Highway to Hell

by Lydia Anne Stevens

  "Give her some clothes, Damien.” I don't bother to turn and try to find hers. I wouldn't be able to discern garments from guts at this point and I really need some fresh air myself. The smell is starting to get to me.

  Damien holds out his arms to her, but Tabby refuses to let go and he pulls us into his embrace together. I close my eyes, not wanting to see his generosity even though I'm indebted to him on a scale of me zero, him, too many favors owed. It just makes ruling by his side for an eternity seem even longer when I have to face the invoice on my to-do list.

  I feel the clothes begin to materialize on Tabby and I slowly ease my grip so when Damien lets us go, she is standing on her own. She sways a little bit, but I need her to get with it enough to get out of here. At least when we begin walking back to the storage shed, she follows in silence. I figure we have little time before the police show up and the last thing we need is to be standing over the remains of the slaughter. I round the corner onto the lane with the storage sheds and see the rental truck outside. As we approach, I see Leo and Fae standing guard while Doug, Dick, Phil, and Charles load parts of the ride onto the truck.

  "Where are the others?" I ask Leo.

  "We left her with the bikes. Marty and the Teach will help her look after Zeke, I'm not sure about the prophet guy, Dante. All he really talks about is food.” She shrugs.

  "Food?"

  "Yeah, tonight he was going on about cheesecake.”

  "Looks like Tora's got her work cut out for her then. Even demons know you don't mess with a New Yorker's cheesecake.”

  "She's got to start proving herself sometimes. So I made a judgment call.”

  "I trust you, Leo. It's Lowell I don't trust to try to pull a runner.” I nudge her shoulder as I walk up.

  Leo nods at Tabby. “What’s up with her?"

  "Later. Just get her in the truck. She's in shock.” I glance at Damien, but his face is expressionless. I peer in the back of the truck to find it's almost full of metal parts and boxes. Great, some assembly required.

  "We almost done here? The heat's coming,” he says to Dick.

  "Yeah, we saw the mad rush off the boardwalk. Must have been one Hell of a throw down.” Dick glances at Doug who hefts another box onto the back of the truck.

  "Let's just say NYPD's finest isn't the worst thing coming for us.”

  "Damn.” Leo glances around like she's expecting someone to jump out of the shadows. I feel the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

  "Come on, let's get out of here.”

  Phil and Charles set the last of the boxes in the truck and as they hop down, Doug pulls the back hatch shut.

  "All set," Dick says. Damien hops on the back bumper, holding onto the sidebar. Leo joins Tabby in the cab to drive back to the DMV and I hop up on the other side of the truck. Damien's boys jog behind and it's a quick drive back with the streets being so empty.

  When we get back to the DMV, I find Tora standing over Zeke and he's holding his bleeding nose.

  "Tora?"

  "He tried to run. Lowell tried to help him. So Marty stopped him. Then this one got lippy.” She holds her fist up like she's going to hit him again and Zeke flinches. I see Leo's hand in front of her mouth out of the corner of my eye and I can tell by the full body shakes she's laughing. I try to keep my composure, but as I take in the scene, Tora looking some kind of fierce standing over Zeke, Marty holding Lowell back, and James and Dante comparing scholarly notes about the perfect cheesecake flavor, I can't help it and start laughing. I laugh so hard the tears roll down my cheeks as I walk over to Sugar. My sides start to hurt as I continue to chuckle. Marty crabwalks Lowell over to my bike and one look at his enraged face has me clutching my sides all over again.

  Lowell doesn't argue when Marty gruffly shoves him toward the bike and tells him, "Get on, kid.” He then turns and hops up into the cab and starts the rental truck up.

  We're no doubt going to be on every street camera between here and the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge. We'll be on New York's most wanted by the break of dawn too, but by then, we'll have a few hours head start. Fae and Leo force Zeke into her sidecar, and before he can try to escape, she threatens to singe his ass into the car with her motorbike flames and he clutches his knees looking all kinds of pathetic, but he'll turn on us soon. I see the cold, beetle-like look in his eyes, which suggests he's planning something nefarious or at least sneaky. James surprises me when he hops on Tabby's bike and starts it up. I guess Lowell's geeky friend has a little bit of game. Dante hops on the back with him and I look up through the windshield to see if Tabby is going to go crazy about anyone touching her bike, but she still looks catatonic. I'm hoping Marty can pull her out of her funk because Hell isn't going to wait for the years of therapy we're all in desperate need of. Damien and company all rev up.

