The Brotherhood of the Wheel

by R. S. Belcher

  “Figures,” the redhead said to Jimmie, watching the car’s lights vanish over the horizon. “Maybe we should stop trying to fuck each other up and go get his poser ass?”

  “His lodge has been destroyed,” Jimmie said. “He messed up. His fellow Lodge Masters will do worse to him than we ever could.” He lowered the shotgun. “We need to get out of here, too.”

  The rider lowered his gun.

  “Sorry, man. I understand you wanting to keep Layla and the kids safe. My bad. You know it was a hell of a lot more fun wrestling with you when I was a kid.”

  Jimmie stopped mid-walk to the rig. He turned around, the lights coming on behind his eyes.

  “Hector?” Jimmie asked. “Hector Sinclair?”

  Heck laughed and nodded.

  “Yeah. Hi, Jimmie. You didn’t recognize me, didya? No wonder.”

  “I thought you were still in Afghanistan?” Jimmie said, walking toward Heck.

  “Haven’t been home long,” Heck said. Jimmie offered his hand, and Heck shook it. “Look, you’re right. We have got to go. I need to talk to you. Want to catch up down the road? I’ll follow you.”

  “Hell, yeah,” Jimmie said. “Let’s hit it.”

  Jimmie’s rig rolled out of the gravel lot of the Compass Point, Heck’s T5 trailing it down U.S. 150. In his newly repaired rearview mirror, Jimmie saw, far behind them, the swarm of red and blue emergency-vehicle lights converge on the inferno. The Compass Point’s road sign flickered for a moment and then went dark forever.

  * * *

  They pulled up at a truck stop near Bardstown at about one in the morning. The place was called the Rooster’s Run, and it had a restaurant connected to a convenience store. The Muzak speakers in the ceiling were playing Elvis and Conway Twitty songs quietly under the murmur of conversations. The noise was punctuated by the banter of weary travelers—civilians and truckers who had stopped for gas, Slim Jims, Slush Puppies, a burger, or to grab a hot shower or some shut-eye in the TRUCKER ONLY lounges upstairs. Others had stopped just to stretch their legs a bit, shake off the hypnosis of the highway, or to experience some kind of real human interaction, even as mundane as talking to the clerk behind the counter for a spell, before returning to the road.

  Jimmie ordered coffee, black, and Heck ordered a plate of pancakes, two servings of bacon, and a carafe of orange juice to go with his large milk and his glass of Mountain Dew. Jimmie watched Heck wolf down his food. His hands no longer shook as he held his coffee mug. Heck seemed to have no lasting effects of the firefight at the Compass Point, other than the munchies. Jimmie recalled Ale and himself being that way once. Though this boy wasn’t Ale’s biological son, he sure acted a lot like him at that age. Had they really ever been that young? Now Ale was gone, the latest in an ever-expanding roll of good friends, brothers, who had lived and laughed, and raised hell in his green days, and had now passed on into the hall of memory. Jimmie felt the years creep into his bones and his muscles more and more every year—a war of attrition.

  “Sorry about the misunderstanding back there,” Heck said, between shoveling food into his mouth. “I thought you knew who I was. You throw a mean hook for a seasoned citizen.”

  “I’ve been throwing it since before you were born,” Jimmie said. “I was still picturing you from that photo your mom shared on Facebook a few years back—all clean cut from basic. I don’t think I’ve seen you in person since you were … nine?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t make Ale’s send-off,” Jimmie said, sipping his coffee. “I was on the road, on a job.”

  Heck nodded, his cheek wadded full of food. He swallowed and then chased the food with a swig of his milk. “Mom understood,” he said, reaching for the dwindling pile of bacon. “I think her and Layla talked on the phone. Hell, man, I almost missed it myself. It’s okay. I’m pretty sure Ale would have called bullshit on the whole thing, anyway.”

  They both laughed. The waitress drifted by and poured more coffee for Jimmie.

  Heck ordered a half-dozen scrambled eggs with hot sauce and toast. “’Sides,” he said. “From what everyone told me, you did a real good job at the funeral, Jimmie. My mom appreciated that a lot. Thanks.”

