400 Horsepower of the Apocalypse

by Erica Lindquist

  We selected the second one and followed another road down to a small, single-story motel. Leo was panting hard when he finally kicked out the stand on the Packmaster and left it in an empty parking spot. I swear the damned bike hissed at Leo as he walked away.

  We stopped in the lobby and just savored it. Not because the sight was pretty – unless fake-ass mass-produced country tacky is your thing – but because… well, air conditioning. We stood there under the ceiling vent until an old man in a cowboy hat asked us if we wanted a room.

  “Oh, right,” I said. “Um, yes. Please.”

  The motel clerk set down his novel and glanced over a pair of reading glasses.

  “Looks like you two are ready to cool off for a bit. Single or double beds?” he asked.

  “Single,” Leo answered. “I’m not sleeping tonight.”

  “Oh? Maybe you’re looking to heat up, then,” the clerk said, then winked at me and tittered.

  That’s a naughty giggle, right? Yeah, the guy tittered.

  He asked us how long we needed to stay and seemed a little disappointed when I said that it was just overnight. But he took Leo’s money without any weird looks and handed us a key with a miniature brass horseshoe dangling from it. We headed for the door again and he told us to have a good time.

  I wish, mister.

  We dragged ourselves into a room that matched Leo’s receipt and I flopped down onto the bed. Most of it was done up in that chintzy faux-country stuff, but there was a real quilt on the bed and the air conditioning was going full blast. It was heaven.

  “You can shower first,” I told Leo. “You pushed that cranky demon-bike the whole way.”

  Leo nodded limply and then shambled into the washroom. I heard the water start and then the heavy thud of boots hitting the floor, but was too tired to even indulge in a few fantasies. I buried my face in the quilt and closed my eyes.

  Wake me up if anyone tries to kill me, I told Uriel.

  I will.

  I fell asleep for a little while, half out of heat exhaustion and half out of the regular kind. I didn’t have much choice but to trust that Uriel would give me a prod if something happened… Or that they wouldn’t try to possess me like Death had Leo. Or that the biker wouldn’t lose the battle for control of his body and burst through the washroom door with murder in his eyes and no pants on.

  The possibilities were endless, shitty, and I was far too tired to sort them all out, so I just napped until something touched my knee gently. I jerked upright on the bed with a shriek as Leo jumped back, hands raised. He was wearing a fresh shirt and some new jeans, but his hair was damp.

  I knew for a fact that Leo hadn’t taken any clothes with him into the bathroom. So he had dressed afterward, probably out here in the main room.

  You couldn’t have woken me up while Leo was changing? I asked Uriel.

  It did not seem dangerous. Is it?

  I sighed and left Uriel to rummage through my brain if they wanted an answer for that. Groaning, I stood up. My legs were sore and my feet hurt from the walk into Jasper.

  “Sorry,” I told Leo. “I guess I’m getting a little paranoid.”

  “Can’t blame you,” he said. “Your turn in the shower.”

  I stretched and looked Leo up and down. He hadn’t dried off very well and his shirt clung tightly to his skin, showing off the muscles beneath. Leo’s eyes were still pretty bloodshot, though, and he headed for the sideboard to make some coffee. While the water started heating, Leo grabbed a pop can from the mini­fridge.

  My nap couldn’t have been very long, but watching Leo flop wearily down into the desk chair, it seemed positively luxurious. I stopped stretching and walked stiffly into the washroom. There was still plenty of hot water and I stood under the shower spray, rinsing off the dust and sweat. The heat felt good on my tensed muscles, too, though it didn’t entirely do the job of unknotting them.

  My life had gotten too damned dangerous and too damned weird for one shower to soothe away.

  I lingered until the water cooled off, then stepped out and wrapped myself in a towel. I couldn’t bring myself to get dressed in my sweaty, grimy clothes again. And I just had them washed… I sighed.

  As long as we were stopped over in Jasper, I was determined to buy something new to wear. Clean jeans and a few shirts that were actually my size. Not that I particularly minded Leo’s big t-shirts, but they had a tendency to whip and snap in the wind when I rode behind him.