  We pull out of the DMV just as I see the blue and whites flashing off the buildings a couple of streets down. The memory of what is waiting for them in the police kiosk is enough to sober me and wipe the smile from my face. We go the long way off Coney Island, taking side streets and heading in the direction of JFK airport and then cutting back up through Queens before catching interstate 678 so we don't inadvertently run into on-coming law-enforcement responding to the scene. The last thing we need is for Leo to land herself with more grand theft charges and any one of us to be hunted down and questioned as cop killers. I'm beginning to think there isn't any place on earth or in Hell that won't have a full force hunting us down.

  12

  After nine and a half hours, I decide it’s time to make a pit stop. I know my ass is sore; I can only imagine what Lowell, James, and Zeke must be feeling. If they haven’t been avid riders like the rest of us, then they are bound for the local drugstore for a heavy dose of the rhoid cream if they don’t get up and stretch and move a bit.

  I decide to pull into the far lot next to the trucking lanes. There are less tourists here and we are less likely to be caught kidnapping and being noticed for grand theft. As everyone else pulls in around and beside me, the loud roar of engines slowly begins to cut off, as one by one each rider kills their engine in appreciation for the short reprieve. I get off Sugar and slowly stretch to my full height, arms above my head and doing the reach for the sky routine. I hear the crackling of spines and satisfied groans and moans from my fellow riders. The sharp spike of pain shooting up my back is quickly followed by a dull ache flowing throughout my atrophied limbs, and then the sensation of pleasure quickly chases the ache away on a tingle. Lowell and James saunter off in the direction of the public bathrooms and I crinkle my nose when Dante takes a sniff of the air, scenting out the food court in the rest stops inner sanctum.

  Stopping is a risky move, but one of necessity when the rental truck started running low on gas. Marty pulled alongside me on the Interstate and shouted out of the window, “The truck needs fuel!”

  I nodded and made the decision to stop in here. I watch as he pulls the truck up to the pump and begins the process of filling the tank. The best thing about our bikes is they are fueled from the fears of the damned, at least it's what I like to think Satan has set up for an endless repository of natural resources.

  I look around, noticing everyone else moving around gingerly on sore limbs and eventually loosening up and experiencing the same euphoria. Maybe it’s the sensation dimming all our senses because in the next instant, Zeke makes a jump for the nearest bike he can get his hands on. I watch for a split second, dazed and confused as Zeke makes a dash for Interstate-90 somewhere out here in the middle of Massachusetts. My confusion only lasts a second, as does everyone else’s and it pulls Tabby out of her funk.

  Damien and his boys are further back and in no position to stop Zeke once he gets going. They probably hung back further to call less attention to our presence, but it doesn’t help our situation now.

  Chaos ensues as he starts the bike up and tears off onto the interstate. Thinking fast, I shout at Leo to round up the others as I tear after him. I clamber bac
k on Sugar and start her up, the tires squeal and smoke billows up from the pavement as I see my afterlife flash before my eyes while I cut into the three-lane traffic. It isn't enough I've been glancing over my shoulder the entire trip for the NYPD, now we're going to have the Massachusetts Staties on our tail since one of their state police agency buildings is right up the highway in Framingham. I hear Damien's bike close to my own and on the left, but traffic is so heavy, it's going to take a break in the bumper to bumper to surround Zeke and muscle him to the side of the road or a rest area.

  I glance over my shoulder and see him along with his crew pulling up fast and hard. They're taking no chances and weaving in and out of cars and trucks, despite the congestion. The look on Damien's face suggests he's ready to just run Zeke off the road and if he isn't careful of the way he's weaving in and out, he will force Zeke into the breakdown lane. Then he’ll be crowned with the title of road kill instead of Road King. I downshift and let him take the lead as I cut in on the shoulder of the road, which is risky. The roads in New England are sketchy at best with potholes so large they can be named as craters. Riding the ridge is jarring and I let Zeke see how pissed off I am he's putting everyone in danger. I point to the next rest area, but I know he will try to split the lane and scoot out around Damien before he kisses the guardrail. I shift again and drop back a few inches, giving Damien the chance to pull up on the left of him and begin muscling him toward the rest area exit.