  “Ale was a hell of a guy,” Jimmie said. “Good man, good friend. Saved my ass more times than I recall in the Gulf and again when we got back home and I rode with the Jocks.”

  “You were a Blue Jock?” Heck said. “No shit?”

  “Not exactly. They offered to patch me in, but I had a few other things going on. I rode with them on a few of the early hunts—the bail-jumping stuff and the other hunts, you know … and another thing that was … well, it was a long time ago. You were still shitting in your diapers at the time, as I recall. I changed a few of them. You’re welcome, by the way.”

  Heck chuckled and nodded as he scooped up another bite. “I’m sure I can repay the favor in a few years,” he said. He kept looking at his plate of food as he asked the next question. “So, that far back, you must have known my old man, yeah? My real dad?”

  Jimmie stiffened, paused before he took a sip of coffee to give him a second to think. “Yeah, I guess I did,” he said over the rim of the mug. “What did Elizabeth and Ale tell you about him?”

  “Not a lot. They froze up, like you just did, every time I’d ask. I know Mom met him when she was pretty young,” Heck said. “He had the baddest-ass bike she had ever seen. I know he was a serious dick—abusive, cruel to her, and possessive. I’m pretty sure he did some real bad shit to her and dragged her into worse. He split before Mom knew she was pregnant. Ale came along and picked up all the pieces and raised me like I was his.” Heck looked up from this food. He leaned back in the booth and stretched. He yawned a little. “Just wondered if you could fill in a few of the details. I figured if he rode back then, and you did, too, you must know—”

  “Look, Heck,” Jimmie said, “that was a long time ago, and, like I said, nobody knew your father very well, except by … reputation. He was bad news—the worst, actually. And I understand you wanting to know. I know it must eat you up to only have these vague scraps of him, but trust me, you’re better off not knowing. Much, much better off, son.”

  “I’m not your fucking son, mate,” Heck said, his voice raised and his eyes bright with sudden anger. “And you have no clue what’s best for me.” He slipped a silver flask out of his leather jacket and unscrewed it.

  “You ain’t going to start drinking and then ride that bike, now, are you?” Jimmie said, setting down his mug.

  “Nah,” Heck said. “I’m not starting. Been at it for a spell. You don’t think I drove into that greasy spoon to save your ass without a little tip first, do you?” He raised the flask and took a long draw on it. Jimmie reached across the table and pulled it away from him. “What the hell, man?” Heck shouted.

  Jimmie screwed the cap back on the flask and handed it back to him. “Put that shit away,” he said. “You’re going to get yourself or someone else killed doing that. You know that! Ale would’ve—”

  “Yeah, yeah, fucking, yeah!” Heck said, standing. He slid the plates and the glasses off the table and they shattered on the floor. The restaurant was silent. “Ale would’ve been pissed as hell that his fucking son wasn’t a goddamned knight of the fucking round table! Well, fuck your precious Saint Ale. He’s fucking dead, man—died a dried-up old man in a hospital bed! He got fed from a bag, and shit and pissed into a bag, too. I saved your fucking ass back there, and I don’t need to explain myself to you, to fucking dead Ale, or any-goddamned-one else!”

  Heck peeled a couple of hundreds off from a wad of bills in his pocket and dropped them on the table before he strode out.

  Jimmie looked at the money, looked at the mess, and took another drink of his coffee. “Ale would have done something exactly like that a long time ago,” he said to no one in particular. He found Heck outside smoking a cigarette, leaning against the wall of the convenience store. Jimmie stuffed his hands int
o his jacket pockets and leaned back next to him. The headlights of departing semitrucks washed over them. The lot smelled of diesel and greasy fast food.

  “How long you been back in the world?” Jimmie asked.

  “Long enough to fucking know better,” Heck said, blowing the smoke out his nostrils.

  “Don’t always work like that,” Jimmie said.

  “Don’t give me any of that PTSD, VA Hospital bullshit,” Heck said. “I’m just a fuck-up with a very bad temper. Adds to my charm.” He offered Jimmie a Lucky Strike.

  “No thanks,” Jimmie said. “More of a cigar man these days. You sound like you’ve been down this road before. The VA tell you it was PTSD?”

