It is not what they are about to do that is causing Lawless to pause. He has known this day was coming and prepared for the course they are about to take long ago. It is just another wound for his soul to heal and scar over. He has lost count of the number of scars he now wears for J.D. It’s the price for his friendship, his trust and his love. Every piper has his payment.
The mere thought of having to leave those Lawless cares for the most in the world behind unprotected is holding him hostage. Getting lost in a world of their female laughter and perfume gives him a reason to push harder each day for their smiles. Without them, his world would rip apart at the seams, leaving only the void he feels when he is truly alone. Only when he is lost in a world of their own making can he find peace with everything he has done to please the man they all depend on. Even with the warning he slipped to Rhett and Marxx about J.D.’s plan, there is so much that could still go wrong.
His mind is still racing through the possible reenactments of what may happen when they pull into the parking lot of the shop. The next chapter looms before him, unflinching and waiting. It is as judging as the steel blue eyes watching him. They are both waiting for his fall out.
“You know the plan?” J.D. asks, staring at the younger man. “Yeah,” Lawless says with his eyes safe behind the dark tint of his sunglasses.
“You know what happens if you fuck this up?” J.D. asks, looking around the car-cluttered parking lot.
“Yeah,” Lawless says, as he dismounts and adjusts his black leather gloves. He stares at his hands wondering whom they really belong to anymore.
Leaning in close to Lawless as J.D. passes him, he whisperingly hisses, “So, what aren’t you going to do?”
Lawless stays silent as the man passes him. J.D. is not really looking for an answer. He is just making the point stick that the damage this will cause with its ripple effect if not done just right. Lawless is already well aware of the damage they have already done just by leaving the bar. He just wonders if J.D. does.
The bell makes a sharp tinkling sound with their entrance into the shop. Lawless, never removing his deep tinted glasses, steps in front of the man he has trusted his care to for so many years now. He places one foot following the other as his mind falls blank knowing what he is about to do. The only thought process to him now is a silent prayer of forgiveness repeating itself.
“Man, we are closed. I know you think you need a gun, but there are not enough guns to help you handle your shit in here. Not many have the balls to shoot their own families and neighbors anyway. Try the church. That’s what we all need now to get us out of this,” calls out a man from inside the gun shop.
A lanky man wearing his normal flannel plaid shirt steps out from behind a stock room door. A moment passes before the man recognizes the men standing before him with their silent acknowledgment. A simple moment which costs him everything as two bright flashes spark before the pain tears through him, spraying the broken bones of his skull and thick matter of his brains against the wall behind him in a wash of red. Lawless stares at the drops as they become streaks as he prays his silent prayer of forgiveness.
They say the Devil laughs when he collects his debt. They speak of how he will tempt you and seduce you into taking the fall. They warn you that he will wait forever, watching and waiting for you. Laughter is now filling every inch of the store and it is the song that sings the shop owner’s farewell.
“Let’s clean this up,” J.D. says, as his laughter dies. “Can’t let the girls see this mess. Hells is jumpy enough as it is.”
Lawless nods as the body of the shop owner slides down the wall as he dies. The streaks of blood follow him down, outlining the body. To Lawless they seem to be asking, “See what you have done now?”
“Hey, pound puppy, get over here,” J.D. barks with the hesitation from Lawless. “I want to get this place locked down before anyone tries to sneak in here when we head back. These guns are going to be what keeps our asses safe in these coming days.”
With his tongue gliding along his teeth, Lawless swallows his guilt into a pit as both men start hiding their sins.
Chapter 13
The sounds of J.D.’s and Lawless’ motorcycles leaving the bar sent a wave of shocking disbelief through the room. The depleting sounds had most standing as if they could watch them leave through the thick walls. It sent some deeper into their ex- cited conversations. Most of all, it just sent them looking to us or Rhett and Marxx for answers.
With false determination to remove unseen spots, Aimes cleans the glass in her hand. “I hear Florida is nice this time of year,” she says, avoiding their gaze. I can hear the disappointment in her voice.
Her emotions open the door for others’ emotions, also. Emotions from those who have come here for help are now left stranded without answers. Their confusion pours out like a flood around us.
Some begin debating their next move, wondering if J.D. and Lawless are coming back or if they are taking the coward’s way out by leaving so many behind. Some begin to argue with such an insult presented, as anger is always an easier emotion for men to admit to than the fears they may be feeling. The women sitting around the area begin blending further in with the walls around them as voices rise and finally the tension breaks. It crashes over the crowd in angry words and threatening innuendo-filling sentences.
The results cause some to slink out with fears for their own safety while others just leave, soaking in self-absorbing worry about what is to become of them. Marxx and Rhett take up their normal mantel of enforcers, removing the most hate-filled patrons with glee. They strip the deserters of their vests in the process with just as much enjoyment. Daddy might not be home, but his rules are still violently felt. No loyalty. No vest. No protection.
When the waves finally calm, it is just a handful of us left amid the debris from the storm. Rhett, with his smiling enjoyment of the fight, stands guard over the back door with his lip bleeding from a lucky shot someone landed. Marxx stands with his silent glare at the front, daring any to attempt to come back a little worse for wear, but just as violent.
