on the time and place. I landed on September 4th, 1946, the year my pops came back from Germany.
I glanced about as I rode through the outskirts of Harlem Springs. The town looked smaller and somewhat cleaner. When I passed Hodgkin’s station, I looked over. Old Bud himself was out on the island pumping gas for the customers. He sure looked a lot younger than he did the last time I saw him. I turned left on Honey Suckle Court and motored down to the old home place. Back in the forties my mom and pops bought a three-bedroom house. It was four doors down from the house that I bought several years later.
Pulling up in front of the home place, I sat on the bike out by the curb taking in the neighborhood’s essence. A milk truck rumbled by and an old lady came out of the house across the street and began to water her lawn. She wore an old dirty white housecoat and had her hair up in curlers. She was oblivious to my presence. A young boy wearing bib overalls and a denim cap peddled an old bicycle down the street. A camp robber Jay sat in a tree overhead and chirped. A neighbor’s black and white mutt ran out to the street and started barking at the bird. The neighborhood was coming alive as people woke up and headed off to work. The smell of breakfast cooking came from several different houses. The wives were up and getting their husbands off to work.
A yellow taxicab, a beat-up 1934 ford, turned onto Honey Suckle Court and approached the home place. I watched it pull over to the curb and saw a young soldier climb out of the back.
“God, look how young he looks,” I said to myself, giving my father the once over.
He marched past me in that military strut that soldiers use even when they’re not marching. When he passed by me I recognized that look in his eyes. In Vietnam, they called it the thousand-yard stare. Combat veterans get that look after they’ve been in action for a while.
“I know Pops. I know you were deep in the shit. I’ve been there, man,” I said, but of course, he could neither hear nor see me.
Before he made it to the front porch, the door burst open. A pretty, young blonde-headed woman wearing a plaid skirt and a white top burst out the front door.
“Johnny! Your home!” she screamed, jumped off the front porch, ran across the yard to meet him, and leaped into his arms.
“Mom? God I didn’t realize how hot you were when you were young,” I said, and a big grin crossed my face.
After they finished kissing and whatnot, they strolled up the walkway, arm in arm, and went inside. I climbed off my spirit bike, crossed the front yard, passed through the front door, and into the living room. Pops sat down on the couch and loosened the collar on his uniform.
“Can I get you something to eat? Do you want a beer?” my mom asked.
The young man who would be my father looked up and grinned. “A beer would be nice. I watched the young woman who would be my mother hurry into the kitchen. She couldn’t seem to keep the smile off her face. She came back a few seconds later with two beers. She handed one to my father and snuggled up next to him on the couch.
“Was it terrible, over there?” she asked.
“You don’t even want to know, baby. I don’t want to talk about it. How are things with you?” my father asked.
“Good, now that you’re home safe.”
I watched them finish their beer and listened to their conversation. The next thing you know, they were making out on the couch. My father’s hand went to the front of her shirt and he began to unbutton it. I turned away. My mother stood up, took his hand and they headed upstairs. I stayed down in the living room; there are some things I don’t need to see. I looked around at their modest furniture and then crossed the room to the fireplace. The picture of the young couple picnicking by the lake made me smile.
“God she was so pretty and he looks so young,” I said to myself. I looked around the living room taking in the furnishings and then headed into the kitchen. Reaching my hand through the refrigerator door, I grabbed a beer and pulled it through the door. Once my hand touched the bottle, it disappeared in that reality and entered mine. I popped the top on the beer and sat down at the kitchen table. A newspaper sat on the table as well, so I picked it up and started reading the news. It was about the troops coming home along with the occupation force in Germany and Japan. I tried to ignore the sounds coming from the bedroom upstairs.
About twenty minutes later, they came back downstairs. My pops had his arm around my mother and they both had big grins on their faces. My mom started cooking dinner and my pop sat down next to me.
“Read the newspaper if you want, while I cook dinner. There’s news about the boys coming home and about the occupation force,” my mother said.
“Okay, dear. Where’s it at?”
My mother looked over her shoulder from where she stood next to the kitchen stove. “Why it was right there on the table a minute ago. It must have fallen on the floor,” she said.
I tossed the paper down and it appeared on the floor at my father’s feet in his place and time.
“You’re right. Here it is, but I could have sworn it wasn’t down there when I sat down.”
I watched my mother cook dinner and listened to their idle conversation. My mother cooked up some roast beef with gravy and mashed potatoes. Then she fixed up a garden salad. When the dinner was ready, she looked at the beer inside the refrigerator with a puzzled look on her face.
“What’s the matter, dear?” my father asked.
“I thought we had four beers left. There are only three in here. We only drank two earlier, right?”
“Yeah, I had one and so did you,” my father said.
My mom shrugged. “Oh well, it doesn’t matter.” She took two beers out of the frig, handed one to my father, and took one for herself. I chuckled under my breath and listened to their conversation while they ate dinner.
Finished with dinner, my pops said, “Hey, would you like to head out to the High Noon and play some pool?”
She waited for a few seconds before she spoke. “No Hun, why don’t you go alone? I bought a new romance novel that I want to start. Some of your buddies will be down there and want to catch up on things. It’s been a few years since you’ve been able to sit at a bar and drink with your friends.”
“Okay then. I’ll try to come home early,” he said.
“Don’t drink too much.”
“I won’t babe,” my father said. He kissed my mother goodbye and then headed for the door. I followed him outside, he jumped into his old pickup truck and I climbed onto my spirit bike. Pops pulled out into the street. He headed for the highway and I followed along behind him as we headed west toward the High Noon Saloon.
Pops pulled into the gravel parking lot of the High Noon Saloon twenty minutes later. A couple of old flatbed trucks along with several old pickup trucks and a few older cars filled the parking lot. My pops climbed out of his old Dodge and crossed the parking lot. I sauntered along behind him. He oozed attitude. I could tell by the way he carried himself that he was as hard as nails and he wasn’t afraid of anything. Pops entered the room, and all eyes watched him make his way to the bar. Up, on the stage, a country band began to play.
A man a couple of years older than my pops said, “Well if it ain’t John Brown back from the war. Welcome home. I’ll buy your first round.”
My pops glanced over. “Thanks, Ed. It’s good to be home.” A few more of the men from town came over to join them. They sat at the bar drinking and catching up on old times. A group of truckers sat down at the bar. They were drunk and starting to get loud. Fifteen minutes later, I heard the rumble of a motorcycle pulling up out front. A young man with short blond hair wearing a black leather jacket entered the bar.
When I looked up at the biker, I saw the same look in his eye that I saw in my father’s. It was the same look I saw in my, own eye when I looked in a mirror after I came home from Vietnam: the look of a combat veteran. “My God, that’s Sonny. Look how young he looks,” I said to myself, but no one in the bar either heard or saw me.
When the biker stepped up to the bar and ordered a beer, one of the truckers spoke up.
“I didn’t know you served scooter trash in here, Bob.”
The tall skinny bartender gave the fat big-mouthed trucker a nervous smile. “It’s okay. His money is as green as everyone else,” the bartender said.
A tight-lipped smile crossed the biker’s face. “Make it a Budweiser,” he said, ignoring the trucker’s comment.
“I’m surprised at you Bob. Do you need the money that bad, to take it from trash like this?” the trucker said.
“Mister, I don’t know what your problem is, but I don’t want any trouble,” Sonny said.
“Well, you’ve got it, biker boy, whether you want it or not,” the trucker said rising to his feet. Four of his buddies climbed off of their barstools to back up their loud-mouthed friend.
“Put his beer on my tab, and bring me another,” Pops said, stepping up next to the biker.
“Thanks for the beer,” the biker said. “But are you sure you want to get mixed up in this?”
“I do. Where’d you serve?” Pops asked.
“In the Pacific. I was in the Marines, and you?”
“I was in the Army over in Germany,” Pops said.
“My name’s James Taylor, but my bros call me Sonny,” he said extending his hand. My pops took his hand in his own, giving the man a firm handshake.
“My name’s Brown. John Brown,” my pops said.
“Now John, we like you and we’re glad you came home safe, but are you sure you want to buy into this?” The loudmouth trucker said. “What’s this biker trash to you?”
My pops and Sonny turned with their backs to the bar facing the truckers.
“Shut up Earl. You’re a loud mouth tub of shit and I’m sick of hearing you. If you’re coming, then bring it on,” Pops said.
The truckers rushed my pops and Sonny. As one man, they stepped forward to face the truckers. My pops punched Earl in the nose, splattering it all over his face. Blood gushed out of his nose and covered his shirt. He took a step back. Another trucker swung a pool cue at Sonny’s head. He dived under it, slammed a flurry of punches to the trucker’s wind, and then lifted him off his feet with an uppercut. He finished off the three-punch combination ending with a left hook and the trucker hit the floor. My pops and Sonny stood shoulder to shoulder battling the three remaining truckers. They made short work of it and when the fight was over, five truckers lay unconscious on the floor.
“I guess I’d better get out of here before the coppers show up,” Sonny said.
“No, you stay. Have another beer. Those truckers are always causing trouble,” the bartender said. “I’ll square things with the law.”
“Thanks,” Sonny said. He looked at Pops and said, “I’ll buy the next round.”
The police showed up, rousted the truckers who were now coming too, took a report, and left. Sonny and Pops sat at the bar talking, drinking, and smoking for the next two hours.
“I’d better hit the highway. The old lady will be gettin’ pissed about now,” Sonny said.
“I’ll walk you out. Those truckers might be waitin’ outside for some payback,” Pops said.
When they were outside, my pops stood under the boardwalk, looking at Sonny’s motorcycle.
“That’s one of those old Army bikes. I used to see those in Germany,” Pops said.
“The Army is selling them cheap. I know a guy who’s got one for sale, only it’s an Indian, not a Harley. Are you interested?”
“Hell yeah,” Pops said.
Sonny wrote down a phone number on a matchbook. “Here’s my number. Give me a call and we’ll go take a look at it. Is tomorrow okay?”
“Tomorrow’s fine. You live here in town?”
“Yep. Over on the north side.”
Pops put the matchbook in his shirt pocket. “I’ll call you tomorrow then.”
Sonny nodded, put the shifter into first, and crossed the gravel parking lot to the highway. Pops headed over to his truck. He leaned on the front fender. An intense excited look crossed his face while he watched Sonny ride away. He stood there until he could no longer see the taillights, and then climbed into the pickup and headed for home.
***
I climbed onto my spirit bike and motored my way back to town, only I didn’t head back to the home place. The air around me shimmered. I breathed in the smell of burning ozone and the scenery flashed by at light speed as I rode forward in time. I pulled into the parking lot of Saint Ann’s hospital and parked the bike. A band of evil little demons in filthy black robes gathered at the front door of the hospital. They were on the hunt for souls. They gave me an evil hiss. I ignored them and passed through the main entrance of the hospital, not bothering to open it. Strolling down the main corridor, I headed down to the maternity ward. It ain’t every day that you get to watch your, own birth.
My pops paced back and forth in the waiting room looking as pale as a ghost. He seemed about as nervous as a rabbit with a broken hopper in the middle of the interstate. I let out a low chuckle watching my pops pull a bottle of jack out of his coat pocket. He took a shot and ambled over to the nurse’s station.
“Is there any word?” he asked the nurse on duty.
The nurse smiled “No Mr. Brown. These things take time. That baby will come when he’s good and ready and not a minute before.” I heard the rumble of motorcycles pulling up to the front of the hospital. Sonny and four other guys sauntered down the hallway. They greeted my pops and did some hugging and backslapping. Pops seemed glad to see them.
“Relax bro. Women have been doing this since God kicked Adam and Eve out of the damned garden. She’ll be fine,” Sonny said.
I left my pops with his bros and stepped through the wall and into the delivery room. My mom lay on a metal table with her feet up in the stirrups. An elderly doctor stood between her legs and assisted in the birth. A few minutes later, I made my entrance into the world. The doctor cleaned me up and wrapped me in the blanket. The assisting nurse stepped out into the waiting room to find pops. He stepped into the delivery room with a big grin on his face and stepped up to my mother’s bed. She held me next to her breasts.
“Congratulations Mr. Brown. You’ve got a fine-looking baby boy,” the doctor said.
My mother beamed. “Isn’t he beautiful, John? He looks like you.”
“Look at that head full of hair. He almost looks like a caveman,” my pops said.
“We should name him after you. We’ll call him John,” my mother said.
I rode back to the house, took a seat on the couch, and let time roll by. Like I said at the beginning of this tale when you’re dead, you have a lot of time on your hands. I watched their lives unfold as if I were watching a movie on TV. I saw my mother and father, age. Their love grew stronger. I saw the little, baby that would be my future self begin to grow and form a personality. Five men, Sonny being one of them, all veterans, and my pops formed a strong bond of friendship. They all rode motorcycles; my pops had bought the old Indian from the guy that Sonny knew. My mom started riding on the back with him sometimes. She would leave me with the teenage girl down the street to babysit.
One day in 1959, I must have been about twelve years old by then, my pops and his bros rode down to the High Noon Saloon. I climbed onto my spirit bike and followed along behind them. They parked out front, climbed off their bikes, and headed inside. Sonny untied a green canvas bag from the back of his scooter and brought it inside the bar with him. I stepped in behind them and watched them find a table off to itself by the wall. I found a seat at the adjoining table and sat down to listen to their conversation.
My pops motioned to one of the bartenders and bought them all a round of beers.
“I picked up the vests tonight on the way over. I had the patches made up and sowed on. You guys are going to like them,” Sonny said. He set the green canvas bag on the table and unzipped it.
“I hope you got me a triple X,” a big burly guy with a bushy black beard sitting across from Sonny said.
“You bet I did, Will. I wouldn’t forget your size,” Sonny said. He held up a massive denim vest so the others could see the patch on its backside. The guys sitting at the table let out a cheer.
“The patches came out better than I thought they would,” Pops said.
Sewn to the back of the vest was a patch depicting a large crazy-looking dog riding a motorcycle. The top rocker, above the back patch, read: Road Dogs. The bottom rocker underneath the main patch said, Arizona. The colors of the patches were black and white.
“After that sit down with the officers of the other clubs, we shouldn’t have any problems on the road,” Sonny said. He handed out the vests.
“It ticks me off that we had to go ask them guy’s permission,” Pops said.
“It’s protocol,” Sonny said.
“I’m with John here. I didn’t like it either,” a wiry blond-headed guy sitting next to Pops said.
“Yeah, well. It’s done now. We’re a legitimate club. All we have to do is choose our officers. I wrote everyone’s name down on a piece of paper and put them in a cup,” Sonny said. “Bob, why don’t you draw the first name?” He took a tin cup from his canvas duffle bag.
“What am I drawing for?” Bob asked.
“We’ll go for president first,” Sonny said.
Bob took a folded-up piece of paper out of the tin cup and handed it to Sonny. Sonny unfolded the paper and read the name to himself. “Well, who is it?” Bob asked.
“John Brown.”
“What? Are you sure? We ought to draw again,” Pops said.
Sonny laughed. “No redraws. You’re our chapter president. Why don’t you draw for the VP?”
Pops put his hand in the cup, drew out a piece of paper, and handed it to Sonny. Sonny looked at it and shook his head
“Who is it?” Pops asked.
“It’s me,” Sonny said.
“Then you draw the next name. What are we drawing for now?”
“Financial secretary and treasurer,” Sonny said. He drew a name, unfolded the piece of paper, and looked across the table at Bob. “Bob Dawson, you’re our financial secretary and treasurer. Draw the next name.”
“Cool,” Bob said and drew another name. “What’s this name for?”
“Road Captain,” Sonny said.
“So who is it?” Will said.
“That would be you, Mr. Johnson. I’d also like you to serve as sergeant of arms until we get some more guys,” Sonny said. He looked across the table at a stocky young Hispanic guy. “Well, Tony there is only one more name in the cup and it says, Tony Sanchez. Tony, you are our tail gunner.”
“I can handle that. I like riding in the rear of the pack,” Tony said.
“I guess we need to start holding meetings every month and start looking for prospects,” Will said.
“Let’s have our meeting here on the first Friday of every month. I’m sure Sam will let us use the room in the back,” Pops said
“What time?” Will asked.
“How does six-thirty sound?” Pops said.
“Six-thirty is cool with me,” Bob said.
“We need to choose our biker names,” Sonny said.
“You already got a name,” Pops said. “Sonny sounds better than James Taylor.”
“You’re the only one of us with a kid. We should call you Pops,” Sonny said.
“Pops. Okay. We’re gonna call Will, there Wild Bill.”
Will laughed and looked over at Bob Dawson. “Bob here is as skinny as a string bean. Why don’t we call him String Bean?”
Everyone laughed.
“That only leaves you, Mr. Sanchez. Does anyone have any ideas?”
“He’s about as stocky as a fireplug,” Sonny said, “but I got nothing. What do you think, Tony?”
“Call me Poncho, after Poncho Villa.”
“Poncho it is then,” Pops said standing to his feet. “Let’s raise a toast. To The Road Dogs. String Bean, get a ledger to keep records of our meeting. Write this date down. September 5th, 1959, the day the Road Dogs, was born.”
They stood to their feet and clinked their beer bottle together. “Road Dogs now and Road Dogs forever,” Sonny said.
“Road Dogs in life, and Road dogs in death,” Wild Bill said.
“Now let’s party,” Pops said and they all headed over to the bar.
***
Once again, I sat back on the couch and let time roll by. I watched a young boy grow into a young man. I watched the love that my mother and father shared grow, and I watched love blossom between a father and a son. As I sat there watching time pass by like a movie, I gained a deeper understanding of my father. I loved him all the more for it. One day in 1962, my younger self stepped off the school bus. I saw my father and his buddies sitting on the front porch. Their motorcycles set in the driveway. The sound of their vulgar talk and laughter floated on the breeze. A big grin spread across my young face. Back then, I loved my pop and his friends. I thought they were cool. I still do.
“Get your ass up here youngster. We got something to discuss,” My pops said.
The younger version of myself stepped up onto the porch with a guarded look on his face. I remembered that I wondered if I was in trouble or something.
“What’s up, Dad?” My younger self said to my pops.
“There’s something in the garage that I want you to see.”
My pops set down his beer stood to his feet and headed down the driveway to the garage. He laid a friendly hand on the back of my neck while we walked. Behind us, his buddies followed. My pops pushed open the door to the garage and a grin crossed my face. There set a 1953 Triumph Bonneville. It was a faded burgundy color and the tank was two-toned both silver and burgundy.
“Whose bike is that?” my younger self asked.
“It’s yours. It’s not running right now, but we’ll work on it together.”
Sonny stepped up and tossed me a denim vest with a Road Dogs prospect patch on the right breast. “Here, put this on, prospect.”
In a state of shock, I put on the vest. My chest puffed out with pride. My pops took my arm and said, “Let’s go back up on the porch and have a beer.”
On cloud nine, I headed back to the front porch with my pops and his bros. I couldn’t believe it. My pops had never offered me a beer before. I remembered wondering if mom would get mad, but I didn’t care.
During the months that followed, my pops and I spent hours on end in the garage working on the Triumph. Once we had the bike running, we had it painted, and put on new tires plus a new seat. We spent many summer evenings on the road with the club. I rumbled along reliving it from behind on my spirit bike. A lump formed in my throat when I remembered all the good times that we had. Five months after they gave me my vest, they patched me into the club.
When I wasn’t riding with the club, or going to school, I did odd jobs trying to earn enough money to buy an old Harley. The summer I turned seventeen, I almost had enough money. One of the club brothers had an old Pan Head for sale, but I was five hundred dollars short. On my seventieth birthday, my pops kicked in the last five hundred and bought the bike for my birthday. The year I turned seventeen was the best year of my life. Then when you think you’re on top of the world, life has a way of kicking you in the ass.
My pops had a heart attack. It was one month before my eighteenth birthday. Watching it happen, during my ride back through time was as hard as it was when I experienced it the first time. My mom rode in the back of the old red and white ambulance with my pops. The younger version of myself rode to the hospital on my Pan Head. The bros from the club met us at the hospital. I cruised along on my spirit bike watching my younger self from the past motor down the street. I noticed tears rolling down my young face. I glanced in the rearview mirror and noticed a couple in my own eyes as well.
The bros comforted my mom and my younger self, while they rushed my pops into the ICU. We played the waiting game for the next two hours, but finally, an elderly doctor came out to greet us.
“How is he, doctor?” my mom asked.
“He’s going to be all right, but he’ll need to slow way down. He needs to cut back on drinking and smoking. This was a warning sign.”
“Can we see him?” my younger self asked.
“Yes, but only for a few minutes.”
We went into his hospital room and gathered around his bed. I stood in the background watching the scene unfold. I noticed the tears in the eyes of my younger self. After hugging my mother, my pops turned to my younger self. “Don’t fret son. I’m gonna be fine. We’ll be back on the road before you know it.”
“You get well Pop.”
Turning to the bros, my pop said, “The doc says I need to slow down. I’ll need to step down as chapter president. What about you Sonny? Are you ready to step up?”
Sonny let out a sigh. “I would, but things at work are keeping me too busy right now.”
My pops glanced around at the bikers gathered around his bed. His eyes locked onto a young man a couple of years older than me. “What about you Little Danny Boy? You live and breathe the Road Dogs. Are you ready for some responsibility?”
“I’ll do whatever it takes, man. I’ll take the spot for now, but when you get better, you can have it back,” the stocky young dark-headed man said.
“Good. You’ll make a damned good president,” my pops said, and he was right.
Time rolled by. My pops got better for a while and then Little Danny Boy received his draft notice and went to Vietnam. Things had slowed down for Sonny at work. Since my pop, was still not feeling too good, Sonny took on the job as president of the chapter. Sonny hinted around about giving me the VP slot, but then Uncle Sam called on me as well. When I arrived in the country the first person I ran into was Little Danny Boy. We were tight for the first six months of my tour, but then Little Danny Boy and our squad stepped into an ambush. Little Danny boy died in my arms. It was three days after that when I received word about my pop had a second heart attack. This time he didn’t make it. The Army sent me home for the funeral.
I stood in the back of the Walker Brothers funeral home watching. I listened to my father’s eulogy for the second time. The pain was as real and as fresh as it was when I experienced it for the first time. I glanced up at my younger self, sitting in the front row of the chapel. I had my arm around my mother and saw my back quiver, rocked by grief. I was older more muscled and hardened by the horrors of war, yet inside I was a little boy grieving for his father. There is something about the love between a father and a son that transcends time.
The door behind me squeaked open. My father’s spirit, along with an old biker named, Fat Bob stepped into the back of the chapel. Fat Bob bit the pavement a year after I patched into the club. I guess they sent him back to bring my pops home. My pops looked at me and then he looked at the front of the chapel noticing my younger self.
“What are you doing here? And how can you be here and up there with mom at the same time?” my pops asked.
“I’m taking a ride through time, Pops. I’m in my past, your present.”
Pops nodded at Fat Bob and said, “Old Fat here says we’re going to a place called Biker Heaven.”
“Yeah, you’ll love it there Pops.”
“I told you,” Fat Bob said.
“And what about these spirit bikes? Those things are snazzy,” Pops said.
