Death and Biker Gangs

by S. P. Blackmore

  “We watched the house until a bunch of them left. You started shooting, he started screaming, I came inside and shot his buddies as they headed for the stairs.” His mouth turned up when he saw the guns in the corner. “Hell yes, parting gifts! Here, trade you your rifle for that shotgun.”

  Oh, my precious, I missed you. I snatched the rifle back a little too quickly, relishing its solid heft. This was probably akin to what guys felt for their muscle cars. I kept it trained on Blair, who was keening softly to himself, his arms and legs twitching. “Hurry up,” I said to Tony.

  “We’ve living the video game dream, Vibeke. Just let me savor it for a sec.” At last he straightened up, several guns and one sack of ammunition heavier. “You’re in luck, they’ve even got rounds for your gun. Wonder where they dug those up.” He gestured to Blair with his pistol. “You want to finish him off, or shall I?”

  I looked at the blood around Blair, at the bandages concealing rotting wounds. “He’s fucked already,” I murmured, trying to sort through whether I actually felt bad about shooting him or if what was left of the world was better off without him. “He got bit and the virus has set in. And those burns…and he’s losing plenty of blood.”

  Tony maintained his façade of nonchalance. “Yeah, I noticed…you do that on purpose?”

  He was there at the massage parlor, I wanted to say. I killed his boys and he was going to kill me, and I tried to aim for his head…

  There probably wasn’t a way to answer without making myself looking either completely inept or batshit crazy, so I took the simpler route: “He hit me.”

  Tony started for the door. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

  Ronald lay askew on the stairs. One of his compatriots was sprawled across the living room. I stopped in my tracks and grabbed Tony’s arm. “What happened?”

  “What does it look like?”

  “You killed them?”

  He swung around, his dark eyes boring into mine. “What else should I have done, Vibeke?”

  I stared down at Ronald. He’d landed on his back, his hands well away from any of his weapons. “You just killed him! He wasn’t doing anything, he was trying to help me when Blair went after me—”

  His hand landed on my shoulder, and he shoved me back against the wall. “They didn’t seem interested in reasoning with us when they snatched you,” he said, “and the guy on the floor was already going for his gun when he saw me. Hell, you tried to empty a pistol into that poor fucker upstairs.”

  But I only hit him twice. I didn’t actually say that; then he’d just lambast me as a poor shot.

  He leaned in close—too close. “You can tell me what a brutal shit I am later, okay? Let’s get out of here before their buddies come back.”

  My mouth was too dry to answer him, so I just nodded.

  “Damn fine timing on that kneecapping, by the way.” We stepped carefully over Ronald and his blank, staring eyes. “They were already heading up to investigate whatever you were doing, and they just looked so surprised…”

  Sorry, Ronnie. I looked away from the kid’s blank eyes. He hadn’t seemed all that bad…well, comparatively.

  “Think I got five of them,” Tony went on. “I need a new magazine, but that’ll wait. The one on the left, he just looked up when I walked in, got him in the eye…”

  He paused his killing spree rundown to stroll out the front door—

  —and promptly dove back inside when a cluster of bullets sprayed the porch.

  “Of course,” he grumbled, hefting the shotgun, “we can’t catch one break.”

  “That would be too easy.” I’m too hungover for this. Maybe this is all a really fucked up booze hallucination.

  Ronald stared at me from the stairway. Tony’s shot had struck him right in the heart. That was mercy, at least, right? He hadn’t suffered much.

  How long did we have before Ronnie and his buddies got back up and tried to exact some postmortem revenge? “What do we do?”

  He glared at me over the shotgun. “Hey, I broke in. Your turn to think of something.”

  “I handled the psychopath in the bedroom. I’m fresh out of ideas!”

  A bullet pinged off the doorframe. Tony flinched and scooted further inside. “Does this place have a back door?”

  “I don’t know. Where’s Dax?”

  “I told him to watch the house, but they may have snagged him. And fuck, who knows if he’s got the cojones to do what he has to.” He leaned out, poked his head over the threshold, then jerked back as two more shots issued. “I see three. Could be more. Shit, I didn’t plan this very well.”

