Hellrider

by JG Faherty

  He waited for her to laugh, and when she didn’t, he wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or worried. Laughter would mean she thought he was goofy.

  Taking him seriously might mean she thought he was really crazy.

  “Maybe it was thunder.” This time Kellie kept her eyes on her food.

  That’s it. This’ll be the last conversation we ever have. By sixth period she’ll be telling her friends what a nut job I am.

  “It didn’t sound like thunder. Not at all. It sounded just like when Eddie used to start Diablo out in the driveway, except….”

  “Except it was in the sky.”

  “Yeah.”

  Kellie put down her cookie, and Carson was sure she was about to say ‘sayonara, doofus’.

  She didn’t.

  She leaned forward and lowered her voice to almost a whisper. “Carson, something very strange is going on in this town. I think we should be extra careful.”

  “What?” He felt like he’d missed something. “Careful about what?”

  “I don’t know. But things have been really weird lately. Ever since…ever since the fire.”

  He didn’t have to ask what fire she meant.

  Before he could respond, the bell sounded, announcing the end of the lunch period. Kellie stood and picked up her tray. “I have a yearbook meeting today after school, but maybe we can grab some pizza tonight?”

  Carson nodded, too surprised to speak. Even after she walked away, he kept staring at the spot where she’d been, thoughts spiraling through his head.

  Maybe she’s crazier than me.

  But she asked me out for pizza!

  Why did she act so weird? Is it a set-up?

  We’re going on a date!

  He was still sorting through his feelings when the second bell rang, reminding him he better hurry or he’d be late for class.

  This time, he didn’t even notice the dirty looks Kellie’s friends gave him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Eddie tailed the Hell Riders at a height of several hundred feet, hoping the distance would be enough to dim Diablo’s growl until it seemed like nothing more than distant heat thunder. He’d been watching the gang for most of the day, trying to think of the best way to use his new power. Hank and his boys had spent most of the afternoon boarding up the windows of the clubhouse and getting questioned by Chief Jones, who’d ended up storming away in a frustrated huff. Eddie almost felt sorry for him; with everyone refusing to press charges against Hank, Jones had been left holding his dick.

  The best part of the afternoon was when Eddie learned about Jethro being in the hospital. He’d burst into laughter, which had set the lights flickering all over the clubhouse. That, in turn, had caused Hank to practically jump out of his pants, and led to the whole gang searching inside and out, trying to figure out who was screwing with them. It was like watching a sitcom, a private show just for him. Their increasing frustration only made Eddie laugh harder and caused the electricity to malfunction even worse.

  Finally, Hank had shouted for them all to get the hell out, that he’d meet them later in town.

  And that’s when Eddie got his idea.

  It was so simple he didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before.

  Scare the fucking shit out of them and then kill them.

  Eye for an eye. It was what they’d done to him. Made his life miserable. Now he’d pay them back, with interest.

  And he’d save Hank for last.

  But that didn’t mean he couldn’t have fun with his old friend first.

  At that moment, Hank was flicking light switches on and off, trying to figure out where the problem lay. While he did this, he called out to the empty room, “Anyone here? C’mon, you fuckers. Show yourselves!”

  Through hours of practice on street lights and car windows, Eddie had developed more control over what he called his ‘hate energy’. He’d found that by imagining his rage as a weapon, like a gun, he could vary the amount of power released, rather than having it just leap out of him. A small gun released a little zap; a shotgun more. And for big jobs he pictured himself like Rambo, wielding a ridiculously oversized rocket launcher.

  Time for a real shock, Hank.

  Pointing his finger like a kid pretending to shoot a pistol, Eddie pulled his mental trigger. Although no visible discharge occurred, the light switch suddenly popped and sparked in Hank’s fingers. He stumbled backward, hair standing on end and the tips of his thumb and forefinger blackened and smoking.

  “Goddammit! Motherfucking cocksucking no-good whorebag!”