“Yeah Pops. You’ll love them too. You can ride for eternity and never have to put gas in them, but the best thing of all is they don’t leak oil.”
“Fat says that we can drink up there and party like, we do down here.”
“Pops the booze flows free, the women are loose and the party never stops.” I took a bottle of Jack from my vest pocket, took a shot, and handed it to my pops. “You never tasted Jack until you’ve tasted the Jack we have over there. Old Mr. Daniel himself has a big distillery set up and he keeps us well supplied.”
My pops took a shot and a smile spread across his face. “Damn. That is good.”
He handed me back the bottle, I stuck it in my vest pocket and grabbed him up in a big bear hug. “I love you Pops,” I said.
“I love you too, son.”
“Pops, you’ve still got the graveside service and a party to go to out at the High Noon Saloon, but I’ve got to go. I’ll see you up in Biker Heaven,” I said.
“Okay, son. I’ll see you when I get there.”
I left my pops and Fat Bob in the chapel, headed outside, and climbed onto my spirit bike. I fired up the beast, rode through town, and did about fifty miles down the highway. Pulling up on the handlebars, I shot up through the sky and headed home.
Below is the fourth story in my short story collection, Tales From the Lost Highway for your reading pleasure. Before you read that though I would like to let you know a little bit about what is going on with my writing. I am almost finished with the rough draft of my science fiction novel the Galactic War which will be the fourth book in my Space Corps Chronicles series. I am also working on another science fiction book titled Tribes. I am trying to build my author email list and I will be sending out a monthly newsletter. For subscribing to my monthly newsletter, I will send you a free eBook. The book I will send you is Tale Spinner. I enjoyed writing it and I think you’ll enjoy reading it, Also if you would like to order, Tales from The Lost Highway click the link below the story to check it out Have a wonderful day and happy reading.
Lead Belly
Chico hit the brakes, backed off the throttle and, pulled his Fat Boy off the main road. He turned onto a gravel dirt driveway on the outskirts of Harlem Springs Arizona. Tiny and Dirty Dan followed. They slowed down and pulled up to an old mobile home at the end of the driveway.
Lead Belly took a pull from a bottle of Jack while he sat on the front porch watching them approach. His 1984 Harley Davison Shovelhead set parked next to a beat-up 1968 Ford pickup truck. A halfway grin crossed Lead Belly’s face when he saw them pull up.
“I figured you all would show up this morning. You guys want a drink?” he said standing to his feet. Chico climbed the steps onto the porch; Tiny, and Dirty Dan stepped up behind him.
“You knew we weren’t going to let you go through this alone. We wanted to make sure you’re okay,” Chico said.
They did some hugging and a tear tracked down Lead Belly’s face. “I’m fine bro.”
“You know we’re here for you,” Dirty Dan said.
“I know man. Here, you guys have a shot while I go inside and get a few more chairs,” Lead Belly said, handing them the bottle of Jack. He stepped inside the trailer.
“Do you think he knew?” Tiny asked after Lead Belly went inside.
“What? That Cheri was on the shit? Of course, he knew, with all those trips she was making to Phoenix, he had to know. You can’t get that shit here. There will be no Crystal Meth in Harlem Springs as long as I’m the president of the Road Dogs.”
“The walls of this trailer are paper-thin,” Lead Belly said when he stepped out onto the front porch. He set down three more chairs.
“I’m sorry bro,” Tiny, a massive biker, built like a refrigerator with a long scruffy beard, said. “We didn’t mean anything by it.”
Lead Belly waved them off. “No problem bro. Have a seat.”
They sat down and passed the bottle back and forth. “Yeah, I knew. We fought about it all the time. You know my history. I don’t know how I had the strength to resist. She used to do lines right in front of me on the kitchen table. It was everything I could do, to say no.”
“You should have told us. We could have done something to help,” Chico said.
“I thought that if you knew, you’d kick me out of the club. I thought you’d think I was back on the shit again.”
“No, if you were back on the shit, I’d know, but we could have done something about Cheri. We could have forced her to go to rehab or something,” Chico said.
“She wouldn’t have gone. I should have cut her loose a long time ago, but I was afraid too,” Lead Belly said.
“You loved her man. That would have been a hard thing to do,” Dirty Dan, a short grubby-looking biker with a gray beard said.
“Yeah, well it’s too late now. She’s dead,” Lead Belly said.
“Don’t worry about the services or anything. The club will cover everything,” Chico said and stood to his feet. “Why don’t you climb on that scooter and ride down to the clubhouse with us. We’ll do some partying. I know there are some women down there that would love to help you keep your mind off your sorrows.”
“There’s never a shortage of women hanging around the clubhouse,” Tiny said.
“There’s that girl Janet from Subway. I swear that girl has a thing for you,” Dirty Dan said.
Lead Belly laughed. “No, you guys go. I don’t feel up to it.”
Chico stood on the front porch with his right hand in his pants pocket. A concerned look crossed his face. “All right bro, don’t do anything stupid.”
Lead Belly waved goodbye and watched his club brothers climb on their scooters and ride away. Once they pulled onto the main road and roared away, he pulled a 38 caliber revolver from his vest. He took a bullet from the box that next to his chair. He popped out the revolving cylinder and put a bullet into it. He popped the cylinder closed and then gave it a spin. Putting the barrel of the weapon up against his temple, he cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger.
After leaving Lead Belly’s mobile home, Chico and his bros headed to the main road. They turned left and headed toward town. An older ratty-looking Pan Head passed them by going the opposite direction. The rider, an older bearded dude wearing worn-out jeans and a scruffy denim vest waved as he went by. Chico glanced in his rearview mirror looking at the patch on the guy’s back. Hitting his brake, Chico turned into a Seven-Eleven and pulled into a parking space. Tiny and Dirty Dan pulled in next to him. They killed the motors and climbed off the bikes.
“Who was that guy? He looked familiar. Is he one of ours?” Dirty Dan asked.
“I never, seen him, but I saw his picture. This is some strange shit man, but he looked like someone from the Book of The Dead,” Tiny said.
“It looked like he was heading toward Lead Belly’s place. Did you see that box of bullets under Lead Belly’s chair? He’s gonna eat his piece. We’d better go back,” Dirty Dan said.
Chico let out a sigh. “You’re right. This is some strange shit. I’ve seen that guy before and I saw that patch under his bottom rocker. It’s the Halo patch. Remember that time when we had that trouble with the Hell-Raisers in The Devil’s Punch Bowl? That guy showed up then.”
“That’s right. I remember now. I must have blocked that shit out, and remember when Sonny passed? We were outside of the clubhouse talking. He and Sonny appeared out of nowhere on their scooters like a couple of ghosts. This is some weird shit man,” Tiny said.
“That guy’s name is Cave Man. He died back in sixty-eight. If he’s here, then he’s here for a reason,” Chico said.
“Yeah, I remember him. He and Big Mike used to be tight. Big Mike was down in Florida visiting his mom when Cave Man died. We’d better go back man,” Dirty Dan said.
Chico lit a smoke. “If Lead Belly wants to take himself out there’s no way we could talk him out of it. I hope that dude can. Let’s ride.” He tossed his smoke to the ground, climbed back onto his bike, fired it up, and hit the highway. Tiny and Dirty Dan pulled in behind him and they roared down the highway heading to the Road Dogs clubhouse.
***
I touched down on the highway one hundred miles West of Harlem Springs Arizona. My radiant steed of dazzling light shimmered when I touched the ground. It lost its brilliance. It changed into an older Pan Head Harley Davidson Motorcycle. My name is John Brown, but my bros call me Cave Man and I’m a troubleshooter from beyond. When they told me in Biker Heaven that one of the bros was in trouble and needed a little help, I volunteered for the job. Whenever I get the chance to come back and be mortal for a while, I take it, but it was more than that. When they patched me into the club, when I was still alive, I swore an oath: Road Dogs in life and Road Dogs in death. I take my word seriously and when a bro’s in trouble, I’ll do whatever I can to help.
I rolled past the old oak tree that I hit at over one hundred and ten miles an hour, back in 1968 after a zombie bit me. That crash bought me a one-way ticket to Biker Heaven. I partied for what seemed like an eternity. The folks in charge asked me to join up with a group of troubleshooters that wear the Halo patch. Whenever there is trouble in the biker world and they need help from the other side, they send us. Cranking the throttle, I headed east passing a dirt trail leading back to an old cabin that Sonny used to own. Sonny, a former chapter president, is now living it up in Biker Heaven after cancer took him out. Sonny left the cabin to the club after he passed and the bros still partied there sometimes. It felt good to feel the breeze blowing through my hair and the wind in my face. I motored down a lonely desert highway heading toward Harlem Springs.
When I hit the edge of town, I passed the Road Dogs clubhouse, a bar known as the High Noon Saloon, and continued east. The bros were at the clubhouse like usual, but my mission wasn’t there, I needed to talk with Lead Belly. A feeling of nostalgia shot through me when I passed Honey Suckle Court, the street where I grew up. I turned right onto an outlying road and headed south. Three motorcycles passed going in the opposite direction. I recognized Chico and a couple of the bros. I grinned and waved, knowing that there’d be talk in the clubhouse tonight if they recognized me. It ain’t every day that you see a biker from the great beyond rumbling down the road on his Harley. In my rearview, I watched them turn into a Seven-Eleven parking lot and park their scooters. I turned off onto a dirt driveway leading to an older run-down mobile home sitting off by itself. I pulled up to the trailer, killed the motor on the Pan Head, and climbed off. Lead Belly’s eyes went wide when he saw me. He was sitting on the front porch with a gun in his hand with the barrel up to his temple when I rode up. When he saw me, he lowered the piece to his lap. Two evil demons wearing filthy black robes stood on both sides of him hissing in his ear. “Do it, one more time,” one of them said. Green slime covered the demon’s face, he had warts all over his skin and I saw pieces of decayed flesh on its evil cheek. They both reeked like three-day-old road kill.
“You have no business here!” the larger of the two evil sons of bitches said turning toward me, but Lead Belly couldn’t hear them or see them. He had his eyes glued on me. I drew my hand back as if throwing a softball and a ball of blue light shot out of my palm hitting the evil SOB in the chest. He flew backward and both of the Devil’s imps disappeared into a flash of white light. Lead Belly jumped to his feet and the pistol fell to the deck of his front porch. He stuck his hands out in front of him to stop me.
“Hold it right there! I know who you are! You’re dead! I saw your picture! You’re in the book of the dead! If you’re here, that either means that I’m dead too, that I ate my piece and you’re here to take me away and I’m not sure I wanna go! If I’m not dead, I’m startin’ to lose it and I’m seeing things! Either way, I don’t want what you’re sellin’!”
I raised my hands into the air. “Calm down bro. I want to talk. You’re up there on that porch playing Russian roulette. You’re thinkin’ about killing yourself. You can forget about Biker Heaven if you do that. You’ll wind up on the Lost Highway, and that’s not a place you want to be.”
Lead Belly fell back to his chair and motioned to another chair. “Sure. Let’s talk. It’s probably the whiskey-making me see you anyway. You want a shot?”
A grin crossed my face when I climbed up onto the porch. “We’ll have some of mine,” I said, pulling a bottle from my vest pocket. “It’s a hell of a lot better than the stuff you can get here on Earth.” I took a hit, sat down in the chair facing Lead Belly, and handed him the bottle. He took a shot and a smile crossed his face. “Hell yeah. That has to be the best Jack I’ve ever tasted.”
“And it doesn’t give you a hangover in the morning,” I said and took back the bottle.
“What do you want to talk about?” Lead Belly asked.
“I’d like to talk about, could of, should of, and would of,” I said.
Lead Belly let out a snort. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“We’re gonna talk about what could have happened if your old lady, Cheri hadn’t overdosed. What should happen, and most likely will happen, if you kill yourself. We’re gonna talk about what could happen, and most likely will happen if you don’t,” I said and handed him back the bottle. “The funny thing about this bottle of Jack is that it never runs dry.”
Lead Belly smiled, feeling the fire in his belly after he took a hit, and said, “Okay, so talk.”
“You’ve seen that old Christmas movie, called the Christmas Carol, right?” I asked.
“Don’t tell me. I’m gonna meet the ghost of Christmas past, present, and future?” Lead Belly said and grinned. He took another hit from the bottle and handed it back to me.
“Something like that,” I said waving my hand toward where my bike set parked in front of the mobile home. My spirit bike changed into its true self. Its colors magnified and its brilliance radiated light. Another spirit bike, like mine, materialized out of thin air.
“Holy shit! I ain’t never seen a scooter like that!” Lead Belly exclaimed jumping to his feet. “What kind of bike is that? It looks like my dream bike, only ten times better than I could even imagine!”
“It’s a spirit, bike. It’s yours on, loan while I’m here. Let’s ride,” I said standing to my feet.
We climbed on the scooters and motored down the road. “These bikes don’t feel that much different! Where we goin’?” Lead Belly asked.
“We haven’t opened them up yet. Believe me; they’re out of this world. We’re gonna take a trip through space and time,” I yelled, over the sound of the engines. When we reached the paved road, we turned left. “Goose the throttle and pull back the bars!” I yelled and shot up through the atmosphere to the stars. Lead Belly shot up after me.
“Hot damn! I never owned a bike that could fl- before!” Lead Belly said. The silly grin on his face made me laugh. He gazed about at the vastness of space and the Earth-orbiting below us. “How can we breathe up here?”
“We’re not actually in our physical bodies. Let’s head back,” I said and descended through the atmosphere. We touched down on the same old dirt driveway leading to Lead Belly’s mobile home. This time things looked different. Trash littered the ground, old car parts lay scattered about and Lead Belly’s Harley lay in pieces on the ground. It looked like a basket case. Yelling and screaming along with children crying emanated from the house.
“Who lives here now?” Lead Belly asked. “I never kept the yard like this.”
“You do. This is three years down the road. This is what your life would have been like if Cheri hadn’t overdosed.”
We climbed off the scooters and climbed up onto the porch. Lead Belly paused next to the steps to listen to the noise coming from inside. “That sounds like Cheri yelling, but she never used to be that bad.”
“This is what it would have progressed to if she had lived. Let’s go inside. They won’t see or hear us,” I said.
“What do you mean they?”
“You’re going to see an older version of yourself. It might freak you out a little,” I said.
“You better give me another shot of that Jack,” he said gripping my arm.
I grinned. “A shot of Jack never hurt a damned thing,” I said and we stepped through the front door. Standing in the living room of his small mobile home, Lead Belly’s mouth dropped open in shock. Trash littered the floor. Two small, filthy little boys wearing dirty diapers played amongst the squallier. Lead Belly glanced at the older version of himself. He sat in his lazy boy wearing a dirty Harley Davidson tee-shirt with the sleeves cut off.
“God, look how skinny I am, and dirty,” Lead Belly said.
“You’re back on the shit,” I said. “Watch.”
The older version of Lead Belly leaned over a coffee table. He took a baggie from his pants pocket and snorted a line of speed.
One of the little boys toddled up to him with his arms raised and said, “Daddy.”
The older version of Lead Belly backhanded the kid and yelled, “God Cheri. Can’t you get a handle on these brats? While you’re at it clean up this place!”
Cheri came out of the kitchen wearing a dirty pair of white shorts and a white wife-beater tee shirt. She looked skeletal and had a residue of white powder on her nose.
“If you’d get a job, they wouldn’t bother you so much,” she said and hustled the kids away.
“Look at their arms. See the burn marks? Cheri gets her kicks out of burning them with cigarettes when you’re not here.”
“God she looks bad. I never thought about having kids, but if I did, I wouldn’t treat them like this. I wouldn’t make them live like this.”
“That’s what Crystal Meth does. It makes it where it’s the only thing you care about and it takes you to where you don’t want to go,” I said.
“This ain’t real. What you’re saying is that if Cheri had lived, this is what would have happened?”
“Most likely. You are better off without her,” I said. We heard the sound of motorcycles and I glanced at the door. Two Harleys pulled up out front followed by a pickup truck. A door slammed and we heard three men climb the steps up onto the porch.
“Oh shit!” the older version of Lead Belly said and tucked the bag of dope into his back pocket. Someone on the front porch banged on the front door. It wasn’t a pleasant knock. It was more like a knock that a cop might make, or someone who was, pissed off at the person inside. The older version of Lead Belly jumped up and opened the door. Chico, Tiny, and Dirty Dan stormed inside.
“Hey, bro,” the older version of Lead Belly said and tried to hug Chico, but Chico shoved him across the room.
“You ain’t my bro. You stopped being my bro when you went back on the shit, you damned tweaker,” Chico said.
“It’s like that then?” the older version of Lead Belly said.
“Yeah. It’s like that. We’re here for your patch. Get your cut.”
The older version of Lead Belly let out a sigh and went to a closet. He came back a few seconds later and handed Chico his club vest.
“Look at the kid. Look at his arm,” Tiny said.
Chico crossed the room and bent down to one of Lead Belly’s boys. He took hold of his arm and examined the cigarette burns. Chico ruffled the hair on the boy’s head and then stood up. He motioned to the older version of Lead Belly and nodded at Dirty Dan. “Set him down at the kitchen table.”
“That wasn’t me. I swear,” the older version of Lead Belly said. “It was Cheri.”
“I guess you’re going to pay for your old lady’s sins,” Chico said. Tiny and Dirty Dan man handled Lead Belly into the kitchen and threw him down in a kitchen chair at the table. Chico turned on a burner on the stove. He took a butter knife from the cluttered kitchen sink and heated it over the open flame. Once the blade turned red hot, he stepped to the table. “Hold his arm out.”
“No please!” the older version of Lead Belly screamed.
While Dirty Dan and Tiny held him down, Chico burned off the Road Dogs tattoo on his forearm. He had to make several trips back to the stove to reheat the blade before he finished the job. The stench of burning flesh and Lead Belly’s screams filled the room. Cheri made herself scarce and didn’t interfere. Finished with their grizzly deed, Chico, Tiny and Dirty Dan took Lead Belly’s cut. They loaded his bike onto the bed of the pickup truck. The older version of Lead Belly stood on the front porch cradling his arm. Tears streamed down his face. “This ain’t right man,” he said.
“This bike was on loan from the club. We’re taking it back,” Chico said.
“Have you seen enough?” I asked the younger version of Lead Belly, the one standing next to me.
“Hell yeah. It’s damned depressing.”
“Then let’s take a trip forward a few years,” I said.
The air around us rippled, reality shimmered and we stood on Lead Belly’s front porch. A stench of rotten meat emanated from inside the trailer. An ambulance pulled up out front. We followed the ambulance attendant inside. The attendants couldn’t see us. Lead Belly lay sprawled on his Lazy Boy, dead as a can of corn beef. A needle hung from his right arm. Trash and other debris littered the floor.
“Where’s Cheri?” the Lead Belly standing next to me asked.
“She’s in the bedroom. She’s dead too. You both went out together.”
“What about the boys?” Lead Belly asked.
“The state took them a year ago.”
We watched the attendants remove the bodies.
“What’s next?” Lead Belly asked.
Reality shimmered once again and we stood at the back of the chapel in the Walker Brothers Funeral Home. A small crowd gathered in the front near the two coffins.
“Good Lord, I thought more people would have shown up. At least a few more of the Road Dogs,” Lead Belly said.
“If you’ll look upfront, Chico’s there. He’s the only one, though. Look at his face. Notice the tears in his eyes.”
“By the way, he acted; you would have thought he hated me,” Lead Belly said.
“He hated what you had become. As far as he’s concerned, he failed you. He thinks it was his fault.”
“Where’s Dirty Dan? We were tight once?” Lead Belly asked.
I shrugged. “He died out on the highway. He was riding alone and crashed his bike. There was no one there to call 911. You would have been with him, but by that time you were strung out on speed and you were no longer in the club.”
“Let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough of this shit,” Lead Belly said.
Once more reality shimmered and we found ourselves on Lead Belly’s front porch.
“None of that shit happened,” Lead Belly said.
“In some other reality, it did. That’s what would have happened if Cheri had lived.
“What now?” Lead Belly asked.
“Let’s see what happens if you do kill yourself,” I said. “Let’s ride.”
Climbing onto the spirit bikes, we headed down the driveway. We took Main Street through town and rode about a mile and a half down the highway. I pulled over to the side of the road near a curve and we climbed off the bikes. “We’ve traveled about four years into the future,” I said.
“What are we doing? Why are we here?” Lead Belly asked.
“Watch.”
A few minutes later, we heard the rumble of a motorcycle. Dirty Dan came round the curve. His back tire hit gravel and slid out. The sound of scraping metal filled the air as Dirty Dan slid across the highway. His head bounced off the pavement and he slid into a ditch. Blood pooled up under his unconscious body. I ambled over and Lead Belly followed.
“Oh God, man. Can’t we do something?” Lead Belly said. We knelt next to the dying biker.
“No, we’re spectators right now. He’s gonna lay there for another two hours before he dies.”
“Why are you showing me this if I can’t do anything about it?” Lead Belly asked.
“Because, if you wouldn’t have killed yourself, Dirty Dan wouldn’t have been alone. You two would have been riding together on your way out to the clubhouse. You would have called the medics and he would have lived.”
Lead Belly turned away from the downed biker. “All right. I’ve seen enough.”
“Let’s get back on the scoots and head down to the clubhouse,” I said.
We climbed back onto our scooters and rumbled on down the road. We pulled into the gravel parking lot of the High Noon Saloon. “We’ve gone back in time, from when Dirty Dan crashed. We’re back to the day after you commit suicide,” I said. We climbed off the bikes, stepped up onto the boardwalk, and entered the biker bar. The music was off, and a somber crowd gathered at the bar. Chico held up a glass of beer.
“Let’s drink one for Lead Belly,” he said. The prospects tending bar poured everyone a drink.
“God, why’d he have to do it?” Dirty Dan said. He was barely able to keep his voice from cracking.
A tear rolled down Chico’s face. “I don’t know man. It was that Cheri. I guess he couldn’t live without her.”
“Listen to the pain in their voices. You can see it in their eyes. They love you man,” I said.
“Yeah, yeah,” Lead Belly said, but I heard a catch in his voice.
“Check out the old ladies. See that young girl with dark hair? The one crying her eyes out. That older woman is trying to console her.”
“Yeah. That’s Janet from Subway. She’s a hang around.”
“She hangs around this place because of you. She’s crying for you, bro,” I said.
“She’ll be all right,” Lead Belly said.
“Yeah, maybe.”
Once more reality shimmered. We found ourselves out front of the Walker Brothers Funeral Home. Motorcycles lined the curb. We stepped inside and stood at the back of the chapel watching the services. Tears filled everyone’s eyes while the minister spoke the eulogy. He went on about God giving and God taking away.
“He’s wrong about that, this time,” I said. “God didn’t have anything to do with it. You did. You caused all this pain because of your selfishness.”
“Lighten up man. This hasn’t even happened yet,” Lead Belly said.
“But it will if you don’t man up and go on with your life,” I said.
We watched the rest of the services. When people headed down to the coffin to pay their last respects, Janet, the girl from the Subway broke down. She burst into a sobbing fit. “She loved you, man,” I said.
“Yeah, yeah. Okay. Let’s get out of here,” Lead Belly said.
