“We need unleaded or diesel.” John took his backpack off and grabbed three equal lengths of rubber tubing. To Russell, he said, “You know how to siphon gas?”
Russell nodded. “I was a teenager before I was a cop.”
John exhaled and said, “Okay. Let’s do this.”
They walked at a slow pace, each checking cars as they walked. Most cars that had been abandoned had nothing inside except for empty water bottles, wrappers, and trash. John took the shoulder, Russell walked down the middle of the freeway, and Morgan took the median.
Most of the cars on this side of the overpass were smaller and newer and not worth the hassle to siphon from. Yet, at least. Up ahead a few semi trucks were parked, some with trailers and some without. Morgan stopped by a Walmart truck without the trailer and went to work, while Russell started working on an older Ford F350.
As John started siphoning, he looked down the road and saw Morgan finishing up with his and walk toward Russell. Russell finished up too, and both men started walking toward John.
“What is taking you so long, Hetebro?”
John handed Morgan the other can. “Here, knock yourself out.”
Instead, Morgan just stood next to Russell, both man checking the freeway while John finished up. Then they all started walking back toward the ramp.
“So. You’re a cop?” John asked. He assumed that Sims was also a cop and the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.
When he had first seen Sims and Russell, they had that look about them. When a cop looks at you, they hold the stare just a bit longer than a normal person would, taking in everything they can with one glance, checking the eyes, hands, and waist. They also didn’t speak unless spoken to, absorbing as much information as possible. One thing John knew was that you couldn’t bullshit a cop, especially a seasoned one, and, considering that Sims and Russell both appeared to be in their forties, he was pretty sure they were seasoned cops. It was best to make nice and go with the flow.
Russell nodded. “Yep. Twenty-two years.”
“That’s cool. I’ll bet you have some interesting stories, huh?”
“Eh, it’s a job and every day is different. Dirt bags, whiners, know-it-alls…That’s all I deal with. And that’s just at my department.” Russell smiled at his bad joke.
Morgan, walking behind them, joined John in laughing, though Morgan’s laugh sounded forced.
Russell continued, “In all honesty, it’s more boring than you’d imagine. A lot of paperwork and bureaucracy and bullshit supervisors.” He looked back at John, then Morgan. “So, what did you guys do before all this?”
“Morgan and I own a small coffee shop in Capital Hill. Have for several years. Serving artisan coffee and all that shit. The clientele is good, consistent, and friendly. It’s a great job and Morgan is quite the savvy businessman.”
John glanced back at Morgan, who just nodded.
“So, where are you a cop at?” John asked, but Russell had stopped walking and was staring to the west. He craned his neck and held his hand up in a stopping gesture.
“What is it?” John asked.
“You guys hear that? It’s like a low rumble,” Russell said.
John glanced west and didn’t see anything, but he did hear a very faint rumbling sound. This wasn’t zombies.
“Whatever it is, it’s on the freeway,” Morgan said, and walked more to the center. He stood behind the hood of a BMW but kept his gun hanging on the sling. Russell had moved past Morgan and took up a position behind a red car next to the BMW.
The ramp was about one hundred yards in front of them. The last time they were in this situation, a teenage girl had been killed.
Behind them, the other onramp was about five hundred yards away. John brought his gun up and stared through the scope, trying to see the source of the sound, that had become louder. The absence of moving cars had allowed the rumble to be the sole sound that occupied the freeway. It grew in intensity the longer they waited, its waves bouncing off the surrounding hillside.
“Plan?” Morgan asked
“Hold on, Morg. I want to know what we’re going to be dealing with.” John stared to the west through the scope. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw several objects going across the freeway and back, like a swarm of large bees. The sound kept getting louder, now echoing behind them and to the sides of the freeway.
Ten seconds had passed and both the sound and source became familiar to him. The sound was magnified as John counted ten of them making their way toward the three men, about two hundred yards away. He recognized most of them, but a few were either new or from other areas.
He focused on one face, a face that he would never forget. He hadn’t seen it, but he had always pictured the look of shock and anger that would have masked Rome’s face after he realized his plan hadn’t worked when he’d sent three members to hurt John. Instead of neutralizing John, the three men had come back, bloody, battered, and broken. Pissed off, Rome had put a $50,000 bounty on John’s head. John had quit The Crush MC – his choice – shortly after that, and he hadn’t looked back.
Well, now he was looking forward.
And The Crush MC was heading his way.
Chapter 29
Frankie had picked a spot well off the beaten path, yet still visible. His property extended from the road then south to the top of John’s property and was equal in width, totaling five acres of useable land, the majority of which was cleared for growing his vegetables and for his cattle to graze. On the northeast corner, a small clearing had been made for a project yet-to-be-determined. With the way things were going, he didn’t anticipate being able to build anything, nor did he have anything in mind.
Until now.
He hoped they wouldn’t need to repeat this process, but the spot was secluded and quiet enough to resemble a makeshift cemetery and would be Christina’s final stop, may she rest in peace.
“Just about done here, Frankie!” Sims yelled from the hole he had created.
“Sounds good. You good on water?” Frankie asked.