  “It’s the thought that counts.” I looked around the room, trying to make my brain process the strengths and weaknesses of our location. “Ronald said there were twelve, so we had five here, some went into town, and two dead, at least, from yesterday—”

  “Who the hell is Ronald?”

  I pointed at the dead teenager.

  Tony stared at him for a few seconds, then looked at me. “All right. Run back there and see if there’s another door. Otherwise we’ll hole up on the landing and let the doorway act as a bottleneck.”

  The curtains were drawn across the windows, but I ducked as I skittered past them, imagining men with big guns ready to blast my ass into little pieces. I passed the kitchen and a den, then slowed down. What if Tony had missed someone?

  Remember your corners, Vibeke.

  I stuck the gun into the laundry room first. When no one rushed me, I cautiously poked my head in, then took a few steps inside. No bikers and no revenants.

  “Hurry up, Vibeke!”

  “Patience is virtue,” I called, fumbling for the door that presumably led to the garage.

  “Spare me your damned parables and find us a way out of here!”

  I pulled the door open and found myself facing the garage, emptied of vehicles. The outer door was open to let in what passed for mid-afternoon light.

  I was so struck by the light that I almost missed the man organizing some tools off to the side. I didn’t register his presence until he took a step toward me, a set of headphones dangling around his neck. “Hey,” he said cautiously. “You’re up. You feeling better?”

  I’d just shot a guy in the kneecap while my traveling companion killed several others, and I was still hungover on top of it. “Not really,” I said. “But thanks for asking.”

  Then he registered the big gun I carried, and his eyes all but bugged out. He brought up his pistol—at least, it looked like a pistol—and I flung myself behind the door. The first round slapped the wall across from me, and the second hit the linoleum near my foot.

  “Vibeke!” Tony bellowed from the front door, “Stop getting shot at!”

  “I’m sorry!”

  “Not as sorry as you’re gonna be!” the biker called.

  For fuck’s sake, I had a Nazi assault rifle in my hands. I could switch it to auto and rip this guy some new breathing holes…assuming he didn’t pop my head off first.

  Guns went off inside the house. Running out of time, Vibeke.

  I took a deep breath as I stood up, still shielded by the door. Just aim for his general vicinity.

  I gathered all the nerves I had left and swung around the door, ready to let the gun rip—

  —and gaped as a big pickup rammed the biker, sending him flying into a pile of debris.

  My mouth dropped open an inch or two. Why can’t my life always have such fortunate turns?

  I would’ve stood there ogling if Dax hadn’t flung open the driver’s door and popped out. He was white-faced and bug-eyed, but he was more welcoming than a Starbucks drive-thru at the crack of dawn.

  “Come on!” he barked. “Let’s go!”

  “Tony!” I yelled into the house. “Garage! Now!”

  I forced my legs to move, sprinting wildly for the passenger door. Once inside, I flung my arms around Dax. “I think I love you.”

  He yelped when I squeezed his ribcage, and his
right arm awkwardly landed around my shoulders. “You okay?”

  Evie got in on our lovefest from the backseat, sticking her head next to mine and slobbering all over me.

  I rubbed her neck, then hugged Dax harder.

  “Ow! Easy there. One of them kicked me in the ribs earlier. Evie, get back there.” He gently pushed the dog back, then did a double-take when he saw my face. “What happened?”

  I shot a guy, Tony killed people, it’s been a shitty day…

  Tony came charging out the door by the time I formulated an answer I could actually use. He stumbled badly once, twisted around, and blew two rounds out of the shotgun. A figure dove back behind the garage door.

  He dashed out of the garage, flung the bag of guns and ammo in ahead of him, then leaped into the front bench with us.

  Dax stared at the new bag of accessories for a second, then shifted the truck into reverse. “Hardly remember how to do this,” he muttered, turning us around. “Do you think the dude I hit is okay?”