We sauntered out the back door; I climbed onto my scooter and said, “Let’s Roll.”
“Where to now?”
“We’re gonna take another little trip into the future,” I said.
Time rippled. The scenery flashed by for several seconds as if we were traveling over a thousand miles an hour. Things returned to normal a few seconds later. We pulled up in front of a small blue house in a rundown neighborhood.
“Where are we at now?” Lead Belly asked.
“We’re on Honeysuckle Court. I used to live down the street.”
“Who lives here?” Lead Belly asked.
“Janet, the girl from the Subway.”
We parked the scooters, crossed the lawn, and climbed up onto the front porch. Lead Belly hesitated. I grabbed his arm and we stepped through the door and passed right through without opening it.
“How’d you do that?” Lead Belly asked.
“We’re not part of this reality. The normal laws of physics don’t apply right now.”
Lead Belly looked about, taking in the middle-aged woman sitting on the couch knitting a shawl. A fat, baldheaded man in a dirty white shirt sat in a Lazy Boy watching TV. Two chubby little boys played with toy cars on the floor and a thin girl sat next to the woman coloring in a color book.
“They can’t see us can they?” Lead Belly asked.
“No, and they can’t hear us either.”
“God is that Janet?” Lead Belly said, gazing at the woman. “She’s had to have put on at least a hundred pounds. She looks old. How long’s it been?” Lead Belly asked. “And that fat bastard. I recognize him. He’s the guy who used to manage the Subway where she worked.”
“He still does. It’s been ten years since you killed yourself.’
“Ten years? She looks like she’s aged at least twenty-five years or more.”
“That’s what happens when you live a life filled with depression.”
“Why is she depressed?” Lead Belly asked. “She has a nice house, three kids, and a man to take care of her.”
“A man she doesn’t love. She settled for second best. The man she loved killed himself ten years ago. Look at the sadness behind her eyes, and the bruise. You can see it under her make-up.”
“The fat bastard beats her? Why I ought to knock the shit out of him right now!”
I laughed. “If you tried, your hand would pass right through his head and he wouldn’t even know it. He only hits her now and then, and then he acts like a whipped dog begging for her forgiveness. He loves her, in his, own selfish kind of way. He knows that she doesn’t love him. That’s why he drinks. He settled for the wrong woman too. She was his eye candy, his dream girl. All the while, working right in the same store was a sweet girl who would have made him happy. She carried a few more pounds on her than Janet. If you wouldn’t have killed yourself, you and Janet might have got together and they’d of had a chance.”
“Honey why don’t you slice up that pie and dish us up a bowl of ice cream,” the fat man on the Lazy Boy said to his wife. Janet smiled, put her knitting aside, and went into the kitchen.
“It’s the only pleasure she gets out of life; eating, and her knitting,” I said.
“So what happens to them?” Lead Belly asked.
“They grow old; the kids go off to college. She gets a heart condition and dies. He lasts for a few more years and then his liver fails.”
“This place is depressing. Let’s get out of here,” Lead Belly said.
We stepped through the door, climbed back on our scooters, and headed up the road. The air around us shimmered. Reality rippled and once more, we sat on our motor scooters in front of Lead Belly’s Mobile home.
We climbed off the motorcycles and stepped up onto his front porch. Lead Belly took a seat and I sat down across from him. I pulled a bottle of Jack from my vest pocket and handed it to him. He took a shot.
“Are we back in my place and time now?” Lead Belly asked.
“We’re back in your place and time. I wouldn’t try walking through no walls or doors like, we did earlier. You might get a knot on your head.” An evil demon in a dark robe tried to crawl up on the porch, but I pulled my 357. A pulse of blue light shot from the barrel and the Devil’s imp disappeared in a flash of blue light.
“What was that?” Lead Belly asked, in shock.
I tucked my 357 back in my waistband. “That was one of the Devil’s miss guided children. He wants your soul.”
“All that stuff I saw. It wasn’t real, was it?”
I shrugged. “It’s what could have happened; what most likely would have happened. The future is an open book. It’s like an unwritten page. We control our destiny by the decisions we make, and the deeds we do,” I said.
“Janet doesn’t have to marry that fat bastard?”
“No, life is about choices. Sometimes you make the right ones, and sometimes you make the wrong ones.” I picked up his 38 and put it in his lap. “It’s like this choice you’re thinking about. With one pull of the trigger, you’ll change not only your life but the lives of everyone around you.”
Lead Belly sat the revolver down next to his chair. “Let’s say I don’t kill myself? What happens then?”
I grinned. “That all depends on you and the choices you make, but let’s see what might happen if you don’t bite the bullet. Let’s take another ride.”
We headed down the driveway, took a left, and headed down Main Street.
“Where are we going?” Lead Belly yelled.
“I thought we’d head down to the clubhouse,” I yelled back, so he could hear me over the sound of the rushing wind.
We motored through town, took the two-lane highway heading toward Phoenix. Five miles west of town, we pulled into the gravel parking lot of the High Noon Saloon. Motorcycles, cars trucks, and vehicles of every description filled the parking lot. Loud rock and roll music resonated from the bar. A couple of prospects sat out front guarding the motorcycles.
“What’s going on here?” Lead Belly asked.
“Why don’t we go inside and find out?” I said.
We followed one of the club members inside, moving through the crowded barroom. Lead Belly stopped in the center of the room gazing about. Someone had decorated the room for a wedding. Presents were stacked on one of the tables. A large wedding cake formed to look like a motorcycle wheel, set on another table. The small bride and groom on top of the cake had been custom painted to look like a biker and his old lady.
“Who’s getting married?” Lead Belly asked.
I laughed. “You are. Let’s go up front so we can take in all the action.”
We elbowed our way through the crowd of onlookers, even though they couldn’t see us or feel us pass by. We stepped up next to the bride and groom. Chico stood next to another, older-looking version of Lead Belly. Janet, the girl from Subway, stood next to Lead Belly. Her smile radiated happiness. The minister, one of the bros who served as the chapter’s Chaplin, stood up to perform the wedding. The band quit playing. The Chaplin, an older bro with a long beard looked up and smiled.
“Let’s start this shindig. Do you, David Henderson, AKA Lead Belly promise to torment only Janet Knight for the rest of your life? Will you treat her at least as good as you do your Harley?”
“I do,” the older version of Lead Belly said. The crowd cheered.
“Do you, Janet Knight, promise to torture and torment only Lead Belly for the rest of your life? Do you promise to put up with his shit to the best of your ability? Only then resorting to fetching him upside the head with a frying pan?”
“I do,” Janet said.
“I now pronounce you man and wife. Kiss her already so we can get on with the party.”
The crowd cheered, and the older version of Lead Belly put her in a lip lock bending her over backward. I slapped the younger-looking version of Lead Belly, standing next to me on the back. “Let’s go over to the bar and have a drink,” I said.
“I thought they couldn’t see or hear us? How are we gonna order a drink?”
I laughed. “When I come back on these missions, I have certain abilities,” I said and we headed to the bar. I found us two empty bar stools and we sat down. “Hey! Prospect! Give me a Jack and Coke and get my bro, here a beer!” I yelled, projecting my voice.
“Yeah, yeah, keep your shirt on,” the prospect tending bar, whose back, was to us said.
The prospect turned around and set the Jack and Coke down on the bar, along with a beer. “All right. Who’s fucking with me? Who ordered these drinks?” the prospect said, but a bro-down the bar called for a beer and he headed down that way. I handed Lead Belly his beer and picked up my Jack and Coke. When the glass touched our hands, they disappeared.
“You look like you enjoyed that,” Lead Belly said.
“Yeah, I always did enjoy fuckin’ with the prospects.” We finished our drinks. I ordered two more, causing the prospect some more grief. Then we watched the happy couple hit the dance floor.
“They look happy, or I should say we look happy,” Lead Belly said.
“Yeah, but remember. This ain’t real. It’s what could happen, what most likely will happen if you don’t kill yourself, but in the end, it’s all up to you. Life is about choices. Are you ready to ride?” I asked.
“Where to now?” Lead Belly asked.
“Oh, we’re gonna fast forward a few years to the future,” I said.
“Why not? It ain’t like I got anything better to do,” Lead Belly said and we headed to the door, passing through the crowded barroom. Outside, in the parking lot, we climbed onto our scooters and fired them up.” Where are we going?” Lead Belly yelled, over the noise of the engines.
“You’ll see. Let’s roll,” I said and cranked the throttle. I crossed the parking lot and headed east toward town. Lead Belly followed. Around us the air shimmered, I breathed in the scent of burning ozone and reality shifted once again. We hit, town, headed down Main Street passing a hardware store and a bank. When we passed the town graveyard, I glanced over. I saw several sets of evil-looking red eyes that looked as if they were peering at us from the pits of hell. I guess the Devil’s imps are out in force tonight, I thought. I turned left onto Baker Street and pulled into the parking lot of Saint Ann’s Hospital. We parked our scooters and headed over to the main entrance.
“What are we doing here? Are you showing me how I’m gonna die?” Lead Belly asked.
“No, you’ll see. Let’s take a walk,” I said and climbed off the bike.
When we reached the front entrance of the hospital, a band of five to six little evil demons blocked the door. They wore black robes, smelled like road kill, and warts covered their faces. I saw a few horns protruding through the hoods of their robes. Their evil red beady eyes peered at us from the darkness. Lead Belly jumped back.
“Whoa, man. What’s this?”
“Oh, these guys ain’t nothing. They’re some of the Devil’s soldiers on the scout for souls. They hang around hospitals and funeral homes. When a person dies, they’re vulnerable. That’s why the powers that be on the other side usually send someone back to escort the person home. They want to make sure they wind up in the right place. Don’t worry about these guys,” I said pulling my arm back. I flung it forward as if I was throwing a softball. A ball of blue light shot out of my hand, hitting the Devil’s boys and they exploded into a blue fireball.
“How’d you do that?” Lead Belly asked.
“It’s one of the perks you get when you wear the halo patch. You have certain powers when you come back on a mission.” We passed through the front door of the hospital without opening it.
“What is the older version of me dying? Did he crack up on his scooter? Where are we going here?”
I chuckled. “No, nothing like that. I thought we’d take a stroll down to the maternity ward.”
When we entered the maternity ward, Lead Belly began to get nervous. I noticed sweat running down his forehead. “Man, I’m not used to this stuff. I hate hospitals.”
I laughed. “Yeah, the older version of you doesn’t like it too much either.”
As we approached the delivery room, we could hear Janet screaming from down the hall.
“God it hurts! What’d you do to me you son of a bitch!” she screamed.
“Do I have to go in there?” Lead Belly asked.
“Yep,” I said and let out a chuckle. When we reached the doorway of the delivery room, I leaned against the doorjamb and held my hand out to the room. “Witness the miracle of life.”
Lead Belly stepped up next to me, a pale look crossed his face and he said, “I’m gonna be sick.”
I snickered. “Yeah, and the older version of yourself ain’t doing so good either.”
The older version of Lead Belly had passed out and the doctor left him lying on the floor.
“I pass out? I can’t believe it.”
“Yeah, but you wake up in time for the main event,” I said.
We watched the delivery for the next twenty minutes. The nurses helped Janet through her contractions. The baby’s head was crowned and he was ready to enter the world. The older version of Lead Belly stirred and climbed to his feet. He took his place next to the doctor and a big grin crossed his face.
“It hurts! It hurts!” Janet screamed.
“You can do it, babe,” the older version of Lead Belly said.
“One more good push should do it,” the gray-headed doctor said. Janet bore down, with the next contraction and the baby entered the world. A look of relief and pure joy crossed Janet’s face and the young couple radiated happiness. The doctor cleared the baby’s airway, cut the umbilical cord, and slapped the baby on the ass.
“Congratulations. You have a fine-looking baby boy,” the doctor said. The doctor carried the baby to a table, cleaned it up, wrapped it in a baby blanket, and handed it to the proud father.
“It sure is something, isn’t it?” I said to Lead Belly.
“What?” Lead Belly asked.
“The love a good man and a woman share. The miracle of life,” I said. “Have you seen enough?”
“Yeah, get me out of here before I hit the deck like my older twin,” Lead Belly said.
I let go with a belly laugh. We headed back out into the hallway, and I said, “You come back here two more times, but I’ll not bother to show you that.” We passed through the glass doors of the main entrance and climbed back onto our scooters.
“Where to now?” Lead Belly asked.
“We’ll take one more little ride into the future,” I said and fired up the scooter. We pulled out of the parking lot, I goosed the throttle and we headed down the road.
Reality shifted. We breathed in the scent of burning ozone and blasted down the highway, heading east. Ten miles outside of town, I turned right onto a long tree-lined dirt driveway and pulled up to an old farmhouse. Lead Belly pulled up next to me.
“Who lives here?” Lead Belly asked.
“You do.”
We climbed off the bikes and approached the house. An elderly couple sat on the porch swing on the front porch, under the awning, enjoying a glass of lemonade. A young boy of no more than fifteen years sat on a stump in the front yard working on an old motorcycle.
“Don’t tell me. That old geezer is me?”
“Yeah, and that’s Janet sitting next to you,” I said.
“Who’s the kid?”
“That’s your grandson. Notice the Road Dogs prospect patch on his denim vest?”
“Yeah.”
“Well son, do you think you can make that old thing run?” the old version of Lead Belly said.
Janet patted the old version of Lead Belly on the leg. “Of course he will, old man. He takes after his grandpa when it comes to mechanics.”
“I know I can make it run Grand Pa. This thing is so cool. It’s one of the old Evolution motors. Harley hasn’t made these things in over twenty years.”
The old man on the front porch smiled. “I’ll tell you what, son. If you can make that old thing run, then you can have it.”
The young man beamed. “Thanks, Grand Pa. Dad will be stoked.”
The older version of Lead Belly smiled. “When you get home tell your pops to stop by. I’ve got a brand new bottle of Jack and some of them fancy cigars that he likes.”
“I will Grand Pa. Are you gonna make the church meeting at the clubhouse this Friday night?”
“I’ll be there, son,” the older version of Lead Belly said.
“And you better go to real church with me this Sunday,” Janet said.
The older version of Lead Belly chuckled. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Old Woman.”
I glanced over at Lead Belly. She dies about two years later from cancer. You follow her six months after that. Have you seen enough?”
“Yeah, let’s hit the highway,” Lead Belly said.
We climbed back onto the bikes, headed down the driveway, and headed west. Reality shifted. The scenery around us changed a bit and we rolled back into town and pulled up in front of Lead Belly’s trailer. Everything looked the same as when I first pulled up. We parked the bikes and climbed up onto the front porch. Lead Belly sat down in his chair and I reached down and picked up his 38.
“Are we’re back in my place and time?” Lead Belly asked.
I popped open the revolving cylinder, picked up the box of bullets, and filled all six chambers.
“Yeah, we’re back to your here and now,” I said.
“What happens now?” Lead Belly asked.
“Now you have a decision to make. I’m tired of messin’ around with you, you little pussy. If you want to kill yourself then do it,” I said and handed him the 38. Lead Belly’s jaw dropped open and he stared at the gun in his hand. “What? Are you afraid? You won’t even feel it. Once that bullet splatters your brains across this front porch you’ll be done with this life.”
“No.” Lead Belly said, and laid the gun down next to his chair. “I ain’t afraid. I want to live.”
A smile spread across my face. “Good, then let’s ride.”
“Where to now?” Lead Belly said.
“Let’s head down to the clubhouse. The bros worry about you, and you need to be around people right now.”
“Right here and right now?”
“No better time than the present,” I said.
“Will the bros at the clubhouse be able to see you?”
“Yeah, because that’s the way I want it. I’m in the mood to do some partyin’ before I head home,” I said.
Lead Belly climbed off the front porch. We climbed back on our scooters and motored across town, but this time Lead Belly rode his, own bike. We took the highway west and pulled into the gravel parking lot of the High Noon Saloon a few minutes later. You could have heard a pin drop or a flee fart when we strolled through the front door. The women dancing on the bar stopped. Someone turned off the music. All the bros lining the bar and sitting at the tables watched us cross the barroom to the bar. We bellied up to the bar, all eyes turned toward us. I took a brass coin from my pocket, which had my name engraved on one side and the Road Dogs emblem engraved on the other. I slammed the coin on the bar. “I’m calling the coin!” I said, and several of the bros looked at me.
“Who’s this guy? His face looks familiar, but I don’t remember seeing him before,” a bro, down the bar said.
Tiny and Dirty Dan looked at me and both of their faces went pale. “I’ve seen him before. His face is in the book,” Tiny said.
Chico stepped up next to me and said, “I’ll vouch for him boys. Produce your coins.”
All the bros lining the bar produced their coins. I bought the next round and ordered a Jack and Coke from the prospect tending bar for myself. Lead Belly turned to Dirty Dan and grabbed him up in a bear hug.
“I love you, bro,” Lead Belly said. Then he noticed Janet sitting across the room at one of the tables and headed over. The next thing you know, the band started playing and they were out on the dance floor. I glanced over at them, looked over at Chico, and grinned. We both glanced over at Lead Belly and Janet out on the dance floor and I heard him ask her out for dinner.
“Your boy there is going to be okay now,” I said.
Chico sighed. “I’m glad to hear it. He had me worried. Thanks for your help man.”
“No problem. That’s why I wear the halo patch, to help out when the bros are in trouble. It gives me a chance to come back once in a while and ride my scooter,” I said.
“How are things on the other side?” Chico asked.
“Things are good. That’s why they call it Biker Heaven.”
“How’s Sonny?” Chico asked.
“Sonny’s good. He sends his love.”
“I miss him, ya know,” Chico said and tears welled up in his eyes.
I put my arm around his shoulder. “I know. Sonny misses you too. You’ll see him again, but it’s gonna be a while. The bros down here need you. You’re one of the best presidents that the Road Dogs have ever had. When your time comes, it’s gonna be a hell of a party at Biker Heaven,” I said.
I partied at the clubhouse with the bros for another three hours and then we said our goodbyes. After saying my goodbyes to Chico, Dirty Dan, and Tiny, Lead Belly came over, grabbed me up in a big bear hug. He introduced me to Janet.
“Are we good now?” I asked Lead Belly after we got done huggin’.
Lead Belly smiled, standing there with his arm around Janet. “Yeah, we’re good.”
The bros came outside, I climbed onto my scooter and they waved goodbye as I pulled out of the parking lot. I headed down the highway for about fifty miles enjoying the feel of the wind in my face. Then pulled up on the handlebars and shot up into the heavens passing through the stars.
Hello. It’s been a while since I have posted anything so I thought that I would post another short story for your reading pleasure. Bring a Brother Home is the third story in my collection titled Tales from the Lost Highway. Leave a comment to let me know what you thing and if you would like to read the entire collection click the link at the bottom of the page. You can read the entire book for free with Kindle Unlimited.
Bring a Brother Home
I backed off the throttle and descended to the ground. My bike changed, from a dazzling steed of light to a 1953 Harley Davidson Pan Head. It looked like it had seen better days. The tires chirped when they touched asphalt. I rode down a lonely desert highway one hundred miles west of, Harlem Springs Arizona. My name is John Brown, but my bros call me Cave Man. I ride with the Road Dogs MC, or at least I did when I was alive, now I wear the halo patch. They came up with the idea for the halo patch at a church meeting in Biker Heaven. The halos are a division of the Road Dogs, only you have to be dead to wear the patch.
Some people might call us angels, but we like to think of ourselves as troubleshooters. Whenever there is trouble in the biker world, they send us. I was traveling alone on this mission; I didn’t expect much trouble, because I came to bring a brother home. A crack of thunder rolled across the night. Lightning flashed in the distance and I felt a raindrop hit my left cheek. The wind felt good to my face and the air held a slight chill. Zipping up my leather jacket, I cranked the throttle and shot down the highway. It felt good to be back. The only thing I missed about being mortal was the feeling of the wind in my face when I rode my scooter. That’s why I always touched down about a hundred miles or so away from where ever I needed to be. It gives me time to put my fist in the throttle and my face in the wind.
I rumbled by an old farmhouse, and a little kid sitting on the front porch looked up. Isn’t it past his bedtime? I thought and shot on down the highway. Backing off on the throttle, I pulled over to the side of the road next to an old oak tree. I heard a branch snap and saw a pair of beady red eyes in the forest. Evil laughter echoed from the woods.
My hand went to the 357 riding in a holster underneath my vest. “Begone, you vile creature, or I’ll send you back to hell where you belong,” I said to the evil fiend, hiding in the woods. I turned my attention back to the tree. The evil laughter stopped.
This old tree had been there for a lot of years. Back in 68, I hit that tree at over one hundred miles an hour and that’s what sent me to Biker Heaven. Up the road, about one hundred yards was a turn-off. A dirt road led back into the hills where the Road Dogs owned a cabin, but that wasn’t where I headed. My mission was in town. I leaned up against the tree, standing in the exact place where I died those long years ago. I pulled a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Old Number Seven from my coat pocket. I took a couple of shots while I leaned against the tree resting my butt. Taking a pack of Lucky Strikes from my pocket, I lit a smoke, breathing in the rich flavorful tobacco. Finished with the cigarette, I took a piss on the tree and climbed into the saddle. The old Pan Head started up on the third kick. I engaged the transmission and took off heading east into the Arizona night.
When I passed the Road Dogs clubhouse, five miles outside of town I noticed a couple of motorcycles setting out front. I didn’t bother pulling in; my mission wasn’t there. Two prospects sat out front in lawn chairs, drinking beer, but neither one of them saw me. One must have heard something because he looked up. By this time I had changed back into my spirit form. I was traveling incognito: invisible to mere mortals. I was only visible to the world when I chose to be. I reached the outskirts of town a few minutes later. A sense of nostalgia passed through me when I passed Honey Suckle Court, the street where I used to live.
Turning left on Main Street I headed down the street. I passed the bank, a hardware store, and the gas station where I used to work. Across the street from the gas station set the town’s graveyard. I noticed the red glow coming off a few sets of demonic eyes peering at me from the darkness. I guess the Devil’s boys are out tonight, I thought. On Baker Street, I turned right. I went through two stoplights and started to pull into the parking lot of, Saint Ann’s hospital, but I stopped short. A band of evil little demons blocked my path. They wore little black filthy robes and they looked like they had bathed in pond scum. I noticed warts covering their faces along with legions of decayed flesh that oozed puss. The repugnant smell of their breath wafted on the wind. The smell reminded me of a skunk that had been lying dead on the road for five days. When they saw me, the evil little shits hissed and raised their claws. They were here to collect souls, and I guess somehow, they knew I was coming.
I pulled forward, and they were on me climbing all over the bike, gouging at my face and one went for my throat. I threw them off, pulled my 357 and my knife. My 357 shot out beams of ultra-blue light. When I hit one of the little SOBs, he disintegrated disappearing from this plane of existence. I slashed with my knife, piercing the brain of another one of the bastards, and then gunned the throttle.