  I made sure the towel was secure and then carried my dirty clothes out of the washroom, dropping them next to the bed. Leo looked up from the television remote, eyes widening as he took in how little I was wearing.

  My heart sped and I burned with heat that had nothing to do with the Arizona summer. What would happen if I kissed Leo? What would Death do? Leo stood, looming over me.

  “What now, Jaz?” he asked.

  The answer that I really wanted to give heavily involved the motel bed and probably some broken mattress springs, but we had far bigger concerns than how long it had been since I last got laid. I tore my gaze away from Leo to glance at the window, where his motorcycle was parked outside.

  “We have to get that Packmaster up and running again,” I said. “I don’t suppose Death can do anything about it?”

  Leo closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. He seemed to be thinking, or maybe trying to speak to the demonic entity living inside him.

  “Death could heal… fix… the bike,” Leo said after a moment. “But it won’t. As far as I can tell, Death is angry because I refuse to give it control. It’s like a toddler throwing a tantrum. But in­stead of demanding a sippy cup, Death won’t go anywhere until I murder you.”

  “Charming,” I said.

  “Well, it actually wants me to kill Uriel. It doesn’t give a shit about you.”

  “Is it telling you all that?” I asked.

  Leo shook his head. “Death still isn’t talking, exactly. I just… feel it.”

  I covered up a wince by searching around the motel room until I found the slender yellow volume of a local phone book crammed into a drawer, next to a battered bible. I spread it open on the desk and paged through, then brought my finger down on one of the entries.

  “Chain Gang,” I said.

  Leo crossed the room to look over my shoulder, standing so close that I could feel the heat of him. I forced myself to breathe evenly.

  “It’s a garage here in Jasper,” I told Leo. “And it looks like they specialize in dirt bikes. I guess people drive them around the desert out here. They should have all the tools I’ll need to fix your clutch.”

  “The Packmaster isn’t a dirt bike,” Leo said stiffly.

  I smirked. “Easy, big bad biker boy. Functionally, there isn’t much difference between the biggest Harley and a dirt bike.”

  “I can’t let them touch my motorcycle,” Leo said.

  “What? Why not?”

  “My bike… bit you, Jaz,” Leo answered. “It doesn’t like being fucked with and I don’t want it slicing up some poor bastard just trying to finish his shift.”

  I nodded in agreement. “And I don’t think we can let anyone else see what’s going on with the Packmaster. That’s a good way to end up with tabloid headlines about hot bikers and demon motorcycles.”

  A slight flush crept up under the lines of ink tattooed along Leo’s neck. He cleared his throat and shook his head.

  “But you said you can do the work, right?” Leo asked.

  “Yeah, I can fix the clutch,” I said. “I just need to convince the mechanics at Chain Gang to let me borrow some of their tools. I… haven’t quite figured that part out yet. We could walk in and offer up a bunch of cash, but that’s going to be suspicious as hell.”

  “Or we go in tonight, after hours, and get what we need,” Leo suggested.

  “After hours?” I repeated with a frown.

  “Breaking and entering,” Leo elaborated.

  I crossed my arms. “What? No! We can’t
just steal their tools. Trust me, those things are really expensive. If I had sold mine, I could have left Crayhill a long time ago… But that would have been like selling my leg.”

  Leo glanced down past the hem of the towel I had wrapped around myself, at the smooth brown skin of my legs. His flush moved a little further up, darkening Leo’s cheeks.

  But he took a stack of hundred-dollar bills from the pocket of his leather jacket.

  “We’ll only borrow what you need, and we can pay for all of it,” Leo said. “We’re just not going to ask for permission.”

  “Leaving a big wad of cash on the counter is still going to be suspicious,” I pointed out.

  “Yeah,” Leo agreed. “But by the time they find it tomorrow, we’ll be long gone.”

  That’s how I found myself creeping along the main road of Jasper in the middle of the night with Leo, who pushed the busted Packmaster down the street. At least waiting until nightfall had given us the chance to find a laundromat and run a few loads while we ate dinner. I had bought some new clothes, too, including a couple of t-shirts silk-screened with the name of the town and pictures of the Petrified Forest. I looked just like all the other tourists now.