  The guy had flown across the room at close to warp speed, but I was willing to spare Dax’s feelings. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

  Tony rolled down his window. “They were making a run on me when I bolted,” he said. “Just keep driving back to town.”

  Dax stepped on the gas, putting a good distance between us and the house before swinging us around. I dimly saw a handful of specks running after us, but we outpaced them quickly. Dax pounded his fist against the steering wheel and actually grinned at me. “They rolled up, heard shooting, and went to look. Just left the damn truck sitting there.”

  “I was wondering where the hell you found a truck,” Tony said. “And the damn thing runs.”

  “They don’t seem very smart,” Dax said. “Decent mechanics, though.”

  Tony slumped back in his seat. “You know, I’m starting to think we’re not all that smart, either.”

  The house disappeared entirely behind us. If I didn’t know better, I’d say our escape had gone off pretty much perfectly.

  Dax nudged me. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I hung out with some rednecks and they gave me antibiotics and a shower.” I paused, running through my hazy memories. “Actually, I think they hosed me off, but I’m clean, anyway.”

  “You smell better,” Tony said.

  “I love you, too.”

  Evie barked, stuck her head over the bench, and slobbered on me.

  We hit the edge of Old Town Muldoon five minutes later, just as the engine settled into the familiar stutter and gasp of a vehicle choking on ash. Dax eased off the accelerator, letting us coast through the buildings and around abandoned cars. “We should find a place to crash,” he said, turning us down a residential street. At least, it had started life as a residential street. Most of Old Town Muldoon had been converted into charming shops and businesses, and Ripley Street was no exception. We passed a dental office, an insurance building, and a toy store, all of which seemed empty.

  Some small part of me wondered where all the people had gone. Shouldn’t there have been debris, or at least a few bodies?

  Tony pointed at a two-story Victorian that had probably once been a showplace property. Dax parked the truck next to a sign that said Excelsior Graphic Design, and the three of us considered the house from the cab.

  “Looks quiet enough,” Dax said.

  Things could look quiet and turn out perfectly sinister, but I didn’t need to remind them of that.

  “It’ll do,” Tony said. “I didn’t see other vehicles around. I need some fucking rest. All that walking made my legs hurt.”

  I sat up straight. “You walked there?”

  “Yep.” Dax turned off the truck. “We walked. Four miles. Or maybe it’s six. Then we waited for them to leave. Camped out and everything.”

  “Are you crazy?” I looked back and forth between Tony and Dax, trying to picture my two hungover companions bitching at each other as they slogged down the street. “Are you crazy?”

  Dax sent me a faint smile. “Well, we couldn’t just leave you there to be violated.”

  I hovered somewhere in between gratitude and hysteria. The boys had gotten up and walked—walked! In all this ash!—to a farm full of angry biker rednecks, and stormed the place to bust me out?

  Hell, what if it was more than I deserved? My eyes stung. “Jeez, guys, I…”

  “Ah, shit, her eyes are watering. No blubbering, Vibby.” Tony opened his door. “Make me a sandwich after we check the place, and we’ll call it even.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a sandwich, either,” Dax said.

  I sighed, following Dax out the driver’s side door and letting the dog jump out behind me. “We escape certain death and all you can think about is a sandwich?”

  “Save the girl, eat a sandwich. Sounds good to me.”

  Dax and I were halfway up the driveway before we realized Tony hadn’t followed. He was looking at the truck, eyes narrowed. “We’ll want to move that. Just stick it around the block or something and double back, muck up the prints a little.”

  “I’ll do it,” Dax said, tossing the keys from hand to hand. “It wasn’t gonna last much longer any—dude, you okay?”

  He stared down at Tony’s right leg. After a moment, so did I.

  Blood thoroughly soaked his lower right leg.

  “Tony?” I dimly recalled his stumble in the garage. Oh, fuck. I signaled to the dog to sit and hurried to him. “Tony! What happened?”

  He looked down, the puzzled expression on his face rapidly melting into irritation. “Well, shit.”

  THIRTEEN

  Lesson number seven of the zombie apocalypse: even when things go miraculously right, they can still go mind-bogglingly wrong.