Several motorcycles set parked out front when I parked the Pan Head. It was now invisible like myself. I strolled up to the main entrance of the hospital. Two more of the evil little shits stood blocking the doorway. I pulled my hand back as if I was tossing a softball. A ball of blue lightning shot out of my palm and hit the little fellow in the chest. He exploded into a cloud of smoke. The other one jumped for my throat, but I grabbed him by his grubby little hands and tossed him out into the parking lot. When he hit the ground, he disappeared in a blinding white flash that only I could see.
I sauntered through the glass doors not bothering to open them. A few more of the Devil’s imps lingered in the corridor, but they backed away when they saw me coming. I guess their brothers outside told them to watch out. They have some sort of telepathy thing going on. A group of hardcore bikers sat on a bench leaning up against the wall in the waiting room. They looked devastated. One, a sandy blond-headed young man tried to comfort a middle-aged woman. She clung to him with tears rolling down her cheeks.
“I went in to check on him, and he’d slipped into a coma. Thanks for coming. After I called nine-one-one the only thing I could think of, was to call you. He’d want his brothers around him when the time comes,” the woman said.
“How long did it take the ambulance to get there?” the sandy blond-headed young man said.
“About twenty minutes. Chico, this past year has been terrible. What with the chemo and everything. I don’t know what I’m gonna do without him.”
“Don’t give up hope,” Chico said, a tear rolling down his face. “He could still beat this thing.”
I stepped up to the woman, put my hand on her shoulder, and said, “Be at peace, sister.” Although she neither heard nor saw me, she quit crying. I moved my hand to Chico’s shoulder. He shivered and looked up at me. My eyes widened and I thought at first that he saw me, but then I realized that he just sensed something. A shudder passed through him. “Be at peace, my brother. The bros need you,” I said.
“You know, Regina, ever since the officers voted me in as president of the club Sonny has had my back. If there’s anything, anything at all that you need, let me know,” Chico said.
“You and the rest of the guys have been a Godsend. The Road Dogs motorcycle club was his life. I appreciate everything you guys have done.”
A tall, dark-haired man wearing green hospital scrubs stepped up. Regina and the Road Dogs stood to their feet.
“I’m sorry Mrs. Taylor, but it’s getting close to the end,” the doctor said.
Regina started crying again. “How long does he have?” she asked.
The doctor shrugged. “He could go in a few hours, or he could linger on for a couple of days.”
“Will he come out of the coma before he passes?” Chico asked.
The doctor paused. “He could, but I doubt it.”
“Can we go in and see him?” Regina asked.
“Yes, but let’s make it two at a time and limit the visit to no more than ten minutes. He needs to rest,” the doctor said.
Chico took Regina’s arm and followed the doctor to Sonny’s room. I followed along behind them. The rest of the Road Dogs sat back down to wait their turn for a last, visit with one of their brothers. When I entered the room behind Chico and Regina, Sonny sat up in bed. A scowl crossed his face, though no one but me saw this. It was Sonny’s spirit projecting itself outward, getting ready for the end. I looked over in the corner and saw a dark hooded figure dressed in black. He held a sickle with a long handle and he looked like the Grim Reaper himself. I pulled my vest back and put my hand on the butt of my 357. “Easy partner. This one doesn’t belong to you,” I said. The evil demon peered out of his hood with flaming red eyes, but then nodded and passed through the wall.
“What was that? I saw a flash of something dark in the corner of my eye,” Sonny said.
“Oh, it’s nothing you need to concern yourself with right now,” I said.
“What are you doing here anyway?” Sonny asked.
“I’m here for you, bro. I’m here to bring a brother home. The bros up at Biker Heaven got a big bash waiting for you.”
“What was that? I saw his eyes flicker,” Regina said.
“That happens with comatose patients,” the doctor said.
“I thought I saw his lips moving,” Chico said.
“Even though he’s in a coma, there is still some brain activity.”
“I ain’t ready. Biker Heaven can wait,” Sonny said.
I reached out and took hold of Sonny’s hand. His spirit rose out of his body, he stood beside me and looked down at his emaciated body, now wasted away by cancer.
“Look at you,” I said. “That damned cancer has eaten you up. It’s time to go.”
“But I ain’t ready. Regina needs me. The bros in the club need me. I still have things to do,” Sonny said.
“Regina will be fine and Chico will hold things together in the club. Let’s go,” I said.
“Go? Go where? I don’t want to go anywhere,” Sonny said.
“Look, bro. The doctors will keep your body alive with these damned machines for a few days. I got some things I need to show you. There’s a scooter out front waiting for you. After that, if you want you can get back in your body and try to tough it out, but it’s a lost cause. It’s your time,” I said.
“You brought my scooter?” Sonny said.
“No, not that old rust bucket. I brought your spirit bike; it’s waiting outside.”
“Spirit bike? What’s that?” Sonny asked.
“Imagine your dream bike and then multiply that by ten. You ain’t gonna believe it, bro. Let’s ride.”
Sonny shrugged and said, “Why not?”
When we stepped out the door, Sonny’s appearance changed. His body looked young and healthy. Instead of the hospital gown, he wore jeans, a black t-shirt, and his club vest. We sauntered through the wall and into the lobby. A few of the Devil’s miss guided children lingered in the hallway. One of them lunged at Sonny, but I pulled my 357 and blew its ass away with a beam of bluish-green light.”
“Holy shit! What was that?” Sonny said, jumping back.
“Oh, that’ one of the Devil’s munchkins trying to steal your soul. Forget about it,” I said.
“I want to say goodbye to the bros,” he said, stopping at the group of Road Dogs sitting in the lobby.
“Don’t worry about them. You’ll get your chance to say your goodbyes later,” I said. We crossed the lobby and passed through the glass doors at the entrance without opening them. We stepped out into the parking lot. Sonny’s jaw fell open when he saw his spirit bike parked next to mine. Earlier, when I mentioned the bike to him, sending the thought caused the bike to materialize next to mine. Both bikes were invisible to human eyes. Off in the darkness, I saw several sets of demonic eyes watching us.
“Damn! I ain’t ever seen a bike like that!” Sonny exclaimed.
“Yeah, they’re cool. These bikes don’t leak oil, and you never have to put gas in them. Let’s roll,” I said. I climbed in the saddle and fired up the motor. It put out a throaty growl that sounded like your typical Harley. Sonny climbed on his bike, jumped up, and kicked it over. He gunned the throttle and grinned. “When you put it in gear, pull up on the bars when you give it throttle. Follow me,” I said. I hit the throttle, pulled up on the bars leaning back in the saddle and the bike soared into the sky. Once the bikes left the ground, they turned into their true selves. They radiated light and fire shot out of the tailpipes. Sonny let out a wild whoop and followed me. For a while, he had trouble controlling his bike. He went flying off in a different direction, but he gained control and pulled up next to me. A big grin spread across his face.
“These things are a kick! Where are we going?” Sonny yelled over to me.
“We’re taking a little trip up to Biker Heaven. They gave you a visitor pass,” I said and cranked the throttle shooting up toward the stars.
Passing through the heavens, we continued to climb. The stars surrounded us like a warm blanket. Sonny rode beside me, his eyes wide in awe. Above us, the darkness gave way to a lustrous light. A sense of joy and love radiated down on us. We passed through a cloudbank, I backed off the throttle and we touched down on a long street paved in pure gold. We traveled through a field of emerald green grass. Rugged-looking mountains loomed in the distance. Across the meadow stood a grove of trees that seemed to reach for the heavens. The sky above us was a deep ocean blue and down the road, laid the emerald city shimmering in its glory. The noise coming from the pipes on our scooters seemed louder somehow and almost musical.
Sonny pulled up next to me. “I’ve never seen anything like this. The colors are so vivid.”
“Yeah, it’s something to see the first time,” I said.
“What’s that place up ahead?” Sonny asked.
“That’s the welcome center, but we’re pulling off before we get there. Biker Heaven is on the outskirts.” We motored on down the road for what seemed like about an hour and pulled off into a rough gravel parking lot. A rectangular-shaped cabin, hewn from rough wooden logs set off by itself. A wooden boardwalk fronted the building and a couple of wooden rocking chairs were set out front. It looked like any rustic log cabin you might see on Earth. Motorcycles of every size and description set parked next to the boardwalk. We killed the motors on our scooters and climbed off.1
“That’s it? That little cabin? That’s Biker Heaven?” Sonny asked in shock.
I smiled. “Looks are deceiving.”
Taking Sonny by the arm, I led him across the parking lot and up onto the boardwalk. Loud rock and roll music emanated from the building. The hinges on the log door squeaked when I opened it and we stepped into the barroom. A crowd of well-wishers greeted us when we stepped inside. Sonny stood in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips and his jaw hanging open. He gazed about in wonder. The polished oak bar seemed to go on forever. Masses of bikers lined the bar drinking beer and whiskey while others sat at tables. Looking down the length of the room it seemed as if it went on for miles. Bikers of every description partied hard while women danced topless and naked on the bar.
“What the? How can this place be so big? It looked little on the outside!” Sonny said. He had to shout over the noise.
“I told you that looks can be deceiving. It’s bigger on the inside than on the outside,” I said. A crowd of bikers came up, showing Sonny respect.
“Join the party! We’ve got a cabin out back picked out for you to stay in when you come back! You’ll love it here! It’s on President’s Row!” Little Danny Boy, a former Road Dogs chapter president said. He gave Sonny a big hug and a slap on the back.
“Damn it’s good to see you, man!” Sonny said. He looked around seeing several people that he knew, that had passed over.
After Little Danny Boy went back to the bar, Sonny said, “Little Danny Boy died in Nam.”
“Yeah, I was there,” I said.
“There’s Thumper, Old School, Chops and there’s old Teddy bear. I know half the people here,” Sonny said.
“Yeah, you’ve got lots of friends here,” I said.
“I see some guys from some of the clubs that we don’t get along with here. Why’s that?” Sonny asked.
“Once you cross over, all those old rivalries are no more. We all get along here. There are no rival clubs. We work with some of the other clubs sometimes to try and keep things copasetic on Earth,” I said.
“How long can I stay?” Sonny asked.
“As long as you want! Time is different here! I’ll let you know when we need to head back; don’t worry about that now! Let’s party!”
Sonny mingled with the bros, while I found a seat at the bar next to my pops. Sonny came by, joined us a while later and my pops bought the drinks. Sonny and my pops did some hugging and back-slapping. They went way back.
“This place is unbelievable!” Sonny said his eyes wide in wonder. Up on stage, Elvis Presley, Roy Orbison, and Buddy Holly blasted out an old rock and roll tune. “I can’t believe it! Elvis Presley, Roy Orbison, and Buddy Holly! Talk about some good old rock and roll!”
“Yeah, those old boys can play! They’re on tour right now!” I yelled over the noise.
“I could stay here forever!” Sonny yelled.
Pops laughed. “I went hog wild when I first showed up!”
“If you want to hook up with one of the women there are cabins out back!” I said.
“I can’t! I’m married, but they sure are good-looking!” Sonny said.
“It’s okay! You can if you want! Everything’s okay here and all the women are good-looking!” I yelled. We partied for what seemed like an eternity and then I laid a friendly hand on Sonny’s shoulder. “We’d best ride! You have some unfinished business back at the hospital in Harlem Springs!”
Sonny sighed and we headed for the door.
***
We touched down on the highway three miles outside of town. Our spirit bikes changed. They went from radiant steeds of light back to old Harley Davidson motorcycles. We motored into town and when we pulled into the hospital parking lot, we turned invisible once more. I fought another battle with the evil little vermin in the black robes. Most of them ran after I threw a ball of blue lightning into their midst.
“Why can’t I do that?” Sonny asked.
“All in due time, bro. You haven’t crossed over yet. You’re still between.”
Sonny and I stepped through the front door, not bothering to open it, and headed down to Sonny’s room. Sonny’s wife Regina and a group of Road Dogs gathered around the bed.
“How much time has passed since we left?” Sonny asked. The humans still in their physical bodies couldn’t hear us.
“It’s been three days. It’s time, Bro,” I said.
Sonny looked down at his emancipated body. “What if I don’t want to?”
I shrugged. “It’s your choice. You have to go back into your body. You can give up the fight, and we’ll move on, or you can keep fighting and last another month or two, but look at your body. You’re not gonna beat this thing.”
Sonny sighed and entered his physical body. Regina kissed his cheek, Chico took his hand and a few of the bros gathered around talking to him. The heart machine beeped and then flat lined. The breathing machine stopped and Sonny’s body died. Regina began to cry and Chico put his arm around her.
“It’s better this way. At least he’s not suffering anymore,” Chico said.
Sonny’s spirit rose out of his body and stood next to me. “What now?”
“Go comfort your wife. She won’t be able to hear you or feel your touch, but in her spirit, she’ll know your there.”
Sonny moved across the room and stood next to Regina on the other side of Chico. He put his arms around her. I moved around touching each one of the Road Dogs gathered around the bed.
“Be at peace, brother,” I said to each one when I touched them. When I got to Chico, I said, “Be strong bro. She’s gonna need you.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ve never had to plan a funeral before,” Regina said.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll handle it for you. You need to go home and get some rest. Tomorrow, I’ll take you over to the funeral home,” Chico said.
The doctor came in and shooed everyone out after Regina and the Road Dogs said their goodbyes. They wheeled Sonny’s body out of the room, covered up with a sheet. Sonny stood in the hallway watching them wheel his remains away.
“Don’t worry about that,” I said.
“What do we do now?” Sonny asked.
“We need to hang around for a while. You’ve got a funeral to go to,” I said.
“You mean I’m gonna attend my, own funeral?” Sonny asked.
“Of course. Everyone does,” I said.
Chico and the bros took Regina home and we followed along behind on our scooters, all though they couldn’t see us. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a few of the little demons in the black robes scampering along behind us. When they arrived at Sonny’s place, the bros parked their scooters on the street. Chico escorted Regina to the front door. Before he stepped inside, Chico glanced out at the street.
“What?” a young prospect asked.
“I don’t know man. I couldn’t see anybody, but it felt like someone was following us. Like right now, I feel eyes on me but no one’s there,” Chico said.
“It’s Sonny passing and all. It’s got you rattled. We’re all in shock right now,” the prospect said.
“Yeah, you’ right,” Chico said and stepped into the house.
“What now?” Sonny asked when we stepped up on the porch.
“Chico and the bros will take care of her for now. They’ll spend the night to be sure she’s okay. Why don’t we sit out here on the porch, have a few beers, and enjoy the evening?”
Sonny sat down on a plastic chair and I sat down next to him.
“Where are we supposed to get the beer?” Sonny asked.
I glanced down and a six-pack of Bud Light set at my feet. “Imagine that,” I said and took one out of the six-pack. I handed it to Sonny and took one for myself. A few of the little demons showed up out front and one of them tried to come into the front yard. “No, you little shit. Back on out of here before I send you back to hell where you belong,” I said pulling my 357. They retreated to the sidewalk and a few of them climbed up on the picket fence. I shot one of them off the fence, sending it back to the pits of hell.
“How’d you do that?” Sonny asked.
“Do what?”
“How do you make blue lighting come out of your piece like that and how did you make that beer appear out of thin air?” Sonny asked.
I laughed. “It’s one of the perks you get when you cross over. It takes concentration. You’ll learn.” We killed our first beer, I handed Sonny another and took a bottle of Old Number Seven out of my vest pocket.
Sonny took a pull from his beer and gazed out at the night. “This is the last time I’ll ever sit on my front porch and have a beer,” he said.
“Oh, I don’t know about that. This is the second time I’ve been back to Harlem Springs since I died in sixty-eight. When you get to Biker Heaven you might decide to join the Halos. Then you’ll get to come back once in a while when you’re needed.”
Sonny’s eyes widen. “I remember now. You came back and helped us with the Hell-Raisers that time. I must have blocked that out of my memory somehow.”
“Yeah, those boys were a bad bunch, and their helpers were worse. That was a dangerous time.” Sonny and I sat on the front porch for the rest of the night drinking beer and watching the sunrise in the morning.
***
We headed back into the house around nine that morning. We passed right through the front door without opening it. People tend to get upset when their front door opens and closes by itself. Chico and the bros sat on the couch, while Regina puttered around in the kitchen making breakfast.
“Regina, you don’t need to fix us anything. We’ll grab a bite to eat in town,” Chico said.
“That’s all right. It gives me something to keep my mind off things. I can’t believe he’s gone,” she said.
“I almost feel like he’s still here with us,” Chico said.
Sonny, sitting on the couch next to him grinned. I laughed.
Regina passed around plates loaded down with scrambled eggs, bacon, and hash browns. Then she passed out cups of coffee.
“That woman always did like to cook,” Sonny said.
“Don’t I know it? I remember those times you invited me and some of the bros over for dinner. I love that woman’s cooking,” I said.
The others engaged in conversation while they ate. They neither heard nor saw Sonny and me.
After everyone finished eating, Regina said, “I don’t know how I’m gonna pay for the funeral. Johnny had a life insurance policy, but I don’t know where it is.”
“You don’t need to worry about that. The club will cover everything,” Chico said.
Sonny jumped to his feet. “I know where that life insurance policy is. It’s in that closet right over there, up, on the top shelf in a shoebox along with some other papers.”
I stood up next to Sonny and gripped his arm. “Here’s your chance to start usin’ some of the powers that you’ll have when you cross over. Open that closet door.” Sonny started to cross the room, but I stopped him. “You can’t do it with your hand like when you were alive. Your hand would pass right through the doorknob. Use your mind. Sometimes it helps if you extend your hand with your palm open.” Sonny extended his hand. “Concentrate.”
“This is hard,” Sonny said.
“Focus,” I said.
Sweat beaded up on Sonny’s forehead, but the door squeaked open. The Road Dogs, sitting on the couch, jumped looking up in shock. Sonny crossed the room to the open door of the closet and extended his hand to the shoebox on the top shelf. The shoebox fell to the floor spilling the papers inside.
Regina let out a started cry and Chico jumped to his feet.
“That almost scared the shit out of me,” Chico said and crossed the room to the spilled papers. He looked through the papers for a few seconds then picked up some of them. “Here are those insurance papers. I told you it felt as if Sonny was still here.” He handed Regina the insurance papers.
Regina looked about the room. “Sonny, if you’re here, I love you and I’m gonna miss you,” she said to the room.
“I’m gonna miss you too darlin’,” Sonny said and a tear tracked down his face.
I put my arm around his shoulders and said, “She’s gonna be fine.”
A half-hour later, Chico rode with Regina in her station wagon. The bros followed along behind them as they headed down to the funeral home. Sonny and I brought up the rear on our spirit bikes. After taking some turns on a few back streets, Chico pulled up in front of the Walker Brothers Funeral Home. The Road dogs parked their scooters behind Regina’s station wagon. Chico climbed out, went around to the passenger side, and helped Regina out of the wagon. They headed up the walkway to the front entrance. The Road Dogs stepped along behind them. Sonny and I brought up the rear. Another gaggle of little demons in their black robes tried to grab Sonny at the door. I tossed a ball of blue lightning in their mist and they scattered. One of them had Sonny by the arm, trying to drag him down to hell. I pulled my knife and stabbed him in the top of his slimy little head. He disappeared with a flash of white light followed by a cloud of black smoke.
“Those little suckers don’t give up, do they?” Sonny asked.
“No, they’ll pester us until we head out to Biker Heaven. Don’t worry, I’ll deal with them.”
Chico and Regina went inside and the bros followed them. The prospect, the last one in the door, slammed it in my face, so Sonny and I passed through.
A tall dark-complexioned man in a black suit stood in the center of the reception area. Several oak coffins were set up against the wall and white shag carpet covered the floor. Chico led Regina over to the man. They conversed in low tones and then the man said, “Let me show you what we have.” He led them over to what had to be the most expensive coffin in the room. “Now this is our super deluxe model. With its gold trim, its gold handles, and its silk lining, you would be doing your husband proud, Mrs. Taylor.”
“Check out this asshole,” I said.
Sonny saw red. “I know. If I was still alive, I’d kick his ass right now.”
“I don’t think gold trim or gold handles are necessary,” Chico said.
“What did you say your name was?” the man asked.
“My bros call me Chico.”
“Well, Mr. Chico. My name is Tom Walker. I own one-third of this funeral home and I’ve been doing this for over twenty years. I’m more qualified than you to make that decision, but why don’t we let the widow decide?” he said.
“I don’t know,” Regina said. A tear tracked down her cheek and a trimmer passed through her.
“I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Taylor. Why don’t we step into my office and I’ll let you check out some of our brochures?” Walker said.
Walker took Regina’s arm and led her away. Chico followed them with a scowl on his face. I noticed his fists ball up at his side. The Road Dogs stepped outside for a smoke. Sonny and I stepped through the wall joining Chico and Regina in the office with Tom Walker. Tom sat behind a large wooden desk while Chico and Regina sat down across from him.
Walker handed Regina a brochure. “I recommend our super deluxe model. If that’s too expensive and you don’t mind something less fashionable, you could go without the deluxe model. It’s two hundred dollars less.”
Chico jumped to his feet. “Mr. Walker. Could I speak with you outside please?”
“I don’t see what-”
“Now, please!” Chico said.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Taylor,” Tom Walker said and stood to his feet. He stepped out of the office and Chico followed him. Sonny and I passed through the wall to watch the show. Out in the hallway, Chico grabbed Tom Walker by the throat and slammed him up against the wall.
“Listen, asshole! She doesn’t need your super deluxe model or your deluxe model. She needs a standard coffin to bury her husband in!”
“I,-but-” A spot of urine appeared at the crotch of Walker’s pants.
“You know, you’re right,” Chico said interrupting him. “Let’s go with the super deluxe model. We’ll take the most expensive service you’ve got. You’re gonna give her that super deluxe coffin at the same price as you would a pine box! As for the services, you’ll give her that for free! You’ll do the whole deal for two thousand dollars. If you don’t the bros and I are gonna come back here tonight and burn this place to the ground! Are we clear?” Chico turned loose of Walker’s throat.
“Yes, perfectly, clear,” Tom Walker said and they stepped back into the office.
I laughed. “I like the new pres. I knew he had the makings the first time we came back and mixed it up with them Hell-Raisers at the Devil’s Punch Bowl.”
Sonny grinned. “Yeah, Chico can be a bit intense when he gets riled. He reminds me of you when you were young.”
I laughed and we passed back through the wall to watch Regina sign the papers. A grin crossed her face when Tom Walker told her the price that he was charging her.
Sonny laughed and said, “That old boy looked like he swallowed a turd.”
“I know. I thought he was going to choke when he told her the price,” I said and let out a giggle. Chico looked up with a weird expression on his face. For a moment, I thought he saw me, but then his eyes dropped back down to the papers Regina was signing. Finished with the papers, Chico took Regina’s arm. He led her out of the office and stormed out of the funeral home as if his tail was on fire.
***
Three days later, we gathered in the chapel at the funeral home. The minister from the Baptist church, where Regina attended preached his eulogy. Cars filled the parking lot. Motorcycles lined the curb and I saw a few of the little demons out front, but they were afraid to go inside the chapel. The Grim Reaper stood peaking around a corner holding his sickle over his shoulder.
“Damn, the Devil and his boys don’t give up do they? Will we be safe inside?” Sonny asked.
