by Wayne Mee
Snake didn’t like to think too much about that. Someone or something had caused a major fuck-up. The mother of all fuck-ups! Pigs, civvies, brothers; everyone wasted. Last week he’d been at a Bikers Rally up at St. Johnsbury, Vermont. Over five hundred brothers. When he woke up they were all fucking dead. All except Rings, and Bull. They’d come across Blade and that mean bitch Flame a day later. They’d all gotten stoned and stayed stoned for several days, then headed south on I-93. He’d picked up Runt in a shit-horse town called Littleton, then took the 302 through Crawford’s Notch and ended up in this little burg. He planned to continue on down to the Big Apple, picking up any other brothers he found along the way. Then head south to Florida, maybe even LA. Big plans.
But first he had a few things to do around here. He pulled out his heavy Ruger Super Redhawk. He’d had the .44 Magnum for a couple of years now. Used it for two hits. It had a 9.5 inch barrel that kicked like a bastard and made one fucking big hole on the way out, as the Farmer and the Quiet Man were about to discover first hand. Shoving the gun back in his belt, he made a mental note to pick something up for Runt. The others were already armed. The hardware at the edge of town might have a shotgun or something. Snake doubted Runt could use a widow-maker like his, but a scattergun should do the trick. Maybe he’d get himself one as well. Saw off the stock and barrel. You never could tell about these fucking hayseeds.
The others were moving now. Rings was up and digging in a packsack for something to eat. It amazed him how such a skinny bitch could always be so fucking hungry. He yelled at Runt to go round them up some food, then called Rings over to him. Undoing his buckle, he waved his swelling member at her.
“Here you go, Babe. Chow down on this.”
Sighing heavily, Rings moved slowly towards the heavy biker. Life for her had always been a bitch and the end of the fucking world certainly hadn’t helped any.
By nine o’clock all six survivors were gathered in the large kitchen of the Regis Inn. On the table were four guns; Brad’s single shot 16 gage, a double barreled 12 gage and a .303 deer rifle Earl had brought from his farm. In a wooden cigar box lay a five shot .22 pistol Wilma’s husband had kept around for protection. Four guns against a possible six. Brad tried to tell himself that they were really only after one man, but it didn’t help.
All six stood there in silence, each one lost in their own thoughts. Kenneth kept glancing at his father. Brad had explained earlier that they intended to force Snake and the others to leave.
“But what if they don’t leave?”, the boy had asked.
Brad had sighed, placing a hand on his son’s shoulders. “Then we make them.”
Kenneth had remained silent.
Now, standing around the table, Earl picked up the .303 and began sliding long copper bullets into a slot. After three he worked the bolt, checked that the safety was on, then slid in one more. “I’ll use this. It pulls a might to the left.” His eyes when he looked up were like blue chips of ice.
The barber, Bert Laxtrom, his red hair once again brushed and neat, looked from Brad to Wilma. “You know this is wrong. Someone’s going to get seriously hurt.”
Wilma took the small pistol out of the box. “I never liked guns. I told my husband to get rid of it. Now I’m glad he didn’t.” She looked at Earl. “How do you work this damn thing?”
Bert let out a little moan.
After Earl had showed Wilma, he turned to Brad. “You want to use your own or mine?”
Brad picked up the double barrel. “Yours. I might need two shots.” He broke open the heavy gun, put two shells in and closed it with a snap. Checking that the safety was on, he cradled the weapon in his arm and shoved more shells in his pocket.
Earl held out the single shot to Bert. “You want this or should I give it to the boy?”
Slowly, like he was handling a live cobra, Bert took the weapon. His voice was little more than a whisper. “I’ve never shot a gun before. You’ll have to ---”
“Christ!”, Earl grumbled. “What the hell am I, North Conway’s Militia Instructor? Give me that bloody thing!”
Ten minutes later they heard the sound of approaching motorcycles.
“Remember,” Earl said. “Don’t bunch up. Snake’s the one we want, and if we stay far apart we’ll be smaller targets. Wilma, you stay here with the young’ns. Us three will step out and tell him to get his ugly ass out of town.”
Brad nodded to his son, who stood close to Tina. Both had found rather large kitchen knives. The three men went out into the street.
As planned, Brad crossed over to the far side, Bert stayed close to the inn and Earl waited in the middle of the two lanes. The five cycles had stopped about two hundred yards up the street, their angry motors roaring out a warning. Suddenly North Conway had turned into Dodge City, with Earl looking like a balding Marshal Dillon come out of retirement for one last showdown.
Shoot out at the O.K. Corral and all that shit! Brad half expected to see Wyatt Earp swagger out, tossing the tail of his black frock coat clear of his Buntline Special. Westerns had been very big back when he was a kid. Gunsmoke, Maverick, Have Gun Will Travel. Right now, however, he himself felt about a hundred years old. Thumbing off the safety, Brad glanced over at the inn. Bert was fidgeting around looking for a place to hide, while Earl stood like an unmovable mountain in the center of main street. A curtain moved in one of the inn’s front windows. Then the roaring reached his ears. Looking up Brad saw the motorcycles racing towards Earl. Time seemed to slow down as the bikes sped up. All five riders seemed to have their weapons drawn. Apparently Snake wasn’t in a very talkative mood, for he began firing from way over a hundred yards away. Too far for even his large pistol, but then Snake didn’t really seem like the patient type.
