The Black Goat Motorcycle Club

by Murphy, Jason

  "Ms. Boulet," Otero said. "I need you to acknowledge that you've acted inappropriately again today."

  Boulet nodded and bit her lower lip. "Yeah. Okay."

  Yes, when she did finally reach her limit with this place, it was going to be good.

  ***

  Nathan stood outside of the hospital room and girded himself. All day, every day. This was what it was. If he wasn’t walking on ice around Otero, he was diving into the deep end with Mr. Oliver. So. Much. Fun. He took a deep breath of the crisp air and opened the door.

  The room was dark and still. Just the beeps of the equipment that measured out the last days of the old man’s life. Each beep was one more closer to the end. Nathan stood, looking in. Mr. Oliver lay, tangled in his sheets. He was gnarled and washed out, like a sun-bleached root. The skin looked so thin, with a roadmap of blue veins. Hairless. Ghoulish.

  Mr. Oliver slept a lot. It was the only thing that made checking on him bearable. And at that moment, Nathan held his breath, hoping the man was adrift in his liminal state between cancer and death. The old man didn’t stir. Vitals were normal, Nathan could see that from across the room. So he took one step backward, trying not to wake him.

  “You going to stand there or am I ever going to get breakfast today?”

  Shit.

  “I know you all don’t like me and just wish I would die, but starving a man to death is about as un-Christian as I can imagine.”

  Nathan forced a smile. “Mr. Oliver, I brought you your breakfast already. Did you eat it so fast you forgot?”

  “Like hell you did. I’m here in pain and now I’m starving. If you can’t be bothered to bring me breakfast, I guess I shouldn’t be bothered to try to hang on, should I?”

  Nathan stepped into the room. He left the lights off and went to the edge of the bed. In the corner of the room was the overturned tray of food. The mashed sweet potatoes were smeared on the wall. It looked like he hadn’t touched it. Nathan went to clean it up.

  “Oh, here it is. You must have knocked it aside in your sleep.”

  The old man looked at him. They both knew it was a lie.

  “I’ll get you another right away.”

  Mr. Oliver shifted in his bed and looked up at the ceiling. “I can’t eat that garbage.”

  On that, they agreed. Pre-packaged meals from the cafeteria at the Colina Vista hospital. Nathan had tried some once. It was what he imagined prison food was like.

  “Can’t argue with you, there. How about I go down to the American and get you something there. My treat.”

  “The American? You know my stomach can’t handle her cooking. It’s a grease pit. I need something that’s easier on my insides.”

  “Okay. Sure. Well, lunch is coming up. Maybe it will be better. We can try that. In the mean time you want a snack? Some fruit maybe?”

  Silence. The silent treatment wasn’t altogether unusual, but it was usually preceded with an exasperated sigh. Now it was just the beeping again and for a second, Nathan felt a trill up his spine when he thought that maybe the old man had finally died. Shame followed. Nathan was a caretaker. He was here to help people and sometimes he had to remind himself of that. Sometimes he had to remind them of that.

  “Mr. Oliver?” he asked, barely a whisper.

  He was answered with a light, ragged snore. His body sagged with relief (and disappointment?). He checked his watch. Lunch was in 30. Maybe an hour, if he was lucky. The old man could sleep until then.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Outside of Warner, AZ

  10:30 AM

  Wendell heard the roar coming down the highway long before he saw them. Like a pack of angry dragons, the engines shook the floorboards of his shop. He winced. Bikers. A whole chapter, it sounded like. He never had much luck whenever they crossed paths. They usually came this way instead of the main highway. It was less patrolled. Plus, he suspected they'd made a game out of harassing him. They'd ask for help at the pump, knowing there was no one inside to mind the store. Or they'd ask for help in the store while they stole all the gas they could carry. By the time the sheriff got out here, they were long gone.

  "Might as well get in front of it," he thought, coming around the counter.

  For a moment, he paused. The hunting rifle was under the counter. He thought about it, just for a moment, and decided against it. Not really to give them the benefit of the doubt, but there was no reason to light a fuse that didn't need to be lit. He stepped outside onto the old-fashioned wooden porch. The place looked like a frontier general store, but was old enough for that to be unintentional. The boards underneath the wrap-around porch were splinter-ridden and rickety and Wendell, as he watched the gang ride in a phalanx down the road, empathized with the creaks and groans beneath his feet. He stood there, trying to look unshakeable, and looked out over the dirt lot in front of the store.