Chapel sits in a back booth where he has been watching the whole event while sipping on his frosted mug. He is never bothered by the drama or bothers to help stop it. He sat watching it all and now sits waiting for whatever is next with the same lack of interest.
Aimes and I stand behind the large oak bar playing rock, paper, and scissors to figure out who gets to clean up what, with our own lack of care. With what the day has already given us, what is a bar fight? Regardless of how each of us is feeling about what has just happened, we never would’ve wished upon them what is about to happen.
Bridget’s screaming brings us running to the large tinted windows as other feminine screams slowly join in her chorus. The monsters have found us, and they are surrounding the parking lot with shuffled steps and grunts of their vocal sounds. Glazed eyes begin picking their targets with eagerness, splitting groups into smaller numbers as they spread out towards their new victims.
The loud noises from the many roaring Harleys’ engines are acting like a dinner bell to their ears. Lines of shambling bodies form down the streets heading to the bar like a horrific Halloween parade. Long arms reach out, pulling people from their motorcycles, or the motorcycles down all together, as person-after-person falls to the walking nightmare versions of our town folk.
“What the hell are they?” Aimes whispers, staring out the tinted windows as they amass around the bar.
Chapel’s lifeless voice from behind us at his booth offers the first answer given to us all day. He says, “Their flesh will rot while they are still standing on their feet. Their eyes will rot in their sockets. Their tongues will rot in their mouths. On that day, they will be terrified, stricken by the Lord with great panic. Each man will seize the hand of another, and they will attack each other.”
“Did he just quote scripture?” Rhett’s forehead creases with his question. He shakes his head in amusement as his twiste
d sense of self continues watching the window. “Is that what you think Chap? Last time I checked, when God wants us gone, he just washes it clean. Kind of like a final judgment deal. Not a survival of the fittest.”
Aimes looks to me and says, “New twist to any kind of Hunger Games spin-off?”
My eyes slowly roll to her with blank shock from her words. “Really?” I ask.
“Too harsh?” she asks, shrugging as she stares back to the murders occurring in front of us.
All around us it is the same as it has been all morning. Never- ending terrors even the darkest of plots never would dare to imagine surrounding us, eating from our humanity to feed their survival. I am still not sure which is worse. Is it when the screaming starts or when it ends when our panic should start?
Both have their own signals for the events that are unfolding in crimson-soaked colors. Is it what they are that makes it so horrid?
Is it their style of attacks that make my blood run cold? Is it knowing what they do to those they attack that makes my heart quiver with fear? Perhaps it is the truth of it all combined into one horrific package wrapped with a bright, shiny, blood-dripping bow.
“They are the Risen,” says Chapel, drawing a long sip from his beer, “and it is what we will all become. One by one, until there is no one left but the Devil himself to walk this earth.”
No one has the voice to argue with him as we watch those who were sitting among us only moments ago being devoured. Aimes and I huddle together under the window, covering our ears from the remaining fading screams. Their screams will reach us no matter how deep of a sleep we shall ever again be blessed to reach.
“What the hell happened here?”
The deep voice startles everyone in the room. It causes Rhett and Marxx to reactively reach for their holsters as they spin to face the back of the room.
J.D. does his normal chuckle at their reaction as he makes his way to us over the broken tables and the remains of the many crushed glasses with Lawless following behind him. The two men who started all of this with such a simple act stand so calmly beside us at the window and we are at a loss for words.
J.D. does not seem surprised to see that we are all that is left of the once filled room. He is eyeing the destruction with the annoyance of missing a good show upon his face. I can feel Lawless’ guilt seeping from him like a wound as he is watching the all too real horror show framed by the window. Each fading scream becoming another notch of failure he will wear forever upon his soul.
“You left!” Aimes screams. “How could you do that? You left and they all freaked out. Went total white trash talk show at being left behind. The only thing missing was a “who’s your daddy” moment to complete it.”
Her screams cause the Risen to pause. Slow searching movements bring their focus to where we stand but the bar’s dark tinted glass used to keep prying eyes away protects us from discovery. Some stare transfixed, as if seeing their reflections for the first time. They stare confused at what is being shown back to them, cocking their heads left and right trying to figure out what it is they are seeing. Others return to their previous victims with disinterest at what they cannot chase.
“We had precautions in place for you and Snowy there,” J.D. says, answering her without removing his eyes from the carnage. “By the way, Blondie, who is your daddy?”
Marxx and Rhett shuffle some, trying to hide their amusement and stay out of focus from Aimes’ firing line.
Marxx glares down at us while talking to J.D. with his deep gravel-filled voice, warning Aimes to not push the topic anymore. We both cringe under the heat of it.
“When you two pulled out for your joy ride, not too many were happy to hear you go. On the way out they ran into what Chapel here calls the Risen,” Marxx says, as he looks toward the window “Risen, huh?” J.D. shrugs, staying silent for a moment as if weighing the word. “It works for me. Not as if those things out their care one way or another what we call them. Just as long as we feed them. How many did Chapel’s Risen get?”