  The evening was cold and clear, but I was still sweating right through my nice clean clothes. Every time a car cruised past, I had to fight not to flee from the headlights. All this badass renegade stuff didn’t come very naturally to me, but Leo didn’t flinch. He just kept pushing his motorcycle down the road. Either he was that used to this kind of thing, or else he was too tired to give a shit. This was Leo’s second night without sleep and he had drunk an entire pot of coffee with dinner.

  We checked the address a few times, but Jasper wasn’t a large town and before long, we stopped in the Chain Gang parking lot. It was a plain cinder-block building that looked almost identical to the Golden Touch Auto in Crayhill, with a small lobby and a pair of roll-up aluminum doors that were shut and locked. We studied the garage from a distance first, but there was only a single light on in the lobby and no one moving around inside. I didn’t hear any tools or music going in the back, either. Every­one had gone home for the night.

  I had bought a baseball cap, too, and another one for Leo. We approached Chain Gang with our heads lowered, hopefully obscuring our faces from any watchful security cameras. But we didn’t see any and I felt a little silly.

  Closer now, Leo inspected the front door – a worn wooden frame inset with glass bearing the garage’s name and a picture of a dirt bike. A sign hanging in the window had been flipped over to CLOSED. I tried the doorknob, but it didn’t turn. Locked, of course.

  “Uh, do you know how to pick a lock?” I asked.

  Leo shrugged, glanced back at the road – which was dark and empty – then smashed a leather-clad elbow through the window next to the door. There was a loud crash and shattered glass rained in glittering shards all across the lobby floor. The CLOSED sign swung wildly for a moment, then fell off its hook and out of sight.

  I flinched again as a sedan drove by, but either the driver didn’t see us and the broken window, or else didn’t care. I turned back to Leo.

  “Aren’t you worried about alarms?” I asked.

  “Looks like the door has one, but not the window,” Leo said. “Give me a second.”

  He pulled on a pair of riding gloves – full ones this time that covered his hands in leather – and carefully brushed glass out of the frame until he could grip it, then vaulted over and into the darkness inside. I waited outside, nervously fidgeting, and then jumped when I heard a loud metallic scrape. A chain rattled and Leo heaved up one of the rolling doors.

  “Let’s get the bike in here fast,” he said.

  I hurried into the parking lot to the spot where Leo had left his motorcycle. I grabbed the handlebars and started pushing, but the brakes engaged and the handle on my side hit me in the stomach.

  “Ouch,” I said. “Leo, it’s not moving.”

  He swore and came jogging over to take the motorcycle from me. The brakes didn’t release, though, and the tires squealed as he yanked his bike across the asphalt.

  “Come on…” Leo grunted.

  He pushed, shoved and then finally heaved the Packmaster into the garage. I rolled the door shut as Leo collapsed against a cinder-block wall, breathing hard. He swiped sweat from his forehead.

  “That thing really doesn’t want to be fixed,” Leo panted. “So let’s do it.”

  You should not repair Death’s steed, Uriel told me.

  Give it a rest, would you? I asked. I need to focus.

  This is my purpose, Uriel said. And your purpose, too. You were chosen for this. You are unique, Jaz. Special.

  That’s flattering. Right now, though, I’m just especially annoyed.

  But I felt Uriel’s unhappiness inside me. The angel was truly uncomfortable with what we were doing here.

  Look, I thought, Leo’s bike… I mean, Death’s uh… steed… doesn’t want repairs. So by fixing it, I’m doing the opposite of what Death wants. Is that good enough for you?

  Uriel considered for a moment.

  Yes, the archangel answered.

  Leo and I made a quick search of the garage. But lucky for us, Chain Gang hadn’t spent very much money on their security system. There were no motion detectors or lasers to trip, and the building was just as empty as it had appeared from the outside, so we didn’t have to deal with an awkward hostage situation.

  At least something was going right.