  “Something like that,” Heck said. “It was a tidy label to hang my substance abuse, alcoholism, and violence issues off, don’t you think? I didn’t stick around to tell them I disagreed with the diagnosis. Look, I’m okay. I’ve always been this way. Over there just … framed it for me … explained it in simple terms. It … showed me.”

  They were silent for a moment. Heck dropped his cigarette and crushed it out with his boot. He reached into his jacket. “And that,” Heck said, “makes as perfect a segue as I can imagine for this.” He handed Jimmie a sealed envelope, slightly crushed and folded. “For you. Enjoy.”

  “What’s this?” Jimmie said, smoothing out the envelope and tearing it open. He pulled the single sheet of paper out of it and began to read it in the glow of a neon sign advertising Coors beer.

  “Oh, yeah,” Heck said, snapping his fingers. “I’m supposed to present myself to you as your squire, or some shit, of the Brethren—whatever that is. What is that, exactly?”

  Jimmie’s frown slid lower and lower as he read. Oh, Elizabeth, no! He lowered the paper and looked at Heck.

  “I’m not going to get down on my knee or nothing,” Heck said.

  “Thanks for that,” Jimmie said. He looked at the young biker, who raised and lowered his eyebrows like Groucho Marx and grinned. Jimmie sighed, spit some tobacco juice on the greasy pavement, and then said, “I accept you as my squire.” He sounded as if he was repeating a prepared response—a traditional reply. “I’ll do my best to teach you the ways of the Brethren, to put your feet upon the Road and stand with you against all enemies, and to prepare you to stand alone when my time is at an end. I will armor you with honor and arm you with truth. I will teach you until my dying breath. This I swear.”

  There was an awkward silence for a moment as Jimmie slipped the letter into his pocket. Another semi, a tanker truck, hissed and rumbled as it pulled out of the lot and headed back onto the road.

  “So what is it?” Heck asked. “This Brethren … thing?”

  “That,” Jimmie said with a sigh, “is a long story.”

  EIGHT

  “10-93”

  The first thing that registered in her slowly awakening mind was the sensation of crisp, clean sheets and the smell of baby powder. Ava opened her eyes slowly, blinking at the bright sunlight spilling into the bedroom she was in. She was alive. It took a moment to process what had come before blissful oblivion—the shadow people, the screams of her friends, running in the dizzying dark—it had all been real. Her whole body ached as she sat up in the bed. It was an antique four-poster made of dark cherry. Next to the bed was a night table with a glass of water, a King James Bible, and Ava’s wallet, phone, and keys. Across the room, draped over a rocking chair, were her clothes and the bloody tote bag she had taken from Alana. Seeing the blood brought the memory of her best friend being torn apart to the front of her mind, eclipsing her thoughts. It made her wince, made her brain and stomach clench.

  The bedroom door opened, and the old British woman who had saved her last night entered the room. “Good, we’re up,” the lady said. “How are you feeling, dear?”

  “Okay,” Ava said. “What time is it? How long was I asleep?”

  “About two days,” the old woman said. “I’m sure you’re famished. Would you like me to prepare you some food?”

  “Two days?” Ava asked. “Have the police been out? Have any of my friends shown up?”

  The old woman pulled a chair next to the bed. She patted Ava’s hand. “No,” she said. “No police, and, I am sorry to tell you, no friends have come to my door. I am sorry, dear.”

  Ava felt the panic swell in her chest, clench her throat. “How can … how can people get murdered and the police don’t even … What were those things, those shadow things?”

  The old woman nodded. “I know, dear. Very little in this place makes much sense at first. I will try to help you as best I can. First, I’d caution you against trying to take too much in too quickly. You’ve already had so many terrible shocks for a person your age. To answer your question, there are no police here in town. We try to handle any such problems that pop up ourselves.”

  “‘We,’” Ava said. “Who is ‘we,’ and who are you?”

  “It was a bit too busy the other night for formal introductions,” the old lady said. She offered her hand to Ava. “My name is Agnes, Agnes Dee Cottington, formerly of London and now a resident of Four Houses. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “I’m Ava James. Thank you again for saving me last night,” Ava said, shaking Agnes’s hand. Nice to meet you.”