“A good bit, but don’t worry. Chapel says we will see them again soon. It’s all very cheerful like,” Marxx says, leaving the window and its visions of death. He is the first to break the train wreck trance that is holding us captive.
“Yeah, like dripping snow cones or melting cotton candy on your tongue. You know, when it gets real stiff like right before going soft and flesh-like,” Rhett says, and Aimes and I both grimace with the comparisons.
“Anyone have a plan to get us out of here or do we all just sit till Chap’s reverse Rapture kills us all?” Marxx asks, ignoring the man. “Yeah, we got a plan,” J.D. says, still watching the feasting forms outside.
If he feels any remorse for those who have fallen, he will never admit it. Those of us left in the room read him in ways where vocabulary is not needed. We understand his mood swings.
Watching him softens some of the anger we are feeling about his departure.
“We had to,” J.D. almost whispers it as his cold, slate eyes roam the carnage before him. “We can’t make our way anywhere with so many of us. Look at those things. They are all over town. Walking. Stumbling. Watching. Hell, some are half missing pieces, but they keep coming. One after another, they just keep on coming.” He turns to stare at us saying, “We had to thin the herd. Take only what we can protect. Only those who can protect each other. I knew as soon as we left most of these cowards would file out like rats on a boat without us here to hand feed them. What if that would have happened when we are out there? When we are depending on them? We had to. The silent ones are just wolves in sheep’s clothing. They will kill you just as fast should the mindless herd suggest it. So just stop with the bullshit glares and get up,” he says to Aimes and I. “We ain’t sitting here all day to be food for Chap’s idea of a second coming.”
Aimes and I cringe under the misplaced anger. We wait until he steps away from us before we even begin thinking about getting up ourselves. Like fearful children, we wait until Daddy is out of reach, and only then, do we help each other to our feet. We keep our backs to the window so we may keep another very real threat in our sight.
J.D.’s stride is filling with rage with each step as he makes his way to the bar, not looking to see who is following his lead. The crunching glass beneath his boots as he walks wordlessly tells us his opinion about the situation.
“If I hear one more word about your religious ranting Chap, I’ll feed you to your Risen myself. Then we can all see on which side of your Maker you sit,” J.D. says to Chapel who just takes another sip of his beer as he watches us.
Chapel shrugs, staring down into that beer and says, “Seems fair.”
J.D.’s tells us his plan and it’s simple. Simple as in a suicide at- tempt is simple with its many plot-caving holes. His logic is guns and lots of them. Somehow, the end of the world has turned into a boy’s playground as each man in the room slides a slow smile onto his face at this revelation. Where does one find all these guns for them to play with? Well, that is the cherry.
He is sitting upon a stool as we all stand around him, like the good little children we are waiting for a story. Children left alone amid shards of broken glass and splintered tables. Maybe this is why none of his wives ever suggested kids with him. Daddy doesn’t quite grasp the concept of safety first.
He has been divorced now from wife number four for a few years, depending on which side you speak to, the exact number of years change, as does the exact reason why. Neither detail matters much to me enough to really explore it. We all have our own scars and to explore others’ invites them to explore yours. No thanks. Right now, he is taking full advantage of his scars. His last wife left him for another well-known hell raiser in an either very ironic twist or an impressive act of self-hatred. The new husband, Lee, is the owner of the most well stocked gun store in town. Lee could often be found boasting this in his normal drunken state here at the bar and wearing a flannel shirt every day. He would brag there is not a model or ma
ke made he does not have either on the shelf or in his very locked safe. I guess J.D. is about to call that bluff.
He is wearing a proud smirk as he tells us his plans. They leave me torn between annoyance and amusement with him. The smirk on his face tips it to amusement. What can I say? I am a sucker for a good smile and a biker. Sue me.
The fact that our genius’s plan is to try to break into a place better armed than the police station, owned by someone with less self-control than one, makes me pause to wonder when exactly I thought J.D. to be smart. Aimes must be having the same thoughts with her half-cocked eyebrow at me over the flow of male conversation around us. Sometimes it really is depressing to be the only girls in a crew full of men.
“You want us to break in and steal these items?” Chapel asks, and his voice still holds its empty echo of numbness.
“The world has gone to shit. I don’t think the rules apply any- more,” Rhett mutters.
“Then we really have fallen,” Chapel whispers to his beer, in its never-ending mug he seems to have.
“You worry about our souls and how about I worry about our flesh, eh Chap? We will see which one turns out to be more important,” J.D. calls out, never acknowledging the other man with so much as a glance in his direction.
“OK, moral code aside,” I offer, trying to diffuse the building situation, “how are we going to even get close to that place? Lee had a “shoot first” point of view before all of this. I can only imagine how welcoming he is going to be now.”
“He won’t be a problem.” The voice J.D. uses has a finality about it that makes us all look away.
I look to Lawless to see his reaction, but he refuses to meet my eyes. Aimes squeezes my hand in a silent communication to let it drop. She is right. If I have learned anything today, it is there are many worse things than what J.D. may or may not have done to Lee. Worse is to think of what Lawless may have done to help him. Who knows, by the time this all plays out, I might be envious of Lee and whatever the truth of him might be.
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