Sims reached down and held up a half-filled bottle of water and shook it at Frankie, telling him he was good. He put the bottle down, picked up the shovel and resumed digging.
Frankie had volunteered to dig the hole, but Sims had insisted that he do it alone. He didn’t say as much, but the intensity and quiet that Sims had shown while digging told Frankie that he took partial responsibility for her.
Frankie wasn’t sure, but he thought he might have seen a tear or two falling down Sims’ cheek. It could have been sweat, but Frankie doubted it. Sims seemed like a decent man and hard working.
“I’m going to light this joint. Unless you mind?”
Sims shook his head. “Fine by me. As a matter of fact, I might join ya. It’s been decades since I’ve done it.”
“Well, my friend, the crops have gotten much better. And stronger. You might want to take it easy.”
Sims threw the shovel on the lawn and climbed out, grunting as he did.
“You okay?” Frankie asked.
Sims brushed himself off and took a few deep breaths. “I’m fine. Just an old knee injury.”
“What happened?” Frankie said, as he exhaled smoke.
“Well…” Sims sat down on a log, then continued, “…it’s an old college football injury. Got it my senior year. Tore it through and through. MCL and ACL.” He shook his head. “It was the last quarter of my last game of my last year.”
“God damn. The big guy upstairs didn’t want you to play anymore or something, huh?”
“Yep. Ruined my NFL potential, too.”
“No shit? Where’d you play?”
“Wazzu. Offensive tackle.”
Frankie nodded his head. “Washington State, huh? I figured you would have been on the line or something. You’re a bit too big for a punter. Just don’t tell my wife. She’s a Huskie.”
Sims laughed. “Nobody is perfect.”
“Don’t tel
l her that either.” Frankie took another hit and noticed Sims staring at him. He held the joint out to Sims, who just stared at it. “Go ahead. It isn’t going to kill you.”
Sims looked from the joint to Frankie, then took it and held it in his hands, admiring the smoke coming from the tip. He put it to his nose but not his lips. He just smelled the smoke. Finally, he put it in his mouth and inhaled, the red ember getting bright as he sucked it in. He took the joint away and stared at it like it had just bitten him. His eyes became big and his cheeks puffed out until he couldn’t hold it in anymore. He coughed, and a large billow of smoke poured out of both his mouth and nose and he bent over, coughing.
Frankie took a seat next to Sims. “So, what do you do now? You know, for a living.”
“Me? I’m a detective for the Bellevue Police Department. Both me and Russell. Been doing it for…oh…I don’t know…eight years? Well…eight years as a detective, but I’ve been with the department about twenty years. Russell is my partner. And boss, I guess. He’s a step higher than me, though he’s been doing it for about twenty-two years or so.”
“Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten high with a cop before. I mean, well…not true…there was this one time, but he wasn’t a cop. Well, I mean…he was undercover, but he didn’t smoke. I don’t think? Christ, I don’t remember. Anyways, not important now. Well, I won’t hold it against you.”
Sims looked at Frankie. “Gee, thanks.”
Frankie laughed, then said, “Man, I’ll bet you have some stories.” He nodded to the joint. “I doubt that matters much now, considering the whole situation.”
Sims nodded. “That’s what I figure. Don’t have jobs to go back to.” He got up and stretched his hands up, started to stumble, then regained his footing. “We were working this one case, right before the shit hit the fan. A murder at Bellevue Mall. Very professional like. First one of its kind in Bellevue. And to be honest, I didn’t see much hope in solving it, nor did I have much sympathy for the victim. Dude was a dirt bag through and through. Whoever did it was very good. Really didn’t want the unsolved on my record, you know? So, what’s your story?”
“Me? Retired. Medical. Started growing marijuana after I got out of the army. Did two tours in ‘Nam. Got a silver and two purples, nerve damage, PTSD, Agent Orange, the works.”
Sims nodded. “My daddy fought in that war. Two tours. Did his first, came back, signed up for another. I was conceived by my mother, he went back to war, never came home. Never knew him.”
Frankie stared off into the trees. “A lot of them didn’t come back.”
Both men stayed silent. Then Sims picked up on Frankie going down nightmare lane, so he said, “Well, Frankie. Let’s say we get this poor girl wrapped up and buried. We’ll do the service later.”
“Yeah,” Frankie said, but he didn’t move. “You think John and them are okay?”
Sims stopped and looked down at Christina, who was wrapped in two white sheets, and turned back to Frankie. “Them? Yeah, Frankie. I’m sure they’re fine. Russell can handle himself and I know John and Morgan can. Saw it firsthand.”
Frankie nodded, then stood up. “Yeah, I hear ya. Okay, let’s get this poor girl in the ground.”
* * *
John crouched down and turned to Russell and Morgan. He pushed his hand down, signaling them to crouch behind cars, which they did. Morgan duck-walked to Russell’s position in the middle of the westbound side so he could get closer to John.
“We ready for this?” Morgan smiled that Cheshire grin, exposing his teeth. He was excited for a fight.
Russell nodded his head in the direction of The Crush. “Who are they?”