  Agnes handed Ava the glass of water and leaned back in her chair. “The ‘we’ I was referring to are the other citizens of Four Houses. We tend to look out for one another and deal with our problems together.”

  “But those things wandering around your town—the police or the state troopers have to do something about that! My friends and I are going to be noticed missing in a few days, at the latest.”

  “Yes,” Agnes said, an odd sadness in her voice. “You will, assuredly.”

  Ava groaned and pulled herself up out of the bed. She was wearing a very old-lady-looking nightgown. She felt as if she had strained or pulled a few muscles in the frantic running a few nights ago. “If it’s been two days, I’m sure they’re looking for us by now. May I please use your phone? My cell doesn’t get reception out here. My folks must be out of their minds.”

  “I know, dear,” Agnes said. Again the sadness, almost regret, like discussing a recently deceased loved one. Weird. Then again, older folks tended to dwell on the morbid, in Ava’s experience.

  “May I use your phone, to call them, call the police?” Ava asked again as she examined her clothes—grass and oil stains and the stale odor of fear sweat mingled with a whisper of her body spray. Gross.

  “I would be happy to allow you to,” Agnes said, “if we had one. I’m afraid there is no phone service here in town. I truly wish there were, dear.”

  “No cops, no phone?” Ava said, sniffing her T-shirt. She wrinkled her nose and tossed it back in the chair. I don’t suppose you have any clothes I might be able to wear? Mine are kind of ick.”

  Agnes smiled. “Of course, dear. I think some of Julia’s clothes will fit you. You look about the same size. I’ll see what I can find. We do have hot and cold running water and an indoor bathroom, if you were concerned about our lack of amenities. Please, freshen up, and I’ll find you some clothing.”

  The shower was heaven. The hot water eased some of her aches and dismissed others entirely. She washed her blond hair and brushed it out with a beautiful antique silver hairbrush that was on a table next to the basin sink. She wrapped a thick, clean towel about herself, wadded up her nasty underwear, and carried it in her hand as she padded back across the hall to the bedroom. Agnes was looking out one of the turret windows in the corner, the bright sunlight washing across her face. She seemed lost in thought. At the foot of the bed was an oak blanket chest, and on top of it was a cardboard box with the name Julia written on it in thick black marker. On top of the box were Ava’s nerd glasses.

  “You found them!” Ava said, picking up her glasses and putting them on. “Great! Thank you. Is everything okay, Agnes?”

  The old woman’s smile reappeared as she t
urned from the light.

  “Yes, dear. As well as it can be, given the circumstances. Your glasses were on the front porch. You must have lost them in the scuffle. Look through the box and see if you can find anything to wear.”

  Ava opened the box and retrieved a purple pair of high-top Converse athletic shoes. They looked about her size. “So, um, who’s Julia? Daughter, granddaughter?” Agnes sat on the edge of the bed, and Ava noticed that the bed had been made while she was in the shower.

  “Julia stayed with us for a time. I always thought of her as a daughter,” Agnes said.

  “‘Us’?” Ava asked as she lifted a thin white summer dress out of the box, clutching her towel to her with the other hand.

  “My husband, Dennis, and I,” Agnes said as she walked to the door. “Dennis is downstairs having tea. I’ll introduce you once we get you dressed, dear.”

  “Where is Julia now?” Ava asked.

  “She died, dear,” Agnes said, closing the door behind her.

  * * *

  Ava stepped out of the bedroom wearing the dress. She had found a large guy’s jean jacket to wear over it and she had put on the purple Chucks, since she had no idea what had happened to her flats. There had been a green army-style courier bag in the box that had a few tampons in the ubiquitous white plastic wrapper with trails of ghostly blue print on it, about eighty cents of loose change, a few wadded, mummified tissues, and a credit-card receipt dated 2001. She had transferred her own stuff and most of the contents of the bloody tote bag to the satchel and slung it over her shoulder. She descended the staircase to the first floor of the mansion and found Agnes sitting at a dining table beside an elderly man. She was preparing his tea. The man had a sunken face with kind brown eyes behind thick glasses, a mop of snow-white hair, and large ears. He wore a blue-and-green plaid shirt with a tan sweater vest over it. Ava noticed a cane leaning against his chair. As she entered, the old man attempted to rise, but he couldn’t.