“They won’t step foot in there. It’s holy ground,” I said and we stepped inside. About fifty members of the Road Dogs lined the back three pews. There were several members from other motorcycle clubs there to pay their respects. Friends and family plus people from the church occupied the rest of the chapel. Sonny and I stood unnoticed by the back door watching the proceedings.
Pastor Blackwood from the church stepped up on the platform. Tom Walker, from the funeral home, stayed in the background.
“It tickled me to see all these motorcycles pull up out front,” Blackwood said. “One thing James Taylor, Sonny to his club brothers, liked was riding his motorcycle. Now he’s gonna ride it up in heaven. If Jesus were walking the Earth today, he might ride a Harley.” A loud cheer rose from the back of the room. The preacher continued, preaching a good sermon. When he finished he let others speak sharing their thoughts about Sonny. When they finished, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.
After the service when the people in the audience filed out, Sonny stood next to Regina. He took one last look at his body before they closed the casket.
“Damn, bro. That doesn’t even look like me,” Sonny said.
“It’s not. It’s a hunk of rotting meat,” I said.
We followed the funeral procession, riding at the back of the pack as they rode over to the graveyard. When we headed out to the gravesite, Sonny and I followed along behind the crowd. A couple of prospects, one from the Road Dogs and another from another club, strolled along in front of us.
“Hey man, this is gonna sound weird, but I was ridin’ at the back of the pack. I kept hearing what sounded like a couple of scooters behind me. I was ridin’ tail-end Charley,” a prospect from another club said.
The Road Dog prospect he was talking to nodded. “Yeah, I almost thought I saw Sonny’s bike parked out front. I did a double-take, but nothing was there. Things like that creep me out, man.”
They had a canopy set up where they were holding the graveside service. Sonny and I followed the crowd when the Grim Reaper stepped out from behind a tree. He tried to lead Sonny away. I pulled my 357, stepped up behind the old boy, and slammed the butt of my gat into the back of his head.
“Ouch!” the Grim Reaper said and let go of Sonny’s arm.
“I told you, this one doesn’t belong to you,” I said and pulled Sonny away.
We headed over to where they were holding the services and stood at the back of the crowd listening to the sermon. Sonny leaned up against a tree and I stood next to him with my arms crossed in front of me. “Well, what’d you think?” I asked.
“I didn’t realize I had so many friends. I almost got choked up there for a moment when the preacher was talking about me.”
I slapped him on the shoulder. “You lived a good life, bro.”
“I hope that Regina will be okay,” Sonny said.
“She’ll be fine. The bros from the club will get her through this. Chico’s adopted her.”
“Yeah, she thinks the world of that kid. His mother died a few years ago,” Sonny said.
We headed back to the scooters and rode back to Sonny’s house, but for once, the Devil’s imps left us alone. People from the church, along with friends and family gathered in the living room. The bikers hung around outside drinking beer. Sonny and I sat on the front porch knocking back a few, while the bros gathered in the yard. I reached my hand through the lid of an ice chest, grabbed two beers, and handed one to Sonny. When the bottles touched my hands, they disappeared.
“How do you do that?” Sonny asked. “I reached into that chest and tried to grab a bottle, but my hand passed right through the bottle. I couldn’t pick it up.”
“It takes concentration. You’ll get it after a while,” I said.
A prospect opened the ice chest a few seconds later. His eyes widened. “Damn. We’re going through a lot of beer. We’ll have to make a run.”
Sonny and I laughed.
***
The following Saturday, the Road Dogs held a party in Sonny’s honor at the clubhouse. They started at noon, tapping a few kegs of beer. The booze flowed, the music cranked and the bros were ready to party. Regina showed up about two PM, in time for a ceremony inside the bar where they retired Sonny’s colors. They put them in a display case with a few other vests from fallen brothers and put his picture in the book of the dead. Regina only stayed for a couple of hours and then went home.
The old ladies got loose, took off their tops, and danced on the bar. Prospects worked the bar handing out drinks. As the party continued, a few of the bros who couldn’t hold their liquor held a puke fest in the parking lot. A few more passed out, one laying on the floor next to the bar and another on the pool table.
“Watch this?” I said to Sonny, nodding at the prospect’s back tending the bar. “Hey, prospect! Give me a Jack and Coke and bring my bro here a beer!” I yelled above the noise.
“Keep your shirt on!” The prospect said. When he turned around and placed the drinks on the bar a strange look crossed his face. “Okay, who’s the wise-ass? Who ordered these drinks?” No one responded so he headed down the bar to take another order. I grabbed my Jack and Coke and handed Sonny his beer. When my hands touched the glass tumbler, it disappeared. When I handed Sonny his beer, it disappeared when the bottle touched his hand.
“How did you do that?” Sonny asked.
“What?”
“Make him hear you like that,” Sonny said.
“You have to concentrate and project your voice.”
The women not dancing on the bar-headed over to the stage and put on a wet t-shirt contest. The bros gathered around watching the show. Finished with my Jack and Coke I ordered another. I ordered Sonny another beer while the prospect his back to us. When he turned around and set the drinks on the bar, he looked as if he’d swallowed a prune.
“Whoever ordered these drinks better quit fucking with me,” he said. I waited until he turned back around and we took our drinks.
Sonny laughed. “Why are you messin’ with that kid?”
“Because it’s fun,” I said. I glanced at the bar and noticed a beer setting at the end of the bar that no one was drinking. “You know, they put that beer down there on the bar for you, in your honor. Why don’t you go down there and drink it?”
A grin crossed Sonny’s face. He climbed out of his chair, ambled down the bar, and downed the drink. “How long do you think it’ll take them to realize it’s gone?” I shrugged.
“Okay, who’s the clown that drank Sonny’s beer?” Chico yelled a few minutes later. The bar dropped into silence for a few minutes, but no one copped to the deed.
“Maybe Sonny drank it,” a prospect said.
Chico scowled and then said, “Yeah, maybe he did.” The party resumed.
About six in the evening, I noticed Chico head outside with a couple of the chapter officers. I slapped Sonny on the back and said, “This has been fun, but we need to get on the road. We got another party up in Biker Heaven waitin’ on us.”
Sonny nodded, gave the bar one last look and we headed for the door. Outside Sonny and I climbed onto our spirit bikes and pulled out into the street. A band of the greasy little bastards in the black robes attacked us. I spent a few minutes slashing with my knife and shooting the little SOBs with my 357. One tried to climb on Sonny’s back, but I grabbed him by the back of his hood, threw him to the ground, and stomped him with my boot. The rest took off down the street.
“I won’t miss those little guys,” Sonny said catching his breath.
“They won’t bother us once we hit the road. We’ll do about fifty miles on the highway before we head home. Whenever I get the chance to come back, I like to do a little ridin’. There’s nothing like feeling the wind in your face when you’re in solid form.”
“Yeah, I could go for that,” Sonny said. “But I thought we were spirits?”
Focus when I tell you and you’ll be able to make the change,” I said, “but there’s something we need to do first.”
“What’s that?” Sonny asked.
“We need to let Chico and those two officers see us.”
“How do I do that?” Sonny asked.
“Close your eyes and concentrate. Then open your eyes and let it happen.”
We solidified in the middle of the street. Sonny and I glanced over at Chico and the two chapter officers. A grin spread across Chico’s face and the two officers’ mouths fell open. Sonny and I waved. Chico and the two bros standing next to him waved back, and I dropped the transmission into first gear. Sonny and I headed down the highway and became one with the wind.
For your reading pleasure, check out my short story the Devil’s Punchbowl, below. It is the second story in my collection known as Tales from the Lost Highway. To read the entire series click the link below to buy the eBook at Amazon.com. Let me know what you think of the story. I love hearing from my readers. Until next time peace out!
The Devil’s Punchbowl
Lightning flashed and thunder rolled. I materialized on a lonely desert highway, along with six of my bros. Our scooters faded from their majestic dazzling colors and chrome and changed into ordinary, older worn-out looking Harley Davidson motorcycles as we touched down on the highway. My name is John Brown, but my bros call me Cave Man. Back in sixty-eight, I rode with the Road Dogs. The world went through a change and I wound up hitting an oak tree at one hundred and ten miles per hour. That sent me to Biker Heaven, along with my bro, Old School. Now we ride with a band of troubleshooters and wear the halo patch. Whenever there’s trouble in the biker world and the bros need a little help from the other side, they send us. Some people might call us angels, but don’t get confused. We’re not Hell’s Angels; we ride for the other side.
It felt good to be mortal once more and feel the wind in my face, even though it was only temporary. We rolled down the highway with Little Danny Boy, our road captain, leading the pack. Hector, Hondo, Iron Man, Thumper, and Old School formed up behind Little Danny Boy. They were riding in a staggered formation. I rode in the tail gunner spot at the rear. We rolled around a bend, one hundred fifty miles out of Harlem Springs Arizona. The moon was full on a warm summer night. Little Danny Boy pulled over to the side of the road next to a battered old oak tree. He parked his scooter, stepped over to the tree and the rest of us pulled over behind him. Old School and I sauntered up next to Little Danny Boy and I felt a cold chill run down my spine.
“You remember this place?” Little Danny Boy asked. but I shrugged, pulling a bottle of Old Number Seven from my vest pocket, and downed a shot. A cold wind caused a chill to run down my spine so I zipped up my leather jacket.
“How could I forget? This is where I died,” I said, and then Old School and I knelt to examine the tree.
“Look you can still see the scars. There’s a dent where my head smashed against the trunk,” Old School said.
“Are we going to stop at the cabin?” I asked, but Little Danny boy shook his head.
“No. They’re back in town now. It’s been thirty-two years. The world’s moved on. Things are back to normal now. The government finally got a handle on the flesh-eaters in the late eighties. The ones we’ll be fighting now will be much harder to kill than those zombie sons of bitches.”
“What about Teddy, Bear, and Chops? I thought they’d want in on this deal,” I asked.
“They’ll come if we need them. Even your pops said something about joining us if things get hairy,” Little Danny Boy said. That brought a smile to my face.
“It’ll feel good to ride with the old man again,” I said. “I only see him at church. The rest of the time he’s busy going hog wild in Biker Heaven.”
Little Danny Boy stepped over to his old Pan Head and said, “Let’s ride. There’s a storm coming, and it’s coming straight from hell. If we don’t do something, the Road Dogs won’t stand a chance.” We fired up the scooters. Little Danny Boy pulled onto the highway. We rolled on through the night toward Harlem Springs Arizona.
***
On another lonely desert highway, Joker and Cowboy had their fist in the throttle. They were heading toward town. A full moon looked down from above. A cool breeze tickled their checks and Cowboy felt a chill shoot down his spine. He heard the rumble of motorcycles coming up behind them. Glancing in his rearview mirror, Cowboy’s eyes widened. He saw the headlights of over thirty motorcycles coming up on their tail at a high rate of speed. It looked as if they had a pickup truck traveling behind the pack as a chase vehicle.
Behind the motorcycle riders, an evil multitude of demonic entities thundered forward. The leader rode a two-headed beast that looked like a cross between a rhinoceros and an elephant. He wore a golden spiked helmet and carried a flaming sword forged by the Devil himself. The evil beast snorted fire. It let out an evil hiss and they thundered down the road following their human disciples. When they passed by a ranch house that set off the road, the man of the house woke up in a cold sweat. He felt an urgent need to pray and fell to his knees at his bedside. Down the hallway, his six-year-old daughter screamed in the night in the thralls of a nightmare. Outside their German shepherd dog howled, cowering in his doghouse.
Thunder cracked and lightning pierced the night when the leader of the evil host blew his horn. On the ground, the Hell-Raisers, the motorcycle gang in pursuit of Cowboy and Joker, pulled up next to them. Their leader, known as Hell Boy, lowered a double-barreled sawed-off shotgun. He let go with both barrels blowing Cowboy out of the saddle. Cowboy’s bike swerved sideways, high-sided, and tumbled down the road. Joker locked up his brakes and went down near the centerline. When he stopped sliding, coming to rest on his back, Hell Boy parked his custom chopper on the side of the road. He swaggered over to where Joker lay.
“Please. Mercy,” Joker pleaded and raised a bloody hand.
Hell Boy laughed and said, “Sorry. I’m fresh out.” The rest of the pack parked their motorcycles on the edge of the road. Grim Reaper, their road captain stepped up to Hell Boy.
“You want me to do it?” Grim Reaper asked, shaking a one-gallon gas can.
“No. This one’s mine,” Hell Boy said.
“Please no. Shoot me, man,” Joker said trying to stand on his busted leg.
Hell Boy laughed, kicked him back to the pavement, poured gasoline over Joker’s body, and smiled. “I’ll see ya in hell,” he said pulling a Zippo from his pants pocket. Making flame, he set off the gasoline and while Joker screamed in agony. Hell Boy whistled a tune and ambled over to Cowboy’s body. After pouring gasoline over Cowboy’s remains, he lit him up and turned to his club brothers. “That’s two. We’ll hit their clubhouse in Tortilla Flats and head east.”
“We’ll need a little help with those old boys,” Grim Reaper said.
“Our bros from up north are going to meet us across the border at Parker. When we hit those trailer trash white boys in Harlem Springs, we’ll be over a hundred strong. Let’s ride.”
The Hell-Raisers roared down the highway. The moon reflected off the black and white patches on their backs. It revealed the Hell-Raiser patch along with their top and bottom rocker. The main patch depicted the evil skeletal demon riding a chrome horse. The stench of burning flesh wafted on the wind. Behind them, unseen to the human eye, the leader of the demonic crew let out a war cry. He urged on his fiends from hell and collected two more souls.
The Hell-Raisers hit the Road Dog clubhouse in Tortilla Flats hard and fast. They rolled up on the Thunder Dome and gunned down the two prospects guarding the bikes in the parking lot. When the bros inside the clubhouse heard gunfire, they rushed outside into a wall of lead. The survivors of the initial onslaught retreated into the clubhouse. They returned fire after busting out a few windows at the front of the building.
Hell Boy motioned to Grim Reaper and said, “Send half the boys to the rear to make sure they don’t come out the back. Send Spike to get a crowbar to bar the front doors. Get the gas cans.” Dodging bullets coming from the clubhouse, Grim Reaper ran forward carrying the crowbar. Spike followed along behind carrying two five-gallon gas cans. Grim Reaper barred the front door. Spike poured gasoline all over the front boardwalk and the front of the building. The tempo of the gunfire increased. Ignoring the gunfire, Hell Boy stepped up to the boardwalk with a cocky grin on his face. He pulled his Zippo from his pocket and lighted a cigarette. Then he tossed the burning lighter onto the boardwalk. The Thunder Dome burst into flames. Hell Boy laughed. Ignoring the blood-curdling screams of the bikers trapped inside the burning clubhouse. He turned to his motorcycle and climbed in the saddle. “We’ll leave five guys here. I’ll call some of our chapters from up north and have them send some guys down. Have the guys we leave here find another bar to establish our presence. Check out that place on the other side of town we saw coming in here. Within a month, we’ll own this town,” Hell Boy said to his Road Captain. While Grim Reaper picked out the five guys to stay behind, the rest fired up their motorcycles. They headed for the Arizona border. Behind them, hovering above the ground, the leader of the demonic swarm opened up a ceramic urn. Moonlight flashed off the jewels and diamonds embedded in the urn and he collected the souls.
***
We rolled into Harlem Springs at six in the morning and stopped in at the diner. Being mortal again required food and rest. After breakfast, we holed up in a motel and rolled out to the High Noon Saloon about six PM that evening. Pulling up next to the boardwalk, we parked the bikes in the gravel parking lot and stepped up on the boardwalk. The two prospects guarding the motorcycles out front gave us the once over. The Road Dogs ran an open clubhouse. Anyone could come and drink at the bar, as long as they behaved. If they caused trouble, the bros would toss them out on their ears. It was mostly club members that evening and the party was in full swing. The large speakers behind the bar blasted a ZZ Top tune and two young ladies danced on of the bar topless. They looked like hang around’s, not old ladies. A woolly bear of a man danced with another, big-breasted blonde on the dance floor. Several people sat at tables throughout the room and bikers lined the bar.
We stood in the center of the bar room, taking in the scene. All eyes turned to us acknowledging our presence. Then the bar’s patrons went about their business.
“There’s a lot of new faces here,” Little Danny Boy said.
“What do you expect? It’s been over thirty years. Like, you said, the world’s moved on,” I said noticing a familiar face sitting at the bar. His hair had gone gray. His beard had turned white and his face looked more weather-beaten. I would recognize Sonny anywhere. “There’s Sonny,” I said, a smile crossing my face. I headed over to the bar while Little Danny Boy and the rest of our crew found a table. Elbowing my way between Sonny and a young Road Dog with curly blond hair, I pulled a copper coin out of my vest pocket. Engraved on one side of the coin, was our club patch and the words Road Dogs. On the other side of the coin was my name: Cave Man. I slapped the coin down on the bar.
“I’m calling the coin,” I said. It was a tradition. When someone called the coin, the club member unable to produce his coin bought a round of beers. All eyes at the bar turned to me and Sonny’s eyes widened.
“What chapter are you from brother? I’ve seen your face somewhere, but I don’t remember,” the young curly blond-headed biker said.
“I’m from this chapter. The name’s Cave Man,” I said and turned the coin over showing my name engraved on the back. Sonny’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped.
“I knew Cave Man. You look a lot like him, or like he did before he died back in sixty-eight. Where’d you get that coin?” Sonny asked.
“You gave it to me, Sonny. At the ceremony when you patched me in,” I said.
“I’ll be right back,” the young blond-headed biker said and disappeared into a back room.
“Who’s the young blood?” I asked.
“That our president. We call him Chico.”
“Why aren’t you still president?” I asked.
Sonny pulled a pack of smokes from his vest pocket and lit one up. “I ran my course. It was time for the young folks to take over.”
Chico came back carrying a leather-bound book and his face looked ashen. “He’s in the book,” Chico whispered to Sonny. “I knew I’d seen his face somewhere. So are those dudes sitting over at that table with that halo patch on the back of their vests. It’s below the bottom rocker. They’re all in the book of the dead,” Chico said and handed the book to Sonny. The book of the dead was a leather-bound photo album with pictures of all our fallen brothers. You had to be dead, to be in the book.
“If you’re Cave Man prove it. Show me the tat we gave you the day you patched in,” Sonny said, so I pulled up my shirt and showed him my tattoos.
“Anybody can get a tat. Tell me the last thing you said to me the day you died. Tell me how you went out.”
I sighed. “The very last thing I said to you was that after we died for you guys to have a party for Old School and me. Then I said goodbye to that young girl Cynthia, I climbed on the bike, looked at Old School, and said, “Let’s ride.”
“Old School. Is he here too?” Sonny asked.
“He’s right there at that table,” I said.
“Who’s Old School?” Chico asked.
“He was before your time. He’s in the book. Little Danny Boy was president before me. He died in Vietnam. How’d you guys go out?” Sonny said.
“Me and Old School both got bit by zombies. We plowed into that old oak tree down the road from the dirt road leading back to the cabin. We hit the tree at over one hundred miles an hour,” I said.
“Is he telling you the truth?” Chico asked.
“I know it sounds crazy, but yeah he is. He’s Cave Man. It happed as he said.”
“What’s with the halo patch?” Chico asked.
“I’ll let Little Danny Boy tell you about that,” I said and motioned for him and the bros from the other side to come over. They bellied up to the bar and a few nervous hellos came from the Road Dogs lining the bar. It’s not every day that a band of bikers comes back from the dead and swagger into a bar. “Meet Chico. He’s the new president. He wants to know about the halo patch,” I said. Chico and Little Danny Boy shook his hand.
“He doesn’t feel like no ghost,” Chico said and let out a nervous laugh.
“The Halos are a group of troubleshooters. We’re an auxiliary branch of the Road Dogs,” Little Danny Boy said.
“Why ain’t we heard of them?” Chico asked.
“Because you have to be dead to sign up. We started the group in a church meeting in Biker Heaven,” Little Danny Boy said. You could have heard a pin drop or a fly fart.
“Are you guys like angels?” Chico asked.
“Sort of, but not quite. They gave us certain powers that we can use while we’re here to help us complete our mission,” Little Danny Boy said.
“Why are you here? Why’d you come back?” Sonny asked.
“Because there’s a storm coming and they’re called the Hell-Raisers. They already wiped out the chapter in Tortilla Flats. They burned their clubhouse to the ground and they’re coming here next. This is the mother chapter. If this chapter falls, the Road Dogs fall.” Chico franticly pulled something out of his pocket and put it up to his ear. It reminded me of Captain Kirk’s communicator on Star Trek.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s called a cell phone. It’s a telephone, but there are no wires,” Sonny said. Chico held a brief conversation over the phone. His eyes widened, he cut the connection and put the phone in his pocket.
“He’s telling the truth. They hit the clubhouse in Tortilla Flats last night. They set the building on fire and burned everyone alive that was inside,” Chico said.
“Why would the powers that be in Biker Heaven, if there is such a place, care about a biker war going on here on Earth?” Sonny asked.
“Because there’s more to it than a couple of bike clubs going to war. It’s a war over souls and they have help. Someone unleashed the Devil’s imps, but we’ll deal with them. You know, Harlem Springs used to be a nice place to live for the citizens as well as for us,” Little Danny Boy said.
“It still is. We keep the drug dealers and scum out. Oh there are a few people who sell weed, but they don’t cause trouble,” Chico said.
“If the Hell-Raisers take over, that will change. They’ll bring in crystal meth, heroin, you name it. This town will be in a world of shit.”
“What are we supposed to do? How much time do we have?” Chico asked.
“We’ll get into that, but first I called the coin. Produce your coins brothers,” I said. Everyone lining the bar produced their coin, so I had to buy the next round. “Make mine a Jack and Coke,” I said to the prospect working the bar and put my coin back in my pocket.
“How much time do we have?” Chico asked. Little Danny Boy shrugged, the prospect passed out the drinks and I took a drink from my Jack and Coke.
“A day or two at the most. We need to be ready.”
A couple of the bros started a pool game, the prospect turned down the music and we put our heads together to talk.
“We’ve got enough arms and ammunition to hold off a small army,” Sonny said.
“That won’t work,” I said and shook my head. “They’d burn this place to the ground with you inside. That’s what they did in California. We need to lure them away. We need to trap them in an ambush somewhere.”
“Yeah, but where?” Chico asked.
A memory flashed through my brain, penetrating the Jack Daniels fog. That’s another thing I’ll have to get used to, I thought: hangovers. “What about that place east of here where we used to party at, back in the day? We called it, the Devil’s Punch Bowl,” I said.
“It’s still there. The dirt road going in is a little rough, but it’s still there. The lake’s dried up though,” Sonny said.
Little Danny Boy grinned. “That’s perfect. This will all go down at the Devil’s Punch Bowl. This is what we’ll do,” Little Danny Boy said while I sat back drinking my Jack and Coke and listened.
***
The Hell-Raisers gathered in Parker Arizona. For two days, they partied and planned their attack. Their brothers rode in from the north and northeast. Others came up from Mexico converging on the small desert town on the bank of the Colorado River. It seemed as if a dark cloud hung over the city. The animals howled at night. The ministers in the local churches called special prayer meetings.