  Eddie pointed again. Bang!

  The forty-five-inch color television, a three-hundred-pound relic from the times before flat-screens, exploded in a fireworks display of colored sparks. A hailstorm of glass shredded the chair where, just an hour before, Mouse had sat while being grilled by Chief Jones about the fight between Hank and Jethro.

  Hank let out a terrified shriek and dove behind the bar Ned and some of the others had stolen from a junkyard in Homestead.

  In his mind, Eddie tried to picture the wiring behind the walls. He let his hand pass through the cheap paneling under a light switch, imagined himself gripping the wires, and channeling his energy into them, overloading them.

  Instantly, all the light bulbs blew out and several electrical cords melted right into the sockets. From his hiding place, Hank shouted for help.

  That’s right, you piece of shit. You fucking douche. Scream like a baby. Remember this. Eddie was here. Eddie was h—

  A massive bolt of pain punched through Eddie’s brain, worse than any hangover. He cried out and grabbed his head. The moment he stopped using his power, the pounding lessened to a dull ache.

  Overdid it. Still not that strong. Gotta rest. The metaphysical him stumbled over to Diablo and climbed on, his hands and feet automatically starting the engine and putting the demon bike into gear.

  Weak and nauseous, Eddie instructed the bike to take him to his grave.

  * * *

  In the near darkness of the boarded-up clubhouse, Hank Bowman pressed himself against the bar, his arms wrapped around his knees, his body trembling. The whole damn place was going crazy around him. He found himself wishing he’d left with the others instead of staying behind to see if he could draw out whoever was fucking with them. Now he regretted that decision, as obviously more than one or two people were involved.

  But who? Hell Creek had no rival gangs. It couldn’t be the cops. Not their style. The Cubans from Miami? That wouldn’t make sense. They had a good deal going, him transporting their shipments of pot when they came through the ’Glades in return for some cash and stash.

  A dull roar sounded outside, interrupting his thoughts.

  A motorcycle? Son of a bitch! Was it his own gang pulling this shit on him? If so, they were gonna pay.

  Fright gave way to an embarrassment that quickly turned into fury. Hank bolted from his hiding spot and ran for the door, expecting to see the other Hell Riders outside, laughing their asses off at his expense.

  Instead, he found an empty parking lot.

  Empty, and yet he could still hear the motorcycle.

  The throbbing, growling, coughing noise could only be a Harley. A big one. In fact….

  It sounded familiar.

  Hank looked down the road toward the highway, which was a long, straight run several miles into Hell Creek. It appeared as deserted as the parking lot. Same thing in the other direction, the black top arrow-straight as it headed deeper into the swamps.

  The cycle’s rumble faded away, almost as if….

  Hank looked straight up. Impossible. It had to be thunder. There’d been a lot of that lately. From the weather. It made sense. Damn heat lightning probably made the lights go haywire, too. Overloaded the circuits or something.

  That has to be it.
Either that, or the fuckin’ heat’s driving me crazy.

  Cursing at his unwarranted fear and the hellish weather they’d been having, Hank entered the clubhouse, figuring to drink a couple more beers before they got warm.

  Then he stopped short.

  Across the room, over the big, stained couch, someone had burned letters on the wall.

  Eddie was h

  Hank’s body shook as sudden shivers ran through it. Eddie? Just saying the name brought back memories of the night before.

  “Eddie’s coming.”

  The last words Jethro had spoken before getting knocked unconscious.

  It also triggered another memory.

  Eddie’s bike. Diablo. That was the motorcycle he’d heard outside. Eddie Ryder had been a genius with engines, and he’d customized his bike so that nothing else sounded like it.

  Eddie was h

  Eddie was here? Was that the message?

  No. It was goddamn impossible. They’d burned Eddie Ryder to a fucking crisp. His body was already buried.

  Another idea came to him, one almost as frightening as someone coming back from the dead.

  Somebody knows what we did. And they’re trying to spook me.