  We dragged Tony into the house and deposited him in the main office, a big, open room featuring pictures of houses and businesses, furnished by some designer who was probably dead. “Get me the kit,” I barked at Dax, who all but fell over himself to get to the backpacks. “And paper towels, or something else for pressure. Wait, first check the place.”

  Dax hustled off to inspect the rest of the house, carbine at the ready.

  I got Tony’s boot off and pushed up the leg of his jeans, but only ended up smearing blood all over the place. “Why the fuck didn’t you say something?”

  “Didn’t feel it.”

  I snorted, and he narrowed his eyes at me. “I didn’t. I was running to the truck. He must’ve leaned around the door and taken a potshot.” He snarled at his wound, then at me. “Some guys have all the luck.”

  I propped his leg up on top of my backpack, leaning on the wound all the while. Evie came running over to inspect it, and I gently shoved her aside. “He didn’t feel a gunshot,” I muttered to the dog. “Lucky bastard.”

  I’d certainly given in to an adrenaline buzz once or twice in my life, but I still thought I’d feel getting shot.

  Maybe Tony was just made of tougher stuff.

  Dax dropped the kit next to me and restrained the dog. “House is clear. I think he’s fucked.”

  “Thank you for your professional medical opinion.” I prodded at the wound as much as I dared, trying to dab away some of the blood. He’d already said it was a gunshot, but I scanned for tooth marks out of habit. “Well, we know it’s not a bite. It’s not…bitey enough.”

  Dax looked at me solemnly. “That’s your diagnosis?”

  “I got shot,” Tony said loudly. “There were no dead people involved.”

  My finger slipped into the wound itself. Tony hissed and jerked his leg away from me.

  “Found the exit wound, I think…I think it went clean through…”

  “So he’s just bleeding out.”

  “Dude, take your negative attitude elsewhere.” Tony snapped his fingers at me and pointed at his wound. “Medic. Clean it up, we got places to go.”

  “Shut up while I look at it.” The bullet had struck him at an odd angle, skipping through the top layers of flesh before exiting. Not
too deep. It was probably the best sort of scenario I could ask for, under the circumstances. “Bandaging should work. I need water…”

  Tony’s fist closed around my shirt, and he jerked me in close to him. “If I die, I’m going to come back and haunt your Norwegian ass until the end of time. So don’t fuck up, Vibby.”

  I wasn’t sure I could stomach being haunted by Tony for all eternity. That might actually be worse than the present situation.

  I went to the sink, but nothing happened when I turned the faucet. No more running water, dumbass. I held up my left hand, considering the bandage Blair’s gang had put on me, and decided it was clean enough. I rinsed my other hand with dish soap and some of our precious bottled water, then slathered everything with hand sanitizer. “Okay, I’m going to clean it up.”

  “Dax,” Tony said, “you need to move the car.”

  “No, he needs to hold your leg steady.”

  “If those bikers show up—”

  “Will you shut up so I can work? God, you’re worse than the pansies I had to suture up in the clinic.”

  When all else failed, impugning his manliness tended to silence him. He sat back and scowled at the ceiling, occasionally making pained noises, but otherwise holding very still while I cleaned out the wound. I used the last of the antibiotic paste on him, then tossed the tube over my shoulder when it was empty. I applied two heavy pieces of gauze to each spot, then began the slow process of bandaging the whole thing up. It was crude, not as clean as it should have been, and probably would have sent Doctor Samuels through the roof, but it was the best I could do under the circumstances.

  My vision was getting blurry by time I finished, the last of my own adrenaline buzz slowly leaking out of my system. I dug out the ibuprofen bottle, shook out four pills, and handed them to Tony. “These’ll take the edge off. I cleaned it up as much as I can, but you should see a doctor, maybe get some proper antibiotics.”

  The boys both looked at me with raised eyebrows, and I bit my tongue. You should see a doctor. Like it was so easy anymore. “Hastings has a doctor,” I said, trying to cover up my slip. “Probably bunches of them. That’s where Behrens Memorial…”