The Hell-Raisers kept a low profile. They didn’t want to draw attention from the local law enforcement. Even so, the police had their hands full with the local criminal element. By the time they rolled out on a Wednesday evening, they were over one hundred strong. They took Interstate 10, east to Apache Junction, and headed east on Highway 60. From highway sixty, they headed south on Highway 177. They crossed one of the more desolate sections of Arizona heading toward Harlem Springs. The night wore on. A full moon rose into the sky. When the Hell Raisers rolled into the parking lot of the High Noon Saloon they ran right into a deadly crossfire.
The Hell-Raisers pulled into the parking lot. The Road Dogs opened up, on them from behind concealed positions. One group of Road Dogs fired from a clump of trees by the road. Another group opened up on them from behind several parked cars and trucks in the parking lot thaty they used for cover. The bulk of the Road dogs fired at them from the clubhouse itself. Muzzle flashes lit up the night. The initial onslaught cut down a third of the Hell-Raisers. The attack put the rest of the outlaw bikers in a state of disarray.
“Regroup! Back to the highway!” Hell Boy yelled trying to rally his forces.
With their enemy in a state of confusion, Chico gave the order to abandon the clubhouse. The group of Road Dogs firing from the tree line ran to their motorcycles. The ones firing at the Hell-Raisers from behind the parked vehicles did the same. The Road Dogs firing from the clubhouse fired a few more rounds. They wanted to give their brothers a chance to get away before they made their escape. On the highway, three hundred yards up the road from where Hell Boy struggled to regroup. The Road Dogs formed up with Chico and Little Danny Boy at the head of the pack.
“We need someone to stall them for a few minutes while we get away, and I don’t mean those old boys on scooters. I mean their help,” Little Danny Boy said.
Chico gave him a confused look, and said, “What help?”
“Never mind. I’ll handle it,” I said.
“We’ll meet you at the Punch Bowl,” Little Danny Boy said.
“I’ll stay with Cave Man,” Old School said. Chico and Little Danny Boy nodded and the Road Dogs roared down the highway. We sat parked in the middle of the highway facing west. I watched the Hell-Raisers form up. Above them, clouds covered the sky and the demonic forces gathered.
“It’s like old times, huh?” Old School said.
“Yeah, we died together the last time, so we might as well fight this evil vermin together too. Road Dogs to the end,” I said. I took a bottle of Jack from my vest pocket and took a pull. I handed the bottle to Old School; he took a drink and handed the bottle back to me.
“That’s right. Road Dogs in life, Road Dogs in death,” Old School said.
The Hell-Raisers roared down the road toward us. Above them, hovering over the ground, the leader of the demonic crew blew his horn and followed. Breathing in the smell of brimstone, I held up my hand and blue lightning fired from my fingertips. In the sky above the road, the blue light flashed engulfing the imps from hell. The impact sent them flying in all directions. Their leader pointed his sword sending a bolt of fire onto the road. Sparks flew into the air. Old School brought his hand over his shoulder as if tossing a softball. He sent a ball of fire down the road at the approaching riders. Tires squealed, ten bikes went down and metal scraped against the asphalt.
“That should hold them for a little while,” I said to Old School feeling breathless from the loss of energy.
“Yeah-Let’s get out of here. That one took a lot out of me,” Old School said. We whirled around. Our bikes changed into radiant steeds of light and chrome. We headed east flying above the highway.
“These motor scooters sure are cool,” I said to Old School. He nodded and a big grin crossed his face.
We came in low flying over the Devil’s Punch Bowl and touched ground facing north. When we landed on the dry lakebed, our scooters changed, their radiance fading. They turned back into older worn-out Harley Davidson motorcycles. I saw something shimmer in the air next to me. Three more motorcycles, plus their riders appeared out of thin air. Once they solidified, I recognized Chops, Teddy Bear, and my father, John Brown senior. He looked more alive and vibrant than he ever did in life.
My pops gave me a cocky grin and said, “You didn’t think I was going to let you have all the fun did you?”
I let out a barrel laugh, handed him the bottle of Jack, and said, “No Pops, I didn’t figure you would.” Little Danny Boy and the rest of the halo crew nodded at the new arrivals. A line of Road Dogs sat on their motorcycle behind us. They watched the dirt road leading into the small valley. The rest of the bros wearing the halo patch pulled their scooters up next to us. Chico stepped up to where I sat talking to my pops.
“If I wouldn’t have seen that with mine own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it. What kind of scoots are those anyway? I’ve never seen a motorcycle that can fly,” Chico said.
“They’re spirit bikes. You get them when you cross over,” I said and grinned.
“Yeah, whatever. I’ve got some bros hiding in that big clump of rocks to our left, and another group up on that embankment to our right. When these sons of bitches cross the lake bed, we’ll get them in a crossfire,” Chico said.
“You guys will have to deal with the ones on the ground. We’ll take care of their demonic friends,” Little Danny Boy said.
“Yeah, don’t worry about what you see in the sky above you, it’ll be like the fourth of July,” I said.
“I still can’t believe this angel and demon shit,” Chico said.
“Don’t worry about that. Worry about those assholes when they come across the lake bed. We’ll take care of the rest,” I said.
“Yeah right,” Chico said and headed back to join the bros lining up behind us. I took the bottle of Old Number Seven from my pops. It was a bottle from the clubhouse, not the good stuff we get in Biker Heaven. I tossed back a shot, and handed it to Old School. He took a shot and handed the bottle back to me. I handed it to Little Danny Boy, who killed the rest of the bottle and tossed it to the ground. I saw lights coming down the dirt road approaching the lakebed. Above the ground, I saw what looked like a dark cloud covering the valley.
“It’s a good thing you only have to die once,” I said to Little Danny Boy.
“Yeah, but when those lightning bolts hit, it almost makes you feel like you’re gonna die.”
“You know what they said before we left. If we take too many hits and lose our energy, we’ll vanish from this plane of existence and wind up back home,” I said.
“I know, but we can’t let these evil SOBs win. Let’s do this thing,” Little Danny Boy said giving us a nod. I looked up, watching the Hell-Raisers coming across the lakebed. Above them, I saw the evil imps from hell. Gunning the throttle on my Pan Head, I let out the clutch and we took flight. Light radiated from the scooter. Fire belched from its tailpipe. It changed and we gained altitude advancing on the demonic horde. Old School and Iron Man rode to my left. Little Danny Boy and Thumper rode to my right, and my pops, along with Chops and Teddy Bear brought up the rear.
We slammed into the dark cloud from hell at full speed causing explosions of lustrous light. Below us, the Road Dogs opened up on the Hell-Raisers. Muzzle flashes blossomed, lightning bolts, and balls of blue light filled the sky. We collided with the demonic host with such force that the impact sent us spinning across the valley. Cranking my throttle, I spun around and hovered over the valley. I slashed with my blade and fired my 357 at the evil vermin when they flew by. Lightning bolts shot out the barrel of my 357 every time I fired it, and blue fire shot from the blade of my knife. An evil two-headed demon came at me, I sliced my blade through his skull and he exploded into a cloud of dust. Old School took a lightning bolt in the chest that sent him spinning across the valley.
My pops slammed into an evil creature trying to crawl on my back. He knocked him to the ground where the vile creature exploded.
“I sent that one back to hell where he belongs,” Pops said and laughed.
We fought the fiends of hell above the ground. Our brothers dealt with the Hell-Raisers on the lakebed. Teddy Bear took a ball of red light to the chest. He dissipated, fading from this plane of existence. Thumper caught a lightning bolt in the center of his forehead. He exploded into nothingness. Iron Man went down in flames. He disintegrated when three evil demons stabbed him with their swords. Then the battle turned, both on the ground and above it. In the dry lakebed, the Road Dogs were sshooting the shit out of the Hell-Raisers. They cut them down like rabid dogs.
In the air, above them, the imps from hell flew in disarray. They fled over the hillside to the north heading back to the pits of hell, from whence they came. Noticing their leader on his two-headed beast, I gunned the throttle and caught up with him. Diving through the air, I slammed into him. I grabbed the ceramic urn he was carrying and drove my blade through the top of his golden helmet. He disappeared in a blinding flash of light. My old Pan Head, now my spirit bike, came to me, I climbed into the saddle and we floated back down to the ground.
The Road Dogs gathered around five figures sitting on their knees in the middle of the lakebed. Hell Boy and four other Hell-Raisers looked beat up and bloody. They stared into the hard face of Chico, president of the Road Dogs. Several more Road Dogs gathered around them with guns to their heads.
“I ought to kill you all, but we’re not gonna,” Chico said.
“What are we gonna do with them?” Sonny asked.
“Cut off their patches, and then let’s brand them,” Chico said. “We own you bitches.” He glanced at a prospect and said, “Build a fire.” A half-hour later, with the sky turning purple in the east, the remaining Hell-Raisers rode away. The back of their vests were bare and the letters, RD was branded on their biceps. They left in shame. A loud cheer rose from the lakebed. Several Road Dogs shouted curses urging the remnants of the Hell-Raisers on.
“We’re not done yet. There’s one more thing we need to do,” I said to Chico.
“What’s that?”
“We need to set the captives free,” I said, climbing off my scooter and I opened the ceramic urn. The gemstones embedded around its mouth reflected beams of light into the air. We stood back in awe, watching soul after soul, ascend heading to their heavenly reward.
“If I wouldn’t have seen that, I wouldn’t believe it,” Chico said. We watched what looked like blue streaks of light shoot up into the sky.
“I guess we’re done here,” I said to Little Danny Boy.
He shrugged and said, “No, we’ll give it another day or two and then head home.”
We climbed back onto our scooters and headed to the highway. Those of us with the halo patch took up the rear following the Road Dogs back to Harlem Springs. We partied hard at the clubhouse for the next three days, but all good things come to an end and we needed to get back. Gathering out by the road on a Saturday evening, we did some backslapping. The entire Harlem Springs chapter was there to see us off.
“I’m gonna miss you, bro,” Sonny said, hugging me. He passed me a bottle of Jack, so I took a pull.
“We’ll see each other again,” I said.
“Thanks for your help,” Chico said.
I put my arm around the young man’s shoulder and said, “You’re gonna make a good president. You’ll take the Road Dogs to new heights. In fact, from what I hear, the folk upstairs think you’ll be the best one yet. Keep the faith. Road Dogs forever, bro.”
“Let’s mount up!” Little Danny Boy yelled. Those of us with the halo patch on our back formed up on the road and my pops pulled up next to me on his old Knuckle Head.
“It’ll feel good to ride next to you for a while. It’s been a long time,” my pops said.
“I know. I talked Little Danny Boy into letting us do about a hundred miles or so before we head home.”
“Yeah, Biker Heaven can wait. I want to feel the wind in my face, but when we get back home, I’ll buy the first round,” Pops said. Little Danny Boy fired up his scooter. We did the same. I took a bottle of Old Number Seven from my vest, took a pull from the bottle, and handed it to my pops. He took a swallow, handed it back and I tucked it back into my vest pocket. Little Danny Boy pulled away, the pack followed, but for a moment my pops and I sat there. He looked at me, a big grin crossed his face and he said, “I’ll beat you to the top of the hill.” With that, he smoked his tires and peeled out burning rubber down the highway. I laughed, gunned the throttle, and spun my tires taking off after him.
First i would like to let everyone know what is going on with my writing. I am working on two novels. The first one is the Galactic War. It is the fourth book of my Space Corps Chronicles. I am about one hundred and four pages into the rough draft. The second novel I am working on is also a science fiction novel titled Tribes. It is about an alien invasion and alien abductions. Below for your reading pleasure is my short story Bike Heaven. Biker Heave is the first story in a collection know as Tales From the Lost Highway. To all my author friends if you would like to post a short story on my blog send me an email. It would be way cool it you would sign up for my Newsletter. Please leave a comment and let me know what you think of Biker Heaven. Enjoy the read.
Biker Heaven
The year was 1968, LBJ was president and the world was in turmoil. War raged in Southeast Asia and civil unrest raged in the streets of America. The entire planet seemed to be holding its breath. When the one-two punch came, the world went down for the count and the dead rose from their graves. I was three years back from Vietnam, but all I cared about was drinking, hanging with my bros, and riding my scooter. My name is John Brown, but my bros call me Cave Man. I grew up in the biker culture with my dad being one of the founding members of the Road Dogs. The Road Dogs is a local bike club in Harlem Springs Arizona that started in the early fifties. My pops bought me my first bike, a Triumph Bonneville 650 when I was sixteen. I scrimped, saved, and a year later, I bought an old Pan Head. When I turned eighteen, I prospected into the club and I haven’t looked back since. I took a short detour to Vietnam in 1965 to do my patriotic bit. When I came home, old Bud Hodgkin offered me my job back at the Glen Co station. I fell back into the lifestyle, riding with the club and hanging with my bros. Finished putting a set of tires on Mr. Peterson’s Dodge, I was sitting in the office eating my lunch. The news report came on the radio.
“We interrupt this broadcast for a special news bulletin. We are getting reports from a small town in Iowa. As strange as it may seem, they are saying that the dead are rising from their graves. They are attacking the population. They have a lust for human flesh. Several people are dead, but after they pass, they rise, up and join the ranks of the undead. There are reports of survivors hiding in a farmhouse on the outskirts of town. There are reports of similar incidents occurring across the county. The authorities caution not to panic. They are stressing that the population should stay in their homes. The military and police are on high alert and will respond to any zombie outbreak.”
“Zombies. Yeah right.” A chill shot through me when I remembered the graveyard across the street. The front window to the office shattered showering me with minute pieces of broken glass. Looking up, I stared into the cold dead eyes of a walking corpse. I reached into the bottom desk drawer where I kept my Smith and Wesson 357 Magnum. My heartbeat the shit out of my ribcage and I almost dropped a load in my pants when I realized the gun wasn’t there. “Damn. I left my piece in my locker in the back,” I said jumping to my feet. I looked past the flesh-eating zombie trying to come through the window. I saw them coming out of the graveyard in droves. Their wild feral growls echoed down the street. They dispersed heading toward different parts of the city. A large group crossed the road and milled about in the station’s parking lot. I stepped into the mechanic’s bay only to find, it filled with slow-moving zombies. They moved toward me with their arms raised looking like shit warmed over. Several had maggots crawling underneath their skin. The smell was almost enough to gag a skunk. They had my way blocked both to the roll-up door to the outside and the back room at the rear of the station. That’s where my locker was.
Slamming my fist into the face of the nearest zombie, I charged through the undead crowd. I grabbed a tire iron from a workbench. Pulling a knife, I slashed with the knife and swung the tire iron fighting my way toward the back room. Stabbing one zombie in the eye with my knife, I pulled the eye out of its socket on the tip of my blade. I drove the tire iron into the skull of another. Blood splattered over my clothes and I let out a few curses fighting my way toward the back of the station.
I reached the door to the backroom when one of the bastards bit me on my right arm. Searing hot pain shot through my arm making me feel like it was on fire. I let out a scream, drove my blade through the undead thing’s face, and watched it fall to the ground. Fumbling with my keys, I dropped them to the ground and let out another curse. After scooping up my keys, I unlocked the door and ran into the back room. I felt the sharp nails of a zombie on my back. I slammed the door and then locked it.
With shaky hands, I unlocked my locker, grabbed my 357, and tucked it into the waistband of my jeans. Then I grabbed the bottle of Jack Daniels I kept on the top shelf. Taking a pull on the whiskey bottle, I let out a sputter and then poured half the bottle onto the zombie bite.
“Damn that hurts!” I yelled. Looking down at my arm, I noticed that the zombie had bitten me where my tattoo of a skeletal biker on a chopper was on my arm. The bite took a chunk of meat from my arm taking away the biker’s skull. Blood flowed from my arm and pooled up on the floor. Taking off my outer shirt, I wrapped it around my bloody arm binding it up as best I could. “Oh, God! Oh, shit! I’m fucked!” I yelled. Then the thought hit me, I’m trapped in here, but then I remembered the back window. Stacking up some boxes of auto parts, I climbed onto them. I busted out the back window and looked out into the back alley. The alley looked clear, so I climbed out the window, jumped to the ground, and ran to the front of the station.
Zombies filled the area around the gas pumps, but they were slow movers. I made it to the Pan Head before they noticed me. Jumping up into the air, I came down on the kick starter, but the bike wouldn’t start.
“Son of a bitch!” I yelled. I gave the kicker another try. The old Harley rumbled to life. I put it in gear and goosed the throttle heading straight through the pack of hungry flesh-eaters.
***
Pulling my 357, I popped a cap through the brainpans of two of them. I pistol-whipped another and ran over another one before I broke free. Rolling down Main Street, I dodged groups of the undead trying to feed on the town’s population. I noticed a woman sprawled on the ground. An ugly zombie in a tattered black suit knelt over her body pulling intestines from her belly. Blood and gore covered the street. Her dying screams echoed off the surrounding buildings.
Another zombie, this one a little girl, shuffled down the street snacking on a severed human arm. When I passed the town’s roller rink, I saw a mob of teenagers come running outside. Several of them had zombie bites. They were trying to escape a mob of decaying flesh-eaters lumbering along behind them. Noticing a blonde-headed young girl in a cheerleader’s uniform, I hit the brakes. I pulled over to the sidewalk smoking my tires.
“Johnny! Help me!” she screamed.
“Hurry up! Climb on!” The girl sprinted across the road, jumped onto the back, threw her arms around me. I gunned the throttle leaving a patch of rubber on the road.
“Oh, God! It’s terrible! Those things are killing everyone!” she screamed.
My arm felt like liquid fire, the skin around the bite was starting to decay and I felt as if I had hot coals in my belly. Swerving past a gaggle of the undead, we roared down Main Street. I turned on Birch and took a quick turn onto Honeysuckle Court. Sliding to a stop in front of my small run-down two-bedroom home, I killed the motor and set the bike on the side stand.
“Check on your folks. If you need me yell,” I said climbing off the bike. She darted across the street, ran across her front lawn, and went inside her family home. My fat next store neighbor backed a 1958 Chevy station wagon out of his driveway. He slammed on his brakes giving me a wild terrifying look.
“Those things! They attacked my wife and kids. We were sitting down to dinner, but I was in the bathroom. There was nothing I could do.”
“You might have tried fighting the sons of bitches. Don’t you have a gun in the house or a baseball bat?”
“Norman! Please help! They’re killing us!” his wife screamed from the house. She let out a blood-curdling scream, but then the screaming stopped.
“It’s too late. Once they bite you, you’re a goner. I’m leaving town.”
You spineless bastard, I thought and then ran into my own house. Inside, I poured some Jack Daniels on my wound and then drank the rest of the bottle. I grabbed my jacket, another bottle of Jack, and three boxes of ammo. I ran back outside. Sliding to a stop, I bent over and threw up about half a quart of blood. I noticed small pieces of flesh mixed in with the blood, and the stench was enough to make me throw up again.
Cynthia, the girl from across the street, ran over and took my arm.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m dandy.” Opening another bottle of Jack, I took a pull from the bottle. I let the numbing whiskey soothe my stomach. “How are things at your house?”
“I don’t know for sure. There was blood everywhere. I think my parents turned into one of those things.”
“Let’s go,” I said.
“Where will we go?”
“We’ll head to the clubhouse. Sonny must have put the word out. We’ll head to the cabin or fort up at the clubhouse. We’ve got enough guns and ammo there to fight off an army of these suckers, plus, we have food and water.”
She stopped putting her hands on her pretty little hips.
“You’ve got bit. You’ll turn into one of those things.”
“Yeah, but I’m okay for now. Here,” I said handing her my K-Bar knife. “If turn, stab me in the eye. Shove it, in hard enough to penetrate the brain.” A roar came from the house next store and five of the walking dead lumbered onto the front lawn. Bits and pieces of decayed flesh fell from their skin. Maggots crawled out of their eyes, but the smell; the smell was enough to make a buzzard puke. “Let’s go! Run!” I yelled sprinting to the bike. Diving into the saddle, I jumped into the air and came down on the kick starter. The Pan Head came to life on the third kick. Cynthia climbed onto the back and I goosed the throttle roaring down the street.
***
I turned onto Main Street, headed west weaving through a pack of bloody zombies. Noticing a female on the sidewalk, bent over and ripping the guts out of a small child, I pulled my 357. I put a round through her brainpan. At the end of the street, I turned left onto a two-lane highway. I increased speed, but so far, the zombies hadn’t made it out to the highway. Five miles outside of town, I pulled into the gravel parking lot of the High Noon Saloon. The High Noon was the unofficial clubhouse of the Road Dogs motorcycle club. It was a rustic-looking bar owned by our club president.
Scores of motorcycles and other vehicles filled the parking lot. People carried supplies back and forth from the vehicles to the clubhouse. Cynthia and I climbed off the bike and headed toward the bar. My stomach felt sick, my legs seemed disjointed and I felt light-headed. Noticing my discomfort, Cynthia put her arm around me and helped me into the bar. Several of my bros stood in the bar wearing their club vests. What was, left of their heir families and a few friends of the club were there too. All eyes turned to me, tracking my movements across the bar to the back room where we held church.
Our club president, James Taylor, or Sonny as we called him, stood at the bar drinking a Rum and Coke. He was talking to our VP, Big Dog. Stumbling up to the bar, I showed Sonny my arm.
“I got bit.”
He let out a low whistle.
“That sucks Cave Man. We’ve got three others in the same shape.”
“You know they’ll turn into one of those things. We can’t take the chance. We’ve got to leave them here or take them out,” Big Dog said.
“They’re our brothers. We can’t shoot them down,” Sonny said.
Laying the pistol down on the bar, I spread my arms apart and put my head down.
“Do me if you have to bro. I’d rather have one of my brothers put one through my brainpan than turn into one of those things.”
“Put your gun away. If it comes to that, we’ll do what we have to,” Sonny said.
Tucking my gun into the waistband of my pants, I looked at the prospect behind the bar.
“Give me a Jack and Coke.” The prospect fetched my drink and I glanced at Sonny. “Are we heading out to your cabin?”
Sonny shrugged. “It’s about the safest place, I’d say.”
“I have a suggestion. I’m dead already. You said the zombies bit three other guys. Let us ride in front. If we run into any of that undead trash, we’ll deal with them while you get everyone else to safety.”
“That sounds like a plan, bro.”
“When do we leave?” I asked.
“As soon as we get packed. It’s starting to get dark now. We’ll have to camp in the woods tonight, but we need to leave before those things find us.” As if on cue, I heard someone scream and a snarl came from out front.
“They found us!” someone yelled and then I heard the sound of automatic weapons fire. Sonny turned and ran to the storeroom with me shuffling along behind him. He tossed me an AR-15. I hobbled toward the front of the bar, busted out the front window and we gazed out at the zombies in the parking lot. Shoulder to shoulder, Sonny and I opened up on the undead fiends with automatic weapons. The zombies banged into each other and fell to the ground under our deadly fire.
When the last one fell, Sonny looked at me and said, “Let’s get packed.”