  And it was working. How had they gotten in and out without him seeing? Not through the front door, that was for sure. And the back door was locked.

  It didn’t matter. Whoever it was, they were as good as dead when he found them. ’Cause if someone knew, then it was just a matter of time before they tried to use that information against him. And he couldn’t have that.

  “You’re dead, motherfucker. Just like Eddie Ryder.”

  Tough words.

  But not tough enough to take away that nasty feeling in the pit of his stomach, or the acid burning the back of his throat.

  Eddie’s coming.

  Eddie was here.

  With a shiver, Hank headed for the door.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hell Creek Pizza was one of the most popular gathering spots in town, right after Hickey Tavern and Hell Creek Lanes. And there was a good reason for this. Before 2007, the residents of Hell Creek had to make do with frozen pizzas from the Piggly Wiggly on River Road, or take the long trip to Homestead and visit one of the pizzerias there.

  That all changed with the opening of Hell Creek Pizza, which quickly built a devoted following, especially on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights, when reservations were a necessity. So Carson was glad Kellie had gotten there early and grabbed one of the few available booths.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, sliding in across from her. “My mom decided she had to look at my homework before I could leave.”

  “You say it like it’s a bad thing.” Kellie handed him a menu.

  “Well, yeah, it is. I’ve had straight A’s all my life. Now all of a sudden she has to check my homework?”

  Kellie shook her head. “You know, for someone who’s so smart you can be kinda dumb.”

  “What?” Carson didn’t know how to react. Was she insulting him or praising him?

  “Think about it. Your brother just died. All she has left is you. Checking your homework is just an excuse to spend time with you. To talk to you.”

  A tingling heat crept up Carson’s neck and into his face. He imagined himself turning as red as the vinyl seats in the booth. How could he have been so stupid?

  “Oh, man. Now I feel like an idiot for getting mad at her.”

  Kellie didn’t let him off the hook. “You should.”

  “Thanks a lot.” He stared blindly at his menu, fighting back tears. He was doing a good enough job of hating himself. He didn’t need her help.

  Then she touched him.

  Carson looked up in surprise. The last thing he’d expected at that moment was to feel her hand closing over his. Suddenly, he was looking down a tunnel, a dark tube where everything was gone except the perfect circle containing her face, which was so serious and beautiful he wanted to keep the image in his mind forever, a mental screensaver for his brain.

  “Hey, it’ll be okay. I acted the same way when my brother died. It’s hard not to. Between being a teenager and losing your brother, you start to think about how crappy your life is and you get all depressed and angry. You forget that other people are hurt and sad, too. But you can make it up to her. Spend some time with her each day. She’ll appreciate that.”

  “You think that will work? She was awful upset.”

  Kellie smiled and leaned forward. “You’re too cute to stay mad at. In fact—”

  Whatever she’d been about to say was ruined by a machine-gun-loud eruption of noise from the parking lot. A quick look out the window told Carson all he needed to know.

  “It’s them,” he told Kellie, as if anyone in town couldn’t recognize the sound. “The whole freakin’ gang.” He wasn’t sure what pissed him off more, the sight of his brother’s murderers or the fact that they’d interrupted what Carson was pretty sure had been about to be his first real kiss.

  “We can go somewhere else.”

  He thought about it. He knew Kellie wouldn’t hold it against him. A couple of families were already standing up to leave and several others signaling for their checks while casting nervous looks toward the door.

  They killed Eddie. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. Why should he have to leave? They were the ones who didn’t belong. Besides, they weren’t going to bother him, especially not in a public place. And if they did….

  That wouldn’t be so bad. They’d get arrested and it might make Kellie like me even more. That would be worth a few bumps and bruises.

  Then he thought about Jethro, half-dead in the hospital. He’d gotten a lot worse than bumps and bruises. And he was part of their gang. What would they do to the brother of the guy they just murdered?

  So my options are stay safe and look like a pussy, or stick around and maybe get my ass kicked, but impress the girl.