John didn’t want to tell Russell about his past with The Crush, especially with Russell being a cop. The shit that was going on, notwithstanding, a cop was still a cop, and internal drama was the last thing John and everyone needed. “That’s The Crush MC. A bunch of one-percenters. They don’t like me very much.”
Russell shrugged. “Okay, that’s fine. I’ve heard of them, but what level of don’t like are we talking here? Did you look at one of them wrong? Bump into one at a bar? Or are we talking like they want to kill you?”
“All of the above. Expect a fight if we’re seen.”
“Ah, perfect.” Russell sighed, then racked his AR-15 and flipped the safety off.
John looked up and through the windows of the car he was kneeling behind. The Crush were about two hundred yards away and the onramp was halfway between them. “They’re about two hundred yards out, give or take. Let’s start working our way back, slow like. I’m hoping they take the exit and head into town.”
“Our only option to go is backward. Unless we jump thirty feet or so down onto the underpass,” Morgan replied. He turned to face John. “And how about we avoid the freeways from now on, huh? Nothing good happens up here.”
John shook his head. “That’s a last resort. You two start working your way back. Separate a bit. We don’t want to be bunched up, but make sure we’re in a position where we won’t have to worry about crossfire. Morgan, head towards the median. Russell, you move straight, and I’ll take the shoulder side. Make sure you move quick and quiet and don’t get seen.”
Both men nodded. They had started to move back when Morgan said, “I have an idea.”
Before John could ask, Morgan took off in a crouch toward The Crush MC, weaving in between cars. “Morgan! What are you doing?”
Morgan didn’t respond. John started to go after him but Russell pulled him back. “Hold up. I know what he’s doing.”
“Well, you want to clue me in?” John watched as Morgan moved, paused, then moved again, careful to not let The Crush see him.
“The gas can.” Russell pointed.
Morgan was moving and pausing as he pushed one of the gas cans forward to carefully place it on their side of a dark Chevy Suburban by the front wheel. It was out of view from the eastbound side. John looked at the gas can and saw there were fifty yards of clearance to the shoulder of the freeway and seventy yards between them and the gas can. If needed, they’d be able to shoot the can and create a large fireball.
He watched as Morgan worked his way back. Being smaller in stature, he was able to move quickly, and within ten seconds, was back by John.
The bikers rode on toward the ramp, weaving in between cars.
“Maybe they’re leaving?” Russell suggested.
Rome was in front and rode toward the onramp, the other nine riding in pairs, with a solo behind them. The bikes then moved down the onramp and out of sight. Morgan and Russell moved back towards John and were about to stand up when John grabbed them both and pulled them down.
The last rider came to a screeching halt. He bent down and grabbed a piece of black cloth and held it up. The man whistled and the sound of multiple bikes slowing down echoed up the freeway.
“Ah, shit,” Morgan said.
John saw it too.
“What? What happened?” Russell asked.
The last rider held John’s old jacket up for all to see, the back of it facing The Crush. John closed his eyes and pictured what they were seeing: the worn black leather coupled with the darker black on the back from where his rockers used to be, the upper patch with “The Crush MC,” the middle rocker of two Thor’s hammers crossed in an X pattern with blood dripping off the heads, and the bottom rocker of “Washington” down below, a warning to all about the territory they controlled.
The outline and shape of the rockers were unmistakable.
John couldn’t see what they were saying, but they moved around animatedly and threw their arms up wildly, their faces taking on scowls. Each rider produced a handgun and they all scanned the area, as if John was somehow on the freeway, which he was, but they didn’t know that.
John heard Morgan racking the slide, chambering a round, and the familiar clicking of the safety being turned off.
John did the same.
Russell stood up quickly, looked to the east, the
n sat back down. “Not to be the bearer of bad news, but we’ve got another problem.”
John looked at Russell. “What?” Russell pointed with his thumb behind him.
John took a quick peek east. “Ah, man.”
A large group of the infected were heading westbound toward them, some running, but most doing that tired walk, toward the resonance of the idling motorcycles.
He switched views from the infected to The Crush. If they ran back, they’d run into who knew how many zombies. If they went west, they would run right into The Crush, who outnumbered them more than three to one. If they decided to run off the freeway, they would take their chances with gravity and the pavement.
None were good options.
John told Morgan and Russell what needed to be done and they both nodded in agreement.
The metallic revving of ten bikes was heard, followed by the screams of the infected. The bikes started making their way east, not seeing the zombies, who were about two hundred yards behind the three men. They were being sandwiched in.
It was now or never.
John, Morgan and Russell stood up.
They took aim…
…and started firing.
Chapter 30
John focused on the riders more toward the shoulder, while Russell concentrated his fire more toward the center. Morgan ran to the median and jumped up into the bed of a red Ford F150, firing while he did so.
“Cover fire!” Morgan yelled.
John and Russell continued firing off single shot rounds, doing their best to place well-aimed shots. Three of the riders fell off their bikes, and, out of the corner of his eye, John saw Morgan aiming and trying to time his shots as best he could.
The Crush, not realizing what was happening until it was too late, tried to fire back with their handguns, but riding and shooting was a sure recipe for failure. Several rounds pierced the air as they flew over John’s head. He crouched to conceal himself behind the wheel well of the vehicle.
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