After packing what gear I had onto the bike, I headed to the bathroom to take a piss. I pissed out what looked like syrupy blood. The stench made me gag. I threw up on the floor. Coagulated blood, chunks of red meat that stunk of decay, and stomach bile gushed out of me. Glancing in the mirror, terror shot through me. I realized that I didn’t look much better than those we’d been shooting in the parking lot. My skin had turned pale, legions formed on my face, and small pieces of skin were starting to flake off. The virus was starting to take control and I already felt like one of the undead. A hunger consumed me; when I stepped out of the bathroom, I saw Cynthia and a powerful carving hit me. Visions of me ripping her throat out with my teeth filled my brain. She came up to me and I could see by the look on her face that I scared her.
“We’re about ready to leave. You ride in one of the cars,” I said.
“I’d rather ride with you.”
“It’s not safe. Me and the other guys that got bit plan to lead the caravan and deal with the zombies. Whatever happens, stick with the club. They’ll keep you safe.”
Lumbering along to the front door, Cynthia held onto me trying to keep me from falling. I felt like cold shit on a hot bun, but I figured that once I made it to my bike, I’d be all right. We pulled out heading west on the highway, with us four dead men leading the caravan. Blood dripped from the corner of my mouth. Cold chills racked my body. My vision faded and my arms felt numb, but I kept my fist in the throttle and rolled down the highway.
Ten miles outside of town, we pulled up to a country store at a crossroads. The undead sons of bitches milled about in the parking lot and blocked the road. I saw a female zombie ripping the throat out of a poor elderly woman lying on the ground near the gas pumps. The zombie wore no shirt and her putrid decaying flesh sagged down. The four of us zombie bikers gunned our throttles. We plowed into the hoard blocking the road and tried to clear a path.
We hit the brakes coming to a stop and had a rumble with the undead. Pulling my 357, I sat on my bike with my pistol in one hand and my knife in the other. All four of us sat on our scooters slashing and shooting while the rest of the convoy escaped. Every time one of the undead things got too close, I would kick him away with my boot and either stab or shoot him. The sound of their wild growling along with the gunshots echoed down the highway.
“Let’s go!” I yelled once the convoy made it clear of the undead mob on the highway. Doing a burnout, I rolled over a zombie wearing a tattered cowboy hat and gunned the throttle. Sweat dripped out of my pores and ran like a river down my side. Chills racked my body, and I felt feverish, but I managed to keep the bike under control. Spitting out a mouthful of blood and a chunk of my stomach lining, I pulled a bottle of Jack from the pocket of my club vest. Chugalugging the potent brew, I wondered how long I had until death came knocking. Weaving back and forth, I looked into my rearview mirror and almost fell out of the saddle. I looked like a three-day-old corpse on a motorcycle.
My cheeks had turned hollow, lost all their color and I noticed pieces of dead flesh flaking off. Glancing down at my arm, I saw open sores exposing bone, and the stench was enough to make a maggot shit. I thought about my brothers up ahead in the convoy and wondered What if I turn? I don’t want to hurt one of my bros. Glancing over at my four dead brothers riding along with me I felt shocked to see that they looked worse than me. They looked like exactly what they were: dead men on motor scooters, but they didn’t know it yet. I remembered that verse in the Bible about the four horsemen of the apocalypse.
The sun had gone down when my brother Chops, started losing control of his bike. His head dropped to his chest and then popped up. A wild crazy look crossed his face, foam came from his mouth and he let out a tortured growl. His bike went sideways and then high-sided launching him onto the pavement. I swerved to the right. The two other remaining zombie bikers swerved left. A pack of motorcycles swarmed around him. The first four-wheeled vehicle in the convoy rolled over him. The bike slid to the edge of the road. Chops jumped up and lumbered off into the forest dragging his broken undead body along with him.
After the convoy passed, I whirled the Pan Head around. I rode back to where Chops disappeared into the forest. Parking alongside the road, I pulled my 357 and peered out into the woods. I heard him growling. Then he turned coming from the forest and approached me with his arms outstretched. He had a hungry feral look in his eyes that I sympathized with. The lust for human flesh filled my innermost being as well. Visions of torn throats and butchered bodies filled my brain. Chops let out a hungry cry, struggling up an embankment with his arms stretched out. He was ready to bite and tear with his teeth.
“I’m sorry bro. I can’t leave you like this,” I said and then shot him in the forehead with my 357. The sound of the gunshot echoed through the trees. His body tumbled down the embankment, dead for good this time. Leaning over, I puked up blood mixed with bits of meat and then spun the bike around. I headed down the highway. Pulling my bottle of Jack from my coat pocket, I downed half the bottle in one shot. The bike weaved back and forth. I didn’t know if it was because of my weakened condition, or the fact that I was drunk on Old Number 7.
We rolled on through the night. We passed through a pine forest without seeing any more of the undead and I had a hard time staying awake. My head throbbed, my arms felt numb and my vision turned fuzzy. My belly felt as if it was on fire, and to top it off, I ran out of Old Number 7. Around midnight, Sonny flashed his lights. The convoy pulled off the road into a small clearing. The drivers of the four-wheeled vehicles formed a circle. They had their headlights facing inward. The bros pulled their bikes into the center of the circle. It reminded me of the pioneer days when they would circle the wagons.
I parked my bike, put down the kickstand, and fell to the ground. Struggling to my feet, I puked up blood trying to ignore a hunger that burned inside me. Images of me ripping the flesh off my brothers flashed through my brain. Feeling my stomach churn, I ran into the forest, pulled down my pants, and let go with a gush that was more blood than shit. Ignoring the stench, I pulled up my pants and stumbled back into the clearing. The other two zombie bikers looked in no better shape than me. Sonny stepped up to us.
“Hey bro. You look like shit.”
“I feel like shit. I feel like ten pounds of dog shit in a five-pound bag.”
“We should reach the cabin before noon tomorrow. Do you think you could hold on that long?”
“You saw what happened to Chops. We don’t have much time left.”
“Is there anything I can do for you bro? I hate seeing you like this.”
“Tie us up to one of these trees,” I said. “If we die during the night, we won’t be able to hurt anyone.”
“We’ll do that. I’m sorry, bro. I wish there was more we could do.”
“Get me another bottle of Old Number 7. Sonny, if I turn into one of those things, put me down like a rabid dog,” I said seeing the reflection of tears in Sonny’s eyes.
“You know I will bro. I won’t leave you like that.”
After they tied us to three stout trees outside the camp, I poured some Jack Daniels onto my wound. Flinching from the sting, I let out a curse. My brother, leaning against the tree next to me noticed my 357 tucked into the waistband of my jeans.
“Hey bro. If I die during the night and turn into one of those zombies, splatter my brains with that hog leg.”
“Sure thing, Old School. I’ll set the piece between us. If I turn, you to do the same.”
“Don’t forget about me, Cave Man. I don’t feel so good, bro. I don’t think I got much time left,” a brother sitting next to Old School said.
“Sure thing, Teddy Bear. I’ll do the right thing,” I said.
A few minutes later, Cynthia knelt next to me with the pale moonlight reflecting off her pretty face.
“Oh, Johnny. I’m so sorry for what happened. Thank you for taking me with you.” I gazed at the tender flesh of her neck, the soft curve of her breasts, and felt the hunger.
“Cynthia, you need to back away. The virus is changing me. Believe me, baby; when I say this, I’m not being a dirty old man. I feel like eating you up. I mean it in the most literal sense. I feel a pang of hunger that I can’t fill.”
“You could never hurt me,” she whispered.
“C. When we get to the cabin, you’ll be safe. After a while, things will calm down. When things are normal, find yourself a nice young dude and settle down. Live your life and sometimes, toss back a beer for the old Cave Man.”
She leaned forward, ignoring the stench of my decaying flesh, and kissed me.
“I love you, Johnny. I know I’m too young for you, but I don’t care. I love you anyway,” she whispered. Taking a pull from the bottle of Old Number 7, I ignored the hunger and watched her run back to camp.
A wild snarl and people yelling woke me from a vicious nightmare. It involved the ripping and tearing of flesh. To my right, Teddy Bear struggled against the ropes binding him to the tree. He snapped with his teeth, clawed with his hands trying to get at Old School and me. Frothy foam and blood dripped from his mouth. Sometime during the night, his body gave up the fight and he joined the ranks of the undead. Old School leaned away from him trying to keep from getting bit.
“Shoot him! Man Shoot him!” Old School yelled.
Grabbing the 357, I leaned across Old School’s lap and stuck the barrel against the side of Teddy Bear’s head.
“I’m sorry, bro,” I said and then pulled the trigger splattering Teddy Bear’s brain onto the forest floor. Sonny and several other bros came running up, Sonny knelt next to me and I saw tears in his eyes.
“He’s in a better place, now bro. You need to get some brothers and bury him,” I said.
“We’ll take care of it brother. You two hold on,” Sonny said and then leaned forward, ignoring the stench, and gave us both a quick hug. Old School and I sat tied to the tree and watched them drag Teddy Bear’s remains away for burial.
“I don’t want to go out like that,” Old School said after the excitement was over.
“I don’t either, bro. I’d rather go out like a biker, on the road. We’ve got to hang in until we reach the cabin. Then you and I will head out on our own. We’ll let the road take us.” We sat passing the bottle of Old Number 7 back and forth for about a half-hour. Then we both drifted off into a pitiful tortured sleep.
***
The sound of doors slamming woke me a few hours later from another violent nightmare. Chills racked my body, my head felt hot, clammy and sweat rolled down the side of my face. My vision was fuzzy and my stomach lurched. Warm fingers of sunlight stabbed across the land and the smell of cooking food drifted on the wind.
Sonny brought Old School and me a plate loaded down with scrambled eggs, bacon, and fried potatoes.
“I don’t know if I can eat that bro,” I said.
“You need to keep your strength up,” Sonny said.
“Why. You know we ain’t getting any better.”
“I know bro. We’ll pull out of here in an hour or so. We should make it to the cabin by noon. I’m hoping you guys will make it that far at least.”
“We’ll try, bro, but promise me. If we turn into one of those things, put us down quick.”
“You know, I will,” Sonny said.
I ate my breakfast and threw up on my boots. A stinky mixture of, blood, stomach bile, and undigested eggs shot out of me and covered the forest floor. Old School only took a couple of bits of his food, but he didn’t have any better luck keeping it down than I did. We broke camp at 08:00 AM that morning. I noticed our bros giving us sideways glances. They kept their hands close to the handguns riding on their hips. Old School and I lumbered over to our motorcycles, stumbling along on legs that didn’t want to move right. The hunger burned inside of us like a raging inferno. Old School noticed one of our old ladies climbing into a station wagon.
“You know, she’s got a nice ass, but right now I’d rather rip off her arms and gnaw on her bones,” Old School said.
“I know. It’s the disease. When Cynthia came over to talk with me last night it was all I could do to keep from ripping her throat out. We’ve got to hang in until we reach the cabin.”
We climbed onto our motorcycles and rumbled down the highway. I glanced in my rearview, my eyes widened and my jaw dropped. My face looked skeletal. My flesh had turned purple, puss oozed from legions on my cheek and I noticed a maggot crawl out of one of the sores. Pieces of decaying flesh flaked off my face exposing my skull. God. No wonder the bros were looking at me weird, I thought. Old School and I weaved back and forth trying to maintain control. Four hours later, we pulled off the highway onto the dirt road leading to the cabin. Before turning off the main road, I noticed a large oak tree next to the highway a hundred yards west of the turn-off.
The road headed through the trees, passing through a dense forest, and then snaked its way uphill. Topping out the hill, the road descended into a small valley. The cabin was set in the center of the valley in the middle of a grassy meadow. An old barn and a couple of outbuildings set off the left. Behind the cabin, a stream meandered across the valley.
The convoy pulled up to the cabin and everyone began to unload equipment. Sonny assigned work details. He stationed people with guns at various points acting as security. Old School and I lumbered over to the barn trying to get away from the bright sunlight.
“Did you see that oak tree down the road from the turn-off?” I asked Old School.
“Yeah,” he said and then bent over throwing up blood.
“If we hit that tree at about a hundred miles an hour and we don’t wear a helmet, it should splatter our heads like a couple of ripe Honeydew melons.”
“That should do it. We’d best get it done while we still have time.”
Sonny ambled into the barn.
“How are you guys feeling?”
“Like shit warmed over. We’re gonna pull out of here. We plan to let the road take us and die like, bikers should. We don’t want to turn into one of those zombie sons of bitches.”
Sonny had tears in his eyes and when he spoke, there was a catch in his voice.
“Okay. I’ll gather the crew. We’ll send you off.”
Fifteen minutes later, the sound of Harleys rumbled through the forest. We headed back to the highway. Cynthia came running out when we were about to leave and insisted on coming with us. She jumped onto the back of my bike and wrapped her arms around me. The Road Dogs lined up on the road. Old School and I parked our bikes in front of the pack facing west and then climbed off our scooters to say goodbye. Cynthia clung to my arm with tears running down her face. Even though we smelled like five, day-old, roadkill, our brothers grabbed us each up in a bear hug. We did some back-slapping.
“I wish there was something we could do bro,” Sonny said wiping tears from his eyes.
“If this doesn’t work, put us down before we become one of those things, and once in a while hold a party for Old School and me.”
“You can count on it bro,” Sonny said handing me a bottle of Old Number 7.
I downed half the bottle, handed it to Old School and he gulped down the rest.
Cynthia hugged me and then kissed me on my decaying cheek. “I love you, Johnny,” she whispered. “Thank you for taking me with you.”
“Come on girl. Forget about old Cave Man. Find yourself a good decent young man. You’ll be all right. Stop your crying.”
“I could never forget you, Johnny,” she whispered and stepped back. Sonny put his arm around her trying to comfort the girl. I looked at Old School and nodded my head.
“Let’s ride,” I said and then stumbled to my Harley. Old School staggered to his bike and we climbed into the saddle. Behind us, our brothers fired up their scooters and revved their motors giving us a send-off. Jumping up into the air, I came down on the kick starter. The old Pan Head fired up, and Old School fired up his old Knuckle Head. He pulled his bike up next to mine and stopped. “Let’s do this,” I said glancing down the road. I engaged the transmission, released the clutch, and cranked the throttle. The back tire spun, I shot down the road and kept my fist in the throttle. Glancing in my rearview, I saw Old School on my tail. The needle on the speedometer climbed up to fifty while I shifted through the gears. Once I hit fifth gear, I cranked the throttle wide open. The needle shot up to one hundred and ten miles an hour. I swerved to the side of the road and headed straight for the oak tree. In my rearview, I saw Old School still on my tail. Things happened in a matter of milliseconds. I slammed into the tree with a violent jolt. The impact launched me over the handlebars. Old School plowed into the back of my bike and I caught a flash of his body catapulting over me. My head hit the tree and then the world went white.
***
Old School and I stood up and stepped out onto the side of the road.
“I guess it didn’t work. I guess we turned into one of those zombies anyway,” I said.
“I don’t think so, bro, look,” Old School said turning around and pointing to the shoulder of the road. I saw our mangled bodies among the wreckage of our scooters. Both of our heads looked like smashed watermelons. Glancing up the road, I saw our club brothers rolling toward us.
“I don’t think they can see us,” I said. “What are we, ghost?”
“I don’t feel like no ghost, and we don’t look like ghosts either. Look at your arm where you got bit,” Old School said. I held up my arm and my eyes widened with joy. My skin looked healthy like if I’d stepped from the shower and I felt great.
The pack rumbled down to the crash site and Sonny climbed off his scooter.
“Little Mike. Get a pickup. We’ll take them back and bury them behind the cabin. Have one of the guys bring another truck and pick up their scooters,” Sonny said.
“What do we do now?” Old School asked. We stood watching our brothers, police up our bodies, and load up our mangled motorcycles.
“I don’t know, but it’s a shame we had to wreck our scooters like that. I hope they can fix ‘em.”
“I know what you mean, bro. I hate to see a good scoot go down.”
The sound of loud pipes reverberated off the surrounding forest. The members of the Road Dogs loading up the motorcycles and the bodies seemed not to notice.
“Hey Cave Man. Check this out. Someone’s coming,” Old School said.
I glanced up the road and saw five motorcycles heading our way. They were like no other motorcycles that I had ever seen. They seemed to radiate light. Their colors looked more vivid than anything I’d ever seen and their chrome seemed brighter than the sun. They rumbled up next to us and came to a stop.
“I know these guys,” I said to Old School. “There’s Hondo. He died on I 40 three years ago. There’s Little Danny Boy. He bought it in Vietnam. That’s Hector and Iron Man; they bought the farm that time when that outlaw club jumped us. That other guy’s Thumper. He crashed into a car last year.”
Little Danny Boy, a wiry little guy with a scruffy goatee swaggered over and caught me up in a big bear hug.
“What are you guys doing here?” I asked.
“We’re here to take you home. Check out your new scoots.”
I looked into the road and my bottom jaw dropped. There set two of the most beautiful-looking motorcycles I’d ever seen. They weren’t there before. I knew right away which one was mine. It looked like my dream bike, only ten times better than I could ever imagine. The colors looked more radiant than anything I had ever seen. I could hardly look at the chrome, it was so bright.
“What’s this?” I asked, still not believing.
“Those are your spirit bikes.”
I noticed a shimmering light down the road where the road climbed a steep hill. I saw an emerald city that reminded me of Cibola, the legendary city of gold. The one that the Spanish Conquistadors came searching for back in the day.
“What that place up there?”
“That’s the Emerald City. Biker Heaven is up near there. That’s where we’re going,” Little Danny Boy said.
“It’s not all angels and harps, is it?”
“Hell no, bro I said we’re going to Biker Heaven. It’s a constant party where the brew flows free and the women are loose.”
“Will I still get to ride my scooter?”
“Hell yeah man. You haven’t ridden until you’ve ridden one of these things. What’s cool is that you don’t have to put gas in ‘em and they don’t leak oil. And talk about time. We can ride for eternity if we want to.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“You know, Danny Boy I’ve lived a wild, life. I always thought I’d go to the other place.”
Old School stepped up next to us listening to our conversation with a big grin on his face.
Little Danny Boy smiled. “Do you remember back in the Nam when you risked your life to save me?”
“Yeah, but you still died.”
“I died, but you saved five other guys and got yourself, shot.”
“I was only doing my duty, trying to save my bros.”
“How about that time you tried to save Hector and Iron Man from that outlaw club? You stood over them fighting like a wild man until help arrived.”
I shrugged. “Yeah, but again, they still died.”
“But you tried man. That’s what counts. You were willing to lay down your life for your bros. What about that young girl Cynthia? If you hadn’t stopped to help her, she’d be one of those undead things right now. You stayed with the club. You saw our brothers to safety, even though the disease made you want to rip their throats out.”
“Yeah, but any one of those guys would have done the same.”
“The good book says that greater love has no man than he lays down his life for his friends. You were willing to do that on many occasions in your lifetime. You’re famous in Biker Heaven. We’re gonna throw you a welcome party like, you’ve never seen. Get on your scoot, Bro. We’re heading home.”
“What about booze? Can we drink up there?”
“Hell yeah! You can drink all you want and you don’t get a hangover in the morning,” Little Danny Boy said. He tossed me a bottle of Jack.
I cracked open the bottle, took a swallow, and enjoyed the feel of liquid fire running down into my belly. It tasted better than anything I’d ever drunk. I handed Old School the bottle; he took a long pull and then grinned.
“Let’s go home, bro,” I said. Old School nodded, seeming too excited to talk. We stepped out into the road and climbed onto our new scooters. Little Danny Boy took up his position in front as road captain. The pack formed up behind him then Old School and I fell in at the rear. Goosing the throttle, I headed down the highway and put my face in the wind.
Hello. Below is my short story Holy Water Smackdown for your enjoyment. It is part of a shot story collection in my book, Monroe’s Paranormal Investigations. Please feel free to leave a comment or send me an email and let me know what you think.
Holy Water Smackdown
We were in Mexico’s one of the best Mexican restaurants in San-Bernardino California. I sat across from Roxy starring at her chest. The woman had perfectly formed breasts. Roxy and I have worked together for a while now. She sat there across from me rattling on about something, but I only half-listened. My eyes took in her pretty face, her high cheekbones, and her long blonde hair. She had a slim waist that tapered down to a pair of round hips and muscular tanned legs. Her only fault is her temper. Hot dames have a short fuse. My damned cell phone rang.
“Don’t answer that. You promised me a night on the town,” Roxy said.
“I got to take it. It could be a case,” I said and then answered the phone. “Monroe’s Paranormal Investigations.”
“Mr. Monroe, this is Officer Daniels in Barstow. I have a situation and I was told you might be able to help,” the man said over the phone.
“What exactly do you have?”
“I am at the scene of a homicide. The body has two puncture wounds on the neck and all of the blood has been drained.”
“We’re on our way,” I said.
“The crime scene is in the parking lot of Paradise Lanes, a local bowling alley.”
“We’ll find it,” I said and then cut the connection.
“What?” Roxy asked.
“We’ve got a vamp working up on the high desert. Finish your meal doll face.” I motioned to the waiter for the check.
“Great,” she said tossing back her golden locks. I waited while she finished eating. The waiter brought my check and I handed him my credit card. They wouldn’t take my card and Roxy had to pay. Boy was she pissed. She stormed out to the car and I followed admiring her shapely ass along the way.
“Take a picture pervert!” she said over her shoulder.
A big grin crossed my face. “I would but I don’t have a camera. Let’s stop at my place for the gear,” I said opening the passenger door.
“Whatever,” She said. She climbed into the passenger side and slammed the door. I climbed behind the wheel of my black 1984 5.0 Mustang. Firing up the beast, I backed out of the parking lot, turned left on Highland Avenue, and mashed my foot down on the accelerator. We took the 215 freeway north. I pulled off the freeway at Devore, a rural community where most of the people owned horses, and headed down the frontage road to the KOA campground. I am a perpetual camper. Sliding to a stop, I parked next to my RV, jumped out of the car, and ran to my motor home.
Inside my RV, Roxy went into my bedroom to change. She left the door open. When she stripped out of her clothes, I looked up in time to see her standing there in nothing but a pair of blue panties. My heart stopped and my bottom jaw sagged.
“You’re such a pervert,” she said cupping her large breast with her hands. That woman drives me crazy, I thought as she slammed the door.
She came out wearing a pair of cargo pants, a black sweater, and a pair of combat boots. Outside, I threw the gear bag into the trunk of the Mustang and we rolled out. Hitting the freeway, we headed north toward the Cajon Pass. After topping out the pass, we rolled through the city of Victorville at over one hundred miles an hour. Thirty-five miles north of Victorville, we pulled into Barstow, the main pit stop on the way to Las Vegas Nevada.
Taking the L Street exit, I turned left and then took a right onto Main Street. We cruised east passing a Chevron station, a Holladay Inn, and a few businesses. The police had the entrance to Paradise Lanes blocked off with crime scene tape. I showed them my ID and they let us through. After parking the Mustang, we jumped out and headed over to where the police knelt over the body.
“Which one of you is Daniels?” I asked.
An older man with gray hair looked up. “That’s me. You’re Monroe?”
“Yeah, I’m Mike Monroe. This is my partner, Roxanne Delaney.” We squatted down to look at the body.
“You do know what we have here, don’t you?” I said to Daniels.