  The choice was obvious.

  “No, we’ll stay. If they start trouble, you can call your dad.”

  Kellie’s expression said she didn’t think he’d made the best decision, but she didn’t object. Instead, she opened her menu and pretended Hank and the other riders, along with several girls, weren’t entering the building in a cloud of gasoline fumes and pot smoke.

  “Wanna split a pizza?”

  “Sure,” Carson said, keeping an eye on the gang members stomping their way between the tables toward the private room in the back. Mr. Zefron, the owner, normally kept it reserved for large parties, but Carson imagined he’d be more than happy to let the bikers have it. Especially since it would keep them out of sight, if not out of sound, from the rest of the customers.

  Kellie asked him another question, but he didn’t hear her because he suddenly found himself staring at Duck Miller, who stared right back at him.

  He recognizes me! Fear and hatred battled in Carson’s guts, making him feel close to puking. Duck stopped, and for one terrifying moment Carson thought the biker might change direction and head toward their booth.

  Instead, Duck gave him the finger and then followed the rest of the gang into the back room, pausing just long enough to steal a basket of garlic bread off a nearby table.

  The couple at the table wisely said nothing.

  “Carson, are you listening?”

  “Huh?” His heart thumping madly, Carson turned back to Kellie, who gave him a strange look.

  “Are you okay?”

  “What? Oh, yeah. Fine. Pizza. Splitting. I’m there.”

  “I asked what kind you want.”

  “Um, anything except mushrooms or olives.” He wished she’d stop staring; he imagined she could see right through him, see that he’d been frightened half to death.

  With a small sigh, Kellie closed her menu. “I like pepperoni or
sausage.”

  “We’ll get half and half,” Carson said, signaling for the waitress. A pizza with toppings, sodas, and maybe dessert would practically empty his wallet, but he remembered something Eddie had told him one time.

  “Chicks cost money. Dating costs money. Get used to it, little bro, ’cause it only gets worse the older you get.”

  Looking at Kellie as she brushed a lock of hair from her face and gazed out at the setting sun, he felt pretty sure it was worth it.

  * * *

  Eddie fought down a surge of anger when he saw Duck Miller flip Carson the bird. Who the fuck does that asshole think he is, doing that to my brother?

  The temptation to zap the hell out of Miller was so great Eddie’s entire body practically vibrated with unseen energy. But he reined it in, common sense telling him that the restaurant wasn’t the best place for lightning bolts and thunder.

  Besides, he had a much better plan, one that didn’t include exploding windows and deadly flying glass in a crowded place.

  After scaring the shit out of Hank at the clubhouse, he’d taken some time at his grave to recover his strength. He still didn’t feel a hundred percent, but the idea he’d come up with had him so psyched up he didn’t want to wait. It was all he could do to contain himself while Hank and the others grabbed chairs and loudly ordered ten pitchers of beer. Several of the guys had girls with them, their ‘cycle sluts’, as they called them in private, local girls who got off on being with the baddest boys in town.

  Hank had one arm around Sandy Powell, who wore one of her usual dignified outfits: ragged cut-off denim shorts so tight she had major camel toe and an equally tight t-shirt sporting the slogan ‘Zero to Naked in Ten Beers’. Eddie felt a sharp pang when he saw it. He’d bought it for her at a county fair, the same night he’d banged her for the first time.

  Now she was banging Hank.

  Stole my life, stole my girl. I am so gonna fuck you over, Skank-man.

  And the time to start was right then.

  He’d already chosen his target for the night. Butch Franks, a lowlife even among lowlifes. With his outdated mullet haircut, a bushy mustache that always seemed crusted with old food, and an assortment of bad tattoos covering his arms, neck, and chest (including his favorite, a naked woman on his belly with her legs spread so that his fuzz-filled navel served as an outrageously oversized vagina), he was the ultimate definition of trailer trash. And proud of it.