  I see Zeke punch the throttle one more time, but he runs the risk of catching Damien's front tire. I shout over the roar of the engines.

  "Damn it, Zeke, pull over!" But the weasel isn't going to go gently into the porter potty pitstop. He downshifts, just like I figured he would try, and I glance back quickly to see Dick and Doug already in position, waiting for the move. He thinks he can slow a split second and then weave out around Damien, but they are flanking all of us. I'm happy to notice Leo and Fae are hot on our tails, and a few car lengths behind them is the rental truck.

  I turn back and at the last second before Zeke ends up kissing the guardrail, he veers off the exit and the rest of us ride him into the parking spaces. There aren't many people here, as the rest area is closed for maintenance according to the sign on the door. It's just as well because when he finally stops and dumps Tabby's bike on the ground, I don't know who pounces on him faster, me or her. She has every right to kill him if he scratched her ride. I would too, but I figure this smack down drag out has been a long time coming and as I kill the engine on Sugar and kickstand her out, I leap from my seat and tackle him just as he tries to sprint around the front of my ride and make a break for the woods.

  "Get off me!" His fist connects with my jaw and I taste blood. I spit and snarl just as Tabby joins in and she clocks him a good one in the temple.

  "You dumped my ride!" Her fists are going wild and I duck before she catches me in the side of the head too. I settle for pinning his legs, which he's trying to wrap around her. He may be smaller than Damien and friends, but he's spry and slippery, like an eel. I let Tabby lay into him for a few minutes, but it isn't without him getting his licks in. When he finally bucks her off, she's got a split lip and a shiny red cheek for her trouble, and I'm pretty sure the way she's gasping like a fish out of water he managed to ding up her ribs a bit.

  I take her place, having let her get some of her frustrations out on him, not just for the bike, but for what went down on the pier. She needed the outlet, but now it's my turn to express a few frustrations.

  I hear one of his ribs crack as the full force of my elbow slams into him. I can feel the anger and the hurt rising in my chest. Maybe my redemption will take a hit for these blows, but the man got me shot between the eyes. Talk about a migraine; there's no painkiller that can ebb the throb of such insult and agony.

  My cheeks are wet as hot tears of rage and betrayal slide down my cheeks. I'd stuck with him, kept my mouth shut when the cops came calling. I'd played the dutiful girlfriend when his contacts came around asking questions about payment. I'd done the misdirect and then sent him the heads-up texts and look where it got me. I pick him up by the scruff of his shirt and head butt him, feeling the ache blossom between my eyes. Better than the one in my heart. It breaks his nose and blood spurts like a geyser as he hollers and clutches his face.

  "Get off of me!" he screams again and I sit back on his lap. “You dumb bitch, you deserved to bite the bullet!"

  I stare at him through the haze of pain in my head and wonder what I ever saw in him in the first place. Seeing everything I have as a demon, it really puts things into perspective. There are a lot scarier things in the world, this one and the next, than a chump like Zeke. As a demon, it's reasonable to argue I am one of them, but I consider as a scorned woman, in the worst possible way ever, it's more frightening than any supernatural aspect of my being.

  "Remember this moment right now, Zeke. You're beneath me. You are nothing to me anymore.” I look into his eyes and see the rage mixed with terror. It does nothing to tug at my heartstrings anymore. Life sometimes throws us the curveball but it answers some of the big questions. If you could do it all over then what would you do differently? That's the million-dollar Q&A right now. It's funny how now when I look at the past, the question was always answered, I just never had the guts to peek at the answer.

  I stand and he instinctively cups his prone areas. He doubles over and protects his face with one arm, his stomach by curling into the fetal position, and his junk with his other arm. I snort and walk away. What I should have done years ago. It's a liberating experience in itself, being able to walk away. I never realized the power I was denying myself by sticking with him for so long.