“Yeah. Some nut job that thinks he’s a vampire.”
“Maybe.” I noticed a syringe lying next to the body. The victim had a medical alert bracelet on her wrist. “What’s this poor woman’s name?” I asked.
“Have you had any break-ins where medical supplies were stolen?”
The other detective, a younger man with short blond hair, looked up. “We did have that burglary at Croals on William Street last night.”
“What did they take?” I asked.
“A lot of syringes and a shit load of insulin.”
“What are you thinking? That this murder and that break-in are connected?” Daniels asked.
“Maybe,” I said.
“Don’t tell me you believe this vampire shit? This is just some shit bird that thinks he’s a vampire,” Daniels said.
“Maybe, or it could be a sick fucking vampire,” I said.
“You don’t believe that do you?”
“You called me, remember?” Daniels let out a sigh and then lit a cigarette.
“We’ve got the perp on tape. He’s a scary son of a bitch,” Daniels said and then looked at his partner. “Parker. We’re done here. Have the medical people bag her and tag her. Take her to the morgue. I’m going to show Monroe the tape.”
“We’ll know for sure in twenty-four hours. If Mrs. Chambers doesn’t join the ranks of the undead, then you’re right. We have a sick wannabe vampire. If not, then we have a whole different ballgame. We’ll be ready in either case,” I said.
Daniels let out another sigh. “Vampires. What next?”
“If Mr. personality only knew,” Roxy said under her breath.
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch. He’s just doing his job.”
“Yeah, but if he only knew what we’ve seen,” Roxy said.
“That’s the point. He doesn’t know.” My mind flashed back to that time in Haiti in the Tombs of the undead. I’ve been afraid of tunnels ever since. Daniels led us into the manager’s office.
“Show him the tape,” Daniels said to a stocky young man sitting behind a wooden desk. “After that, we’ll need the tape as evidence.”
“It’s your show.” He handed Daniels the security tape and Daniels popped it into a VCR underneath a TV monitor across the room. The image of the parking lot filled the screen. The tape showed a few cars leaving the parking lot and then Mrs. Chambers walking to her Beamer. A black pickup truck that looked like the only thing holding it together was rust and baling wire pulled up behind her.
“What’s that? A forty-eight or forty-nine Ford?” I asked.
“It looks like a forty-eight. My granddaddy had one like that, only his was in better shape,” Roxy said. A figure stepped out of the truck and my blood turned to ice. He looked like a walking corpse. His skin was pasty white; bits and pieces of flesh had peeled away from his face revealing bloody legions of exposed bone. He wore a set of bib overalls and a white tee-shirt. Puss oozed from the open sores covering his face and arms. I saw maggots moving about underneath his skin.
“That dude looks more dead than un, if you know what I mean,” I said. The tall apparition pulled a maggot from the side of his face, tossed it into his mouth, and then attacked the woman. Mrs. Chambers must have heard something because she turned at the last minute and threw up her hands. The vamp threw her up against the car, slammed a fist into her face, and then lowered his gaping maw to her throat. Mrs. Chambers struggled, slamming her fists against the creature’s chest. Her struggles lessened, her feet kicked, and then she went limp. The vampire continued to suck.
“Talk about a hickey,” I said. Roxy elbowed me to the ribs.
“Have a little respect for the deceased,” Daniels said giving me a dirty look. The vamp threw the woman to the ground, rummaged through her car, and then took her purse. He climbed back into his pickup and drove away.
“What do you think?” Daniels asked.
“If we don’t catch this guy, this town is in a world of shit,” I said.
“Tell me about it,” Daniels said.
“You won’t find this guy in town. He’ll be hiding in the outlying areas. Maybe in an abandoned house or warehouse somewhere. He comes into town to feed.”
“That’s great. It’s a big desert out there. There must be a thousand places he could hide. When you consider the surrounding communities of Hinkley, Daggett, and Yermo, there must be hundreds of abandoned houses or trailers.”
“My partner and I will start looking in the morning. Tomorrow I want to talk to the people at the drug store. Maybe they caught this guy on tape there also.”
“You still think that’s connected?”
“Maybe. Call it a hunch,” I said.
“Do you guys have a good hotel in town? I’m beat,” Roxy said and then yawned.
Daniels smiled. “I’d go with the Holliday Inn on West Main Street.”
“Are we through here?” I asked Daniels.
“For tonight. Let me give you a police radio.” He handed me his business card. “That’s got my number at headquarters and my cell phone number.” On the way to the parking lot, Daniels handed me his police radio and showed me which channel to use. I thanked him and then we climbed into the Mustang and headed west on Main Street. Inside the Mustang, I looked at Roxy and rolled my eyes.
“Don’t get any ideas, pervert. When we get to the hotel, I intend to get some sleep.”
“That’s just my luck,” I said and then laughed.
At the Holliday Inn, we piled out of the Mustang and headed to the hotel lobby. Roxy strutted along in front of me her boot heels clicking against the blacktop. My eyes dropped to her shapely ass. The sight reminded me of two alley cats fighting in a gunnysack. I’d like to bite onto one of those honey buns and pray for lockjaw, I thought following along behind her. I heard the squeal of steel wheels and the sound of railroad cars slamming together. The BNSF rail yard lay north of the hotel. I hope these rooms are soundproof, I thought. In the hotel lobby, Roxy strutted up to the counter.
“We need a couple of rooms for the night,” I said.
“We only have one room available. They’re having an off-road race south of town. Everything’s booked up,” a small Asian woman standing behind the counter said.
“I don’t suppose it has two beds?” Roxy asked.
“No just one Queen size,” the woman said.
“We could try somewhere else,” I said.
“No, I’m bushed. You just keep your hands to yourself,” Roxy said and then sighed.
“You know me, the original Boy Scout. I’ll sleep on the floor if you want,” I said.
“No. You need your rest too,” she said, but this time in a much softer tone. She handed me my room key and then headed up to the room. I went back to the car for our gear. After retrieving our gear, I rode the elevator up to the room and let myself in. I heard the shower running. Stripping out of my clothes, I put on a pair of black sweat pants. Roxy came out of the shower wearing a dark blue nightshirt. Her wet hair hung down her back and she smelled of soap. The fabric of her nightshirt clung to her bosom clearly outlining her hard nipples. God, she was a sight.
“Don’t get any ideas, lover boy. I’m going to sleep,” Roxy said.
I pulled the covers aside. “By all means. Don’t let me keep you.”
She crawled in beside me; I pulled the covers over us and turned off the light. We chatted for a few minutes; I rolled onto my side and touched her left breast. After receiving an elbow to my side for my trouble, I rolled over and went to sleep. Sometime during the wee hours of the morning, she woke up pressed her body up against mine, the nightclothes came off and we made love.
***
I woke up the next morning with my arm underneath Roxy’s body and my hand on her breast. Her bottom lay nestled up against me. She opened her eyes, removed my hand, and then jumped out of bed. I watched her nude form as she hurried across the floor to the bathroom and disappeared from view. The water in the shower started to run. She came out of the shower a few minutes later with a towel wrapped around her body and another wrapped around her head.
“About last night,” I said.
“Don’t let it go to your head. Get into the shower. We’ve got work to do,” Roxy said.
I took my turn in the shower and the hot water felt invigorating. Roxy sat on the bed brushing her hair.
“What do you say to breakfast across the street at Bun Boy?” I asked after stepping out of the shower.
“As long as you’re buying.”
I got dressed; we rode the elevator down to the lobby and then crossed the street. After filling up on pancakes, a side of bacon, and several cups of coffee, I called Daniels. He said that the security tape from the break-in at the drugstore was at the police station, so after breakfast, we headed to the cop shop. After viewing, the tape from the break-in, there was no doubt. He reminded me of Uncle Fester from the Adams family.
“What are your plans?” Daniels asked.
“I have some stops to make, but I thought we’d cruise the desert. Maybe we can catch this creep napping,” I said.
“We have sheriff deputies out there now.”
“Like, you said, it’s a big desert. If they find anything call me on my cell,” I said.
We headed to Stator Brothers and I bought a five-pound bag of sugar. From Stators, I headed to the nearest Catholic Church and conned them out of a gallon of holy water. From the church, we crossed town and headed west on old highway 58.
“I got one more stop to make,” I said and then pulled through the chain-link gates and into the parking lot of McCoy’s Feed store.
“What now?” Roxy asked.
“Just something I think we might need,” I said. Back on the road, we headed toward Hinkley, a little town that had a brief moment of fame from a movie called Erin Brockovich. Back in the eighties, the PG&E power company poisoned the groundwater with Chromium-6. Now they wanted to put a waste composting facility out here. These people just can’t win, I thought. Who’d want to live in this shit hole?
When we reached Hinkley Road, I turned left, passed an elementary school, and headed north. Turning left on Burnt Tree Road, we headed out into the desert. We spent most of the day cruising the desert. It was only March, but the weather was already warm and a bit windy. On the high desert of Southern California, there are three seasons: summer, winter, and wind. The wind blows almost every day, but between April and June, it’s like a wind tunnel sometimes.
After cruising the desert but finding no snoozing vampire, we headed east on interstate 15 and searched the desert near Daggett and Yermo. Roxy made me stop to help a desert tortoise across the road. I warned her that I could face a big fine and do jail time for messing with those turtles, but she just told me to blow it out my backside.
When the sun went down, we headed into Barstow. I bought dinner at the Idle Spurs Steak House. After dinning on a juicy steak and a succulent baked potato, we cruised the town waiting for something to happen. I called Daniels to see if any of the sheriff’s deputies had found anything on the desert. He told me that they had moved Mrs. Chambers’ body to the local funeral home. I arranged a meeting at the mortuary at midnight. I asked Daniels to contact the owner so we could view the body.
“Is that necessary?” Daniels asked over the phone.
“We’ll find out later tonight. I think that after that, you’ll be a believer,” I said.
Roxy and I headed back to the hotel and I got our gear ready. At eleven-thirty PM. We rolled out of the Holliday Inn and headed east on Main Street. Turning left on First Street, we passed a doughnut shop and a bar called Who’z, on First. Crossing a metal bridge that spanned the rail yard and then another bridge that crossed the Mojave River, we turned left on Fort Irwin Road. After stopping at a four-way stop and we continued north toward the outskirts of town. The mortuary set on the left side of the road, across the street from the graveyard. Daniels sat in his unmarked blue sedan when we pulled into the parking lot. He climbed out of his car and lit a cigarette.
“Are you sure we need to do this?” he asked.
“We’ll find out in a few minutes,” I said taking a black nylon gym bag from the trunk of the Mustang.
“Let’s just get this shit over with,” Roxy said taking my arm. We ambled across the parking lot to the mortuary. The glass doors opened and a chill went down my spine. I looked into the chalky white face of a tall man wearing a black suit. I thought it was our vamp. The funeral director was a scary dude who looked like Vincent Price.
“This is highly irregular,” the funeral director said.
“Humor us, Mr. Kramer. We’ll be out of your hair in no time,” Daniels said.
Kramer shrugged. “Let’s get this nonsense over with then.” He retreated into the Bowels of the mortuary and we followed along behind. He led us down a hallway and through a side door passing several caskets as we crossed the room. Chills shot down my spine when I passed the coffins. I kept expecting one of them to open. Kramer led us through a door and down another hallway. He opened a door to a back room and stepped inside. I felt a cold chill, this time, from the cold frigid air. Roxy’s nipples pressed against the fabric of her t-shirt. She caught the direction of my glance and gave me the look.
“This is our cold storage. We keep the bodies here until we’re ready to prepare them for burial,” Kramer said. He crossed the room to a row of metal drawers setting against the wall and slid open a drawer revealing a body covered with a thin white sheet. The body of Mrs. Chambers lay on the steel slab. I pulled the sheet away to reveal the face. She looked deader than a can of corn beef cabbage. Pulling a wooden stake and a mallet from the gym bag, I handed them both to Roxy.
“Great. I have to do the dirty work?” she said.
“Just hand them to me when I need them,” I said and then took out a crucifix. I pulled the sheet away from Mrs. Chamber’s chest.
“There’s no need to be crude,” Kramer said.
Placing the crucifix between Mrs. Chambers’ breasts, I watched her skin sizzle and smoke.
“What the hell?” Daniels said stepping back. Mrs. Chambers’ eyes shot open and she let out a shriek. She grabbed my throat and I looked into her dark feral eyes.
“The mallet! Give me the mallet!” I croaked. Mrs. Chambers screamed obstinacies and flung the crucifix across the room. It bounced off the wall.
“Do the bitch!” Roxy yelled tossing me the wooden stake and the mallet. Daniels jumped away from the body. I pushed the late Mrs. Chambers down on the slab and placed the wooden stake between her breasts. She clung to my throat, my vision turned fuzzy, and I brought the hammer down on top of the stake driving it into her heart. Blood, shot out of her chest, splattering against my face, and hit the ceiling. Mrs. Chambers screamed and then died, this time for good. Kramer stood watching.
“It looks like you’ve seen this kind of thing before,” I said to Kramer.
“Once or twice. I prefer it when the bodies stay dead.”
Daniels looked like Casper the Friendly Ghost. “I need a cigarette. Hell. I need a six-pack and a bottle of Jim Beam.”
“The first time is always the worst,” I said to Daniels. Leaving Kramer to clean up the mess, we swaggered out to the parking lot. The radio in Daniels unmarked sedan squawked.
“This is dispatch to car thirty-four. Come in detective Daniels.”
Daniels opened the door and grabbed the radio’s handset. “This is Daniels.”
“There has been another murder. It has the same MO as the one at the bowling alley.” We stepped closer to listen. Roxy crossed her arms underneath her breasts.
“Where at?” Daniels asked.
“At Molly’s Pub on Main Street. The perp was last seen heading west on Main Street in a black forty-eight Ford pickup.”
“I’ll be right there,” Daniels said.
“We’ll be right behind you,” I said.
Daniels climbed into his sedan and Roxy and I headed to my Mustang. I fired up the beast and followed Daniels out of the parking lot. We headed south on Fort Irwin Road, blowing the stop sign at Old Highway 58, and continued south. Daniels had his reds flashing and his siren blaring. I kept the Mustang on his ass. We passed a Mexican restaurant and a low rent apartment complex as the road curved and intersected with First Street. Daniels tapped his brakes and turned right heading into town. We were on the metal bridge spanning the rail yard when an old black Ford pickup truck flew past us heading in the opposite direction.
I had no room to turn around on the metal bridge, but once the Mustang crossed the south side of the bridge, I flipped a bitch and mashed my foot down on the accelerator. Daniels did the same thing. Patrons at the Dell Taco on the east side of the street starred out the window wondering what the commotion was. The pickup had already crossed the bridge and was heading north. The vamp might have been undead, but the engine in his truck was alive and healthy. The Mustang roared and the speedometer shot up to ninety miles an hour.
The vamp slid around the corner onto Fort Irwin Road and we stayed on his ass. He led us back the way we came, passing the mortuary and the graveyard then slammed on his brakes and turned left on a dirt road heading out into the desert. I called Daniels on the radio.
“Where’s he going?” I asked.
“He’s heading toward an area known as Copper City!” Daniels said.
“What’s there?” I asked as we bounced over the dirt road.
“A few people outlive there! It’s mostly abandoned! There are a few abandoned mining claims! Stay on his ass! I got back up on the way!” Daniels yelled over the radio.
“Roger that,” I said tossing the radio into Roxy’s lap. “Take the wheel.” She looked at me like if I was crazy. “Take the wheel!” She crossed over me and I moved underneath her. At one point, her shapely bottom was in my face. The Mustang hit a bump and she fell into my lap. My hand found her right breast.
“Watch it buster!” she said jamming an elbow into my ribcage.
“Sorry,” I said and then slid into the passenger seat. The old Ford pulled away. She mashed her foot down on the accelerator causing the Mustang to lurch forward. Turning around, I pulled my AR-15 from my gear bag. I rolled down the window, leaned out, and fired several rounds into the back of the pickup.
“When in doubt, empty the magazine!” I yelled. Dropping out the empty magazine, I slapped in a fresh one and fired several more rounds into the back of the pickup truck. The truck swerved back and forth and then took a dirt road heading north. The old Ford slid to a stop in front of a stone cabin. I slammed on my brakes. An apparition jumped from the pickup truck and ran across the desert toward the cabin. Daniels car slid to a stop behind mine. I jumped out of the car with my rifle in hand and Daniels jumped out of his sedan with a pump-action shotgun.
“Hold it, boys! Let the testosterone level drop a notch or two! If we go in there like this, we don’t stand a chance,” Roxy said when she climbed out of the Mustang.
I heaved a sigh. “She’s right. We’re dealing with the supernatural. We’ll have a better chance at daybreak.”
“You want us to sit on our hands until sunrise?” Daniels protested.
“When your people get here, set up a perimeter. Daylight is only a few hours away,” I said. The city police and several sheriff deputies arrived a short while later. Roxy and I took a stroll down by the cabin checking for hidden exits. After the Po Pos had the perimeter set up, we headed back to the Mustang.
“Thanks,” I said.
“For what?” Roxy asked.
“For not letting me go off half-cocked.”
“What are partners for?” she said and then leaned over and kissed me. We sat talking until a purple haze appeared in the east and fingers of sunlight stabbed across the Mojave Desert. When we exited the vehicle, Daniels swaggered over.
“Are you ready now?” Daniels asked. “I’ve got SWAT sitting on go.”
I let out another sigh. “This is what you hired us for. If you go in there like gangbusters, you’ll only get a lot of people killed,” I said.
“What are we supposed to do? That son of a bitch killed two citizens!” Daniels protested.
“Let us go in first. It’s what you’re paying us for. If we’re not back in an hour, then bring in your boys.”
Daniels lit a cigarette.
“Those things will kill you,” Roxy said.
“You’ve got one hour.”
I retrieved our gear, handed Roxy a paintball gun, and took one for myself.
“What good are, those things going to do?” Daniels asked. A smirk crossed his face.
“You can’t kill these guys with conventional weapons,” I said.
“You were damned conventional last night with that AR-15.”
I shrugged. “Last night I was shooting at a pickup truck. Today I’m killing a vampire.” Carrying our gear bag, Roxy and I headed toward the stone cabin.
“I’ll take, point,” I said.
“So predictable. Such a macho pig.” Roxy said.
“But you love me anyway,” I said and then kicked the door of the stone cabin. The front door banged open. Dirt and beer cans littered the floor and in the center of the room set a pine box. It looked like the kind the county used to burry people in a paupers grave. Across the room, I saw a wooden door leading to who knows where.
“This boy seems low rent,” I said moving toward the wooden box.
“He’s not as sophisticated as some of the ones we’ve killed,” Roxy said.
I grabbed a wooden stake and the mallet and then opened the pine box. My heart raced and my breathing came in short little gasps. The lid squeaked open. The undead figure lying in his coffin looked more hideous than he did on the security tape. Maggots crawled in and out of the sores on his face. The putrid smell made me gag when I placed the point of the stake on his chest.
The vamp shot out of the coffin knocking me on my ass. He hovered near the ceiling and then descended to the floor. I rose to my feet grabbing my paintball gun.
“What are you gonna do? Paint me to death?” the vamp asked. His voice sounded raspy and his breath came out wheezy.
“Everything is not always as it appears,” I said.
“You call yourself a hunter? I smell fear. It is all over you.”
“There’s no fear here, pops,” I said, even though I felt like I was going to piss my pants. “You don’t smell too good yourself.” The vamp moved toward me. We raised our paintball guns.
“I’ll gut you so you can live long enough for you to watch me drain your woman’s blood. She’ll be mine for eternity.”
“Eternity hell. Bell Lugosi, you’re not. What have you got, aids or something?”I asked.
The vamp crept closer. “Some time ago, I got hold of some bad blood.”
“Enough of this. Your breath smells like dog shit,” I said.
“I’ll kill you slowly, then rape your woman before I bleed her.” The vamp said.
“Oh shut up. What are you going to do, Mike? Talk him to death?” Roxy asked.
“What we are about to have here, is a holy water smackdown,” I said and then we opened up with our paintball guns. I had drained the paint out of the paintballs earlier and filled them with holy water. When the plastic balls filled with holy water hit the vamp’s skin, they burned through to the bone. His skin sizzled and smoke rose from a dozen places. The smelly vampire bounced around the room like a chimpanzee on crack. He shot up to the ceiling and bounced off the walls trying to stay out of the line of fire. He let out a hiss and a foul-smelling odor filled the room. We stood with our paintball guns pointed at the creature clinging to the ceiling. The vampire landed on Roxy knocking her to the ground. He clawed at her shirt ripping it to shreds. She let out a scream as the vamp lowered his mouth to her throat. I lunged forward and grabbed the vamp by the hair on the back of his head.
“Take this you shit bag!” I yelled and slammed a crucifix to the side of his neck. The skin under the crucifix sizzled and maggots jumped off his neck. He knocked me over backward and then crashed through the wooden door to the left of the coffin. Roxy stumbled to her feet oblivious to the fact that her breasts were bare. Oblivious that is until she caught me staring.
“God Mike, you’re such a pig,” she said.
“Let’s go,” I said diverting my eyes. We moved to the wooden door and I flung it open. The door led to what I thought was a cellar, but when we reached the bottom of a set of stone steps, I looked down a long tunnel. A tunnel. Why does it have to be a tunnel? I thought.
“Are you okay with this?”
I nodded. “Yeah.” Fumbling with my gear bag, I took out a flashlight and tossed it to Roxy. “Let’s get this son of a bitch,” I said taking out another flashlight for myself. When I stepped off into the darkness, a cold breeze blew a foul odor toward us. “He’s down here.”
“I hope this tunnel dead-ends soon. If it splits off into different directions, we could lose him,” Roxy whispered. I could tell by the sound of her voice that she was as scared as I was. Her shadow displayed against the sidewall of the tunnel distracted me. Her breasts bounced up and down causing her shadow woman to do the same. Of course, she caught me looking. The tunnel ended two hundred yards in. The vamp lay on a large rock wheezing and coughing. We opened up with the pint ball guns. The vamp let out a shriek attacking Roxy again. It knocked her over backward and clawed at her throat. I grabbed a horse syringe out of the gym bag and then jumped on the vampire’s back. Sticking the needle in the vampire’s neck, I pushed the plunger. He let out a blood-curdling scream, stumbled to his feet, took a few steps, and then collapsed. I helped Roxy up. She stood clinging to my arm.
“What did you give him?” she asked.
“My version of a Beijing Cocktail. He’s diabetic. I filled that syringe with sugar and holy water,” I said. Bending down, I grabbed the mallet and a wooden stake. The vampire’s skin began to smoke.
“So he’s in a diabetic coma? How do you think of these things, Mike?”
“It just comes to me, darling. Most of the time it comes down to the basics,” I said placing the wooden stake against the vampire’s chest.
“Just do it and let’s get out of here,” Roxy said.
“Case closed,” I said and drove the stake through the vampire’s heart.
***
For my author friends if you have a short story that you would like to share, please send it to me. Copy and paste it into an email and I will post it on my blog for a week and give you a shout out. Don’t forget to leave a comment and let me know what you think.
Dave the Miracle Maker 