  The roar was deafening. There were about twelve of them, looking like the horde of the Wild Hunt. No weekend warriors here. No helmets. No dentists or lawyers out to take their expensive Harleys for a spin. These bikes were cobbled together, Frankenstein hogs, and their riders looked little better. Hairy, tattooed things clad in cracked leather with skin painted red from the sun and Arizona desert sand. Rather than pull up into his dirt lot, they stopped short. Here the highway dwindled into two lanes. Adjacent to his lot was a dirt road that crossed the highway. They stopped at the intersection, right in the middle. Some circled idly, watching the others look around. A gangly man with arms longer than his body could handle clambered off of his bike. He was freakishly thin and must have been pushing seven feet tall. He walked over to the dirt road and crouched, looking less than human with his spidery legs bent and his back hunched. The thin man threw his head back and took a deep breath before looking back to the dirt. He was studying it, like some Indian tracker. The fine sand slipped through his fingers and caught in the wind. Even from the front porch of the store, Wendell could see him smiling. They simultaneously turned, all of them in sync, and looked directly at Wendell. The pit of his stomach went cold and he found himself retreating backward into the shade of the porch's awning. They revved the engines and Wendell felt it in his ribs as he looked out over them. Fingerless gloves. Jagged teeth. Sun-baked flesh with crude tattoos. They rolled in, pouring into the lot in a slow storm of dust and chrome. Most of them stared directly at him, moving slowly and getting into position. For a fleeting second, a thousand little panics flitted through his brain.

  Katy. Where was Katy? Get the gun. Was she still asleep? Call the sheriff and tell him what? Was she out playing? Get the gun.

  The budda budda budda of the engines died and they dismounted like rattlesnakes sliding into the shadows. Wendell was familiar with the gangs of the area – the Badidos, the Dirty Dozen, the Smiling Kings - but these weren't of any chapter he recognized. Emblazoned on their jackets was the head of a horned goat. THE BLACK GOATS was written in thorny letters.

  Like royal guards, the gang parted down the middle and Wendell’s breath caught in his throat. The thing that appeared, a man in only the loosest sense, dominated the group with his presence. He was hairy, looking more monster than man, with long gray dreadlocks and a long gray beard adorned with beads and ties. Blue glasses, the round kind that made Wendell think of John Lennon, were perched on the end of his nose. He carried himself with a languid swagger, boots first and head high, a Yeti in a long coat. Over the rims of his glasses, he made eye contact and Wendell immediately looked away. The man was in no hurry. He stopped in the center of the lot and the breeze seemed to stop with him. The whole world just halted in its tracks. He traced random patterns in the dirt in front of him with a cane that had a head like an iron cue ball. The patterns stirred something in the pit of Wendell’s stomach, something that both drew his eyes and revolted him. The man – the beast – scrawled the designs slowly, but with a purpose. Wendell watched – the swirling spirals, the jagged lines – and bit into his lip. When he was done, the man stepped over them, loo
king down to admire his work, and approached the foot of the steps. He stood and just looked at Wendell. A slight smile played on his lips. Wendell absently twisted a rag in his hand.

  He might be able to get to the gun. It was loaded. He could shoot maybe five or six by the time they got to him.

  But don’t run! No! Be calm. Just walk back inside and grab the gun. Come out shooting. Where was Katy?

  Behind the leader, the rest of them milled about like strays on a hot day. They looked around, gazing into the field of cholla and scrub brush on the other side of the highway. They lazily searched around his lot and near the barn behind the store.

  "Howdy," Wendell said. His voice was thin and hoarse.

  The leader didn't move. To the right of the store was the dirt path leading to the barn. The skinny one was there, hunched over again with his knuckles nearly dragging the ground. He stopped, narrowed his jaundiced eyes, and looked up at his companion; a brick wall of a thing Wendell was surprised to see was a woman. The woman turned, moving like some massive ogre.

  "Gideon," she said to the leader.