  As I walk back to scope the damage to Tabby's bike, I pass Dick and Doug who both stop and give me a high-five.

  "Nice takedown, Trina.” Dick is the one to speak first.

  I raise my eyebrows. I'd never had cause to really speak with either one of them, but for whatever reason, this has resonated with them and they feel they need to say something.

  "Yeah, yeah. She was so amazing. Like a Valkyrie. Can we get on with it? I want to go home,” Charles speaks up.

  "Get this piece of garbage in the sidecar.” I turn back to Dick and Doug, ignoring Charles. I stop by Tabby's bike and she's checking it out.

  Zeke’s rabbit-routine seems to have pulled Tabby out of her shock, because she mutters, "Sorry, boss.”

  I am the only one to hear her and I have a feeling she isn’t just talking about being spaced-out to the point Zeke was able to get his hands on her ride. I’m pretty sure she is talking about the Police booth back on the Boardwalk, but I’m picking up what she’s laying down. No need to get all extra about it.

  "Not on you, Tabby. I asked you to do it, this one's on my shoulders.” She doesn't say anything, but continues checking her bike over. There will be some rearranging after we all grab a bite from the plaza and the truck finishes gasing up. I figure we can put either James or Dante in the truck with Marty because they aren't a flight risk, and then the other can ride behind Tabby.

  Phil hopped off his own ride and is struggling to help Tabby pick her bike up. She checks over the custom paint job and Zeke ought to be counting his blessings because there are no scratches. If there had been, Tabby would have likely ripped a few scratches in his hide. I walk up to Lowell, who is standing next to Marty. Marty has a hand on his shoulder and Lowell is looking at his brother and I can see the rapid swallowing like he's choking on the unshed tears. He watches his brother being manhandled into the sidecar and there's the moment when he finally realizes exactly what his brother really is. He's nothing. He's not worth the time and energy Lowell has invested in ensuring he makes it through this life, in whatever capacity that may be.

  "I'm sorry, Lowell,” I speak softly so no one else can hear. I never worried about Fiona being the bad apple, since I was as sour as they come on our family tree. I can't imagine what it must feel like being the good seed and having to ac
knowledge the bad one. What do you do with that information? How do you cope with it? Is it somehow the family’s responsibility to cut ties with the person? It seems like life keeps tossing me the big picture ball and I'm standing here holding the thing not knowing who to toss it to. The look on Lowell's face says the same thing. Sure, there's all the social media juju about cutting people out of your life who make you miserable, family included. But how many people actually practice what they post? Is there some inherent responsibility in all of us saying we have a duty to family no matter how much of a screw up they are? If that's the case, Fiona should be on the fast track for sainthood because she never gave up on me and Lowell is pulling a runner-up for title of the year.

  Lowell nods and I drop my voice even lower. “I’m sorry, but I think you should know, if you help him pull another stunt like that again, I'll kill you both myself. There's something bigger here going on than the two of you. I don't want you falling through the cracks though.”

  "Sometimes you have to accept the casualties of war, Catriona.” Dante has walked up behind me and I whirl on him. He hasn't said much and I'm thankful for James keeping him on board and occupied for the whole mess, but at the end of the day, Dante gets to go home to Heaven. His one-way ticket hasn't been revoked; he's just along for the kicks and giggles of the ride.

  "I don't want to lose an innocent if I can help it," I tell him. The old man tugs on his earlobe and drops his hand. If anyone thinks it's weird two biker gangs are hanging out with a man in a plain blue robe who could pass as a monk if he wanted to, they aren't stupid enough to approach and say so.

  "You know what I found most peculiar when I first toured the land of the dead?" His eyes twinkle like he's revisiting some fond memory and for a moment, I wonder if Heaven made a mistake. Is Dante actually some crafty psychopath who fooled everyone and derived pleasure from his sojourn into Hell? Or is he recalling the pathway to creativity when he began to pen the experiences of his voyage? The scholarly, creative types always get a glean in their eye when they think of something brilliant. It's literally the physical evidence of the light bulb switching on.