  We turned on the lights in the garage and lit up the row of five lift tables – battered metal plates painted yellow and welded to hydraulics that would raise them so mechanics didn’t have to work hunched over.

  “Alright,” I told Leo. “Let’s get that monster of yours on a lift.”

  I pointed and Leo wrestled the resisting Packmaster onto the largest lift table. We strapped it into place and I raised the platform. I reached toward the engine, then hesitated.

  “Okay, don’t let it… bite me or anything,” I said.

  Leo grabbed the steel fork that held the bike’s front wheel and nodded. “I’ll try.”

  Uriel had healed the gash across my palm and my severely bruised trachea from the night before, but I wasn’t in a hurry to repeat any of those injuries. I selected a hex wrench off one of the workbenches and slowly approached the possessed bike. It creaked in the thick nylon straps and Leo tightened his grip.

  “Hold still, you cranky beast,” Leo growled.

  The big motorcycle yanked against the straps again and Leo’s muscles tensed to keep it in place as I got to work.

  Packmasters have a wet clutch, which means that the enclosure is filled with a lubricating fluid that I had to drain off before I could open it up and replace anything inside. I slid an empty plastic tray under Leo’s bike and opened the valve. Primary fluid gurgled and then began streaming into the tray.

  I hastily covered my mouth and nose when the smell hit me. There was a sharp burnt scent – which wasn’t surprising with a fried clutch – but it was worse than that. The smell was more like gunpowder and sulfur… Or brimstone, as the bible likes to call it.

  And blood.

  The primary fluid was thick and red, and it stank like something dead. I jumped back and almost needed a tray of my own as my stomach threatened to return dinner in a more liquid form.

  “Holy shit,” I gasped.

  Leo didn’t let go of the Packmaster, but he stared. He might not have been a mechanic, but he was a biker and clearly knew that was not what primary fluid should look or smell like. I in­haled the graveyard scent and gagged.

  “That… that just needs to drain,” I said. “Have you got things handled out here?”

  “I think so,” Leo answered.

  I left him to watch over his motorcycle and found my way to the stockroom. Not only to escape the stench – though that was certainly a benefit – but because I needed parts. If Chain Gang didn’t have a clutch kit that would fit the Packmaster, th
en we were back to hoping and praying that Leo could talk Death into healing the bike itself.

  The stockroom wasn’t large, but the sheetmetal shelves were stacked with boxes and bottles. Chain Gang was a sports shop and I found plenty of kits for Kawasakis and Hondas, but as I wound through the close-packed storage room, I began to de­spair of finding anything bigger. Just short of giving up, I finally spotted a dusty box crammed into the back of a shelf.

  I crossed my fingers and pushed a few import clutch kits out of the way, rescued the one behind them and blew off the dust. It wasn’t specifically for a Packmaster, but I opened the box and inspected the clutch plates inside. They looked the right size and should do the job in a pinch. Which was exactly what we were in.

  If Leo’s motorcycle complained, it had only itself to blame.

  I chose a bottle of non-blood primary fluid and carried it all back out into the garage. Leo’s tattooed skin shone with sweat under the lights as he held the Packmaster down. The motorcycle revved and ratcheted on top of the lift table.

  “Got what you need?” Leo grunted.

  “I really hope so,” I said.

  I grabbed another plastic tray, filled it with some of the new primary fluid and got the replacement plates soaking to prepare them for installation. The tray under Leo’s motorcycle was full of blood, so I removed it.

  Uh, now what? I wasn’t sure if the weird demonic blood was safe to wash down the sink. The last thing we needed was it getting into the water supply and mutating the wildlife. I didn’t want to run over some demon-armadillo down the road, so I found a funnel and poured the bike blood into an empty jug. It was one of those big containers for recycling oil and I left it on the workbench to deal with… well, probably never.

  With the blood sealed up inside thick plastic, the smell im­proved a little, but I wasn’t really excited about cracking open the clutch enclosure. I pulled down the wrenches I would need and pointed at the Packmaster.

  “If you give me any more crap with bolt sizes,” I warned the bike, “I’m going to tell on you to Leo.”