  Gideon's smile widened. He said nothing, but motioned for Wendell with fingers that ended in nails like talons. Wendell swallowed hard and was suddenly aware of the icy perspiration that coated his back. He stepped out into the light.

  "Something I can do for you?"

  Gideon bowed a bit and extended his arm towards his friends as if to say, "Right this way, sir."

  Wendell took a few slow steps down the porch to meet the man. Nausea and anger warred in the pit of his stomach. "Now listen, friend. There ain't nothing back there for you. If you and your crew want to - "

  Gideon's hand shot out at Wendell's face. He felt a flash of hot pain in his right eye as Gideon's thumb nail sliced it open, then pushed through. Wendell opened and closed his mouth like a fish, but no scream would come. He felt Gideon hook his thumb into his eye socket and pull him forward. And then Wendell screamed. He swatted at Gideon's hand, trying to pull it away, but the biker was stronger. He pulled Wendell along as he strolled over to meet up with his friends.

  "Oh, oh Jesus, please. No. I'm sorry. Oh, God, please. My eye!"

  Wendell could feel the vitreous dripping down his cheek as his eye deflated. The pain consumed him. He wanted to fall to his knees, but Gideon dragged him. Any pull against Gideon sent sparks of new pain on top of the old.

  Gideon led him to where the rest of the gang collected at the doors to his old barn. Some of them circled around, looking to the sides and behind the store. The crowd parted for Gideon and Wendell's heart jumped.

  "No..." he said, but it only came out as a choked moan.

  Against the barn was Katy. She'd been playing all day and it was clear. Her knees were dirty. Her shirt was torn. She stood looking up at them. Her face was placid, but Wendell could tell she was scared.

  "Please. Just leave my daughter alone. She's only ten. Just tell me what you want and I promise you -"

  Gideon jerked the finger hooked deeply in Wendell's socket. Wendell staggered, screaming. Katy began to silently cry. With his free hand, Gideon motioned to the padlock on the barn.

  "Open it."

  His voice was a rich baritone with an undercurrent of gravel and broken glass.

  "Okay. Okay. Okay."

  Wendell patted his pockets for his keys. The giant woman pulled a pump action shotgun from a sling on her back. She pumped it once and slid the barrel towards Katy's face. Katy's denim shorts went dark with piss.

  "No. No no no. Here! Here!"

  Wendell pulled his keyring from the pocket of his Dickies. The keys rang like sleigh bells in his shaking hands. He felt a gust of cold air blow into the opening in his skull as Gideon removed his thumb with a wet schluck. Wendell fell to his knees. The keys hit the dirt.

  "It's in your best interests to hurry, friend," Gideon said.

  Wendell fumbled to pick up the keys. With his good eye, he looked over at Katy while he tried to find the right one for the padlock.

  "It's gonna be okay, sweetheart."

  "Is it?" Gideon asked.

  Katy coiled her hands up to her chest as the giant woman slipped the barrel of the gun into the little girl’s mouth. Katy closed her eyes and began to whimper.

  "Oh Jesus Christ, no!"

  Wendell feverishly sorted through the keys until he found what he was sure was the right one. It didn't fit. He moaned and looked up at Gideon. Gideon arched an eyebrow over his sunglasses and nodded at Katy. Wendell’s hands were quaking. He grappled with the keys again and slipped another into the lock. It fit. The lock came loose with a click. Wendell collapsed backward onto his ass, breath rasping with relief.

  Boom!

  The shotgun blast obliterated Katy's head. Every muscle in Wendell's body locked. A scream built, spiraling up from his groin. It shook him as it made its way to his throat, but there it stopped. It wouldn't come.

  Gideon's men threw the barn open wide. There was the old bulldozer that hadn't run in years. There was other assorted junk - an old television, a rusting washer, some tires. Gideon looked around and shook his head.

  "Hmph," he grunted.

  Wendell felt the scream break. Just as it tore out of his throat like hot barbed wire, Gideon spun, grabbed him by the head, and snapped his neck. Wendell heard the grinding crunch and was aware of falling. There was laughter, but it was distant. His face hit the hot, mid-morning sand. The laughter faded, followed by the waning growl of engines revving in the desert.

  ***

  In the saguaro patch behind Wendell's barn was a black SUV. It was tucked out of sight among the cacti and unkempt scrub. Behind the wheel, Agent Dean Castle held his breath. His fingers rested on the key in the ignition, ready to crank the engine. The Black Goats were close. The roar of their bikes wasn't subtle. At the gunshot, he'd nearly started the suburban and blasted out of the desert. But he doubted he'd even make it to the highway. The window was cracked just enough for him to listen. He didn't hear much, just the occasional chuckle. They had only peeked behind the barn earlier and he was amazed they hadn’t spotted him. The tracks were obvious and the towering, knotted saguaro cacti did little to hide the jet black of his dusty SUV.

  So he waited, fully expecting them to come charging through the brush. But then the engines started again and they moved on down the road. He didn't flinch, didn't breathe, until the sound of the pack faded. It was a tiny bit of luck in this raging clusterfuck of an assignment. He looked back into the storage bed of his suburban. The long, wooden crate sat askew. There had been no time to secure it, but the chains that wrapped around it were still tight and in place. He hoped they stayed that way.

  CHAPTER THREE

  11:06 AM

  Whitey awoke in a fog of dull pain. He was still in his recliner. His joints ached from sitting in that position all night. He hadn't slept, not really. He'd drunk just enough whiskey to drift off, only to have the dark shapes in the night flash into his liminal mind. He would wake, just for a few seconds, and start the process over again. From the periphery of awareness came music, loud and overwrought. The DVD menu of Ghost of Frankenstein, playing in a loop. It had been like that since he drifted off, but now relentlessly reminded him that the movie was over. The same few bars blared, paused, and blared again. He struggled to his feet and was greeted by his knees and spine popping like a volley of gunshots. He jabbed the OFF button on the DVD player with a chubby finger. Thank the good Lord he didn't have to work today.

  He stretched, knocking over an empty bottle of Jack Daniels, and realized he still had his boots on. His shotgun, reloaded now, leaned against the end table. He turned the tv off and peeked through his curtains, out into the scrubland. The bright morning reflected off the desert sands and stabbed at his eyes. Buzzards already circled overhead, waiting for the coyote carcass to get ripe. Whitey sighed and trudged out the door, shotgun in hand.

  It didn't take long to get out there. What seemed like a mile last night was really less than fift
y yards. Now wretchedly sober, he followed his own tracks in the dirt. They swayed left, then shuffled and stuttered to the right, a roadmap of drunkenness. He shuddered. Every few steps listed dangerously close to one of the traps in the scrub. He’d narrowly missed at least five of them. If he got snapped by one of those nasty sonsabitches, he'd likely die out here. Slowly. Maybe it was time to cut back. Just leave out a few. He'd only caught two coyotes in the last couple of months anyway. Maybe they'd learned their lesson. Still, after last night -

  The buzzards scattered to the blue sky as he approached. They didn’t waste any - Whitey stopped. What he saw in front of him couldn't be right. Maybe he'd bought some bad weed or maybe the buzzards had already mixed up the guts enough to where it didn't look like a coyote. He stepped forward, trying to get a better look, but not wanting to get too close, not wanting to believe it. Bits of bone scattered in the dirt. Chunks of brain. Instead of fur, it was naked and tan, caked in filth and blood. Where was the tail? Where were the teeth? The limbs were twisted around and didn’t have paws. There were fingers at the end. The back of its head was missing, blown away by Whitey's shotgun. Caught in the trap was a man.

  "OhJesusshitmotherfucker."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Highway 50

  11:40 AM

  Agent Castle felt the wheel vibrate in his grip. His hands ached, but he wouldn’t let up, wouldn’t relax. His jaw throbbed from gritting his teeth. His eyes stung from not wanting to blink as he looked back and forth between the straight highway in front of him and the empty highway behind. He couldn't see them in his rearview, but he knew they were coming. The engine whined. The needle was buried in the red, edging towards 130 miles per hour. They could still catch him. One nail in the road is all it would take and the assignment was over. Hell, the entire operation was a long shot anyway. Still, he held the wheel, white-knuckled and clammy with sweat. His cargo was still secure in the back. He couldn't help but check it every few minutes. The thing he feared most was what he carried with him, so he watched it, waiting for something to happen but unsure of what.