Out of the corner of his eye Brad saw Earl raise his .303 and fire back. The bikes raced on. One or two of the other riders were shooting as well. The air seemed alive with the gunfire. Suddenly Bull’s chopper swerved out of control. Clearing the sidewalk, Bull and his bike smashed through the large plate glass of The Gap’s display window. Blade and Flame continued to returned fire. Fifty yards now and closing. As Earl calmly worked the bolt on his rifle, Brad saw him suddenly spin around and go down on one knee.
It was then that Brad raised his own gun. Less than thirty yards separated him from the speeding bikes. The sight between the double barrels centered on Snake. Runt’s cycle was almost alongside. Sweat trickled into Brad’s eye. He willed it away and squeezed both triggers. The double explosion rocked him back. He caught himself in time to see Runt knocked off his bike. The bleeding body rolled on the pavement as the motorcycle tore off to the right and slammed into a parked car. A spark must have touched off the gastank, for first the bike, then the car, exploded. Twin fireballs erupted, sending jagged pieces of hot metal flying through the air. One of them nicked Brad’s thigh, but he hardly noticed it. Fumbling shells into his gun, he watched as Snake and the other two bore down on Earl.
Snake had two more rounds in his Magnum. At a distance of twenty feet he pumped both of them into the kneeling farmer. Earl’s body was punched backwards. Spread-eagle on the center line, Snake’s Harley passed over him. There was a crunching sound as first the front wheel, then the back, pulverized the farmer’s head. Snake continued on another fifty yards before bringing his bike to a screeching halt. Blade and Flame followed. In the middle of the road Snake slowly began to reload his Magnum, a triumphant smile on his cruel face.
Brad felt as tough he was caught up in a dream, some terrible nightmare that just wouldn’t give up. Dodge City had turned into Little Big Horn, and the Indians were still coming over the bloody hill!
“Dad!”, a far way voice called. “Run Dad! Run!!”
Looking up Brad saw Kenneth on the front porch of the inn. Wilma and Tina stood beside him. The older woman was yelling something at Bert, who stood trembling like a poplar in the wind. Then Tina ran out into the street. Kneeling by Earl’s shattered body, she picked up his rifle
and, after fumbling with the bolt, fired at Snake’s distant form. The bullet went wide, but the sound of heavy gun was enough to get Brad moving. Racing across the street, he pulled Tina with him and they both ran for the inn. Behind them they heard the roar of Snake’s motor. A bullet smashed the glass of the inn door. Another splintered the railing as they climbed the porch steps.
Then Wilma was beside him. Her .22 coughed several times. Brad pushed Kenneth through the open doorway, then shoved Tina after him. Snake roared by, his Magnum spitting out death. The other two were right behind. Bert, trying to crowd through, shoved Wilma towards the street. A bullet struck her in the forehead, spraying blood and brains all over the frightened barber. Both fell through the open doorway, Wilma’s dead weight pinning Bert to the floor. Brad fired from the bottom step just as Snake swerved behind a parked Toyota. One blast shattered the side window, the other blew out the Toyota’s rear tire. The three cycles continued on out of sight.
“Bastards!”, Brad hissed as he fumbled two more shells into the 12 gage.. Tina came up beside him. Brad saw blood trickling down from a graze on her cheek. “You’re shot!”, he heard himself say.
Tina looked surprised, then pressed a trembling hand to the side of her head. It came away red. “That’s funny. I don’t feel a thing.” Then she saw blood on Brad’s thigh. “Your leg!”
“What? Oh, it’s nothing.” He motioned towards the inn. They had to step over Wilma’s body to get in the door. Bert was nowhere to be seen. Kenneth met them holding Brad’s old shotgun.
“Have --- have they gone, Dad?”, Kenneth asked, his voice trembling as much as his hands.
“It looks that way, son,” Brad said. “For now at least.”
“Maybe… maybe their gone for good…”, Kenneth whispered.
“They’ll be back,” Tina added quietly, still holding the dead farmer’s rifle. “Scum like that always comes back.”
She was right of course.
Chapter 13: IN THE NICK OF TIME
LincolnNew Hampshire
June 28(Day 7)
The sun was setting when the strange little caravan pulled into the town of Lincoln, New Hampshire. It had taken them nearly two days to cover the two hundred miles from Mount Hawthorn. Under normal conditions it could have been done in less than four hours. Conditions, however, were anything but normal.
The biggest problem was the highways. Traffic jams and car crashes made the larger roads all but impassable. Forced to take the back roads, they had wound their way across Vermont’s Green Mountains and into New Hampshire’s White’s. Even on these little used roads they had been forced several times to either turn around or use the tow-truck to haul wrecks out of the way.
Then there had been the road block. South of Montpelier, near the little village of Trow Hill, they had come across what looked like another jumble of wrecks. A Winnebago was angled in between two smashed cars. Leaving the two dogs in the van, Josh and Jessie had gotten out to look things over. As they approached, two men with rifles had stepped out from behind the wrecks. One seemed no older than Jessie.
“Freeze, assholes!”, the younger man had yelled. He wore a leather jacket over a pink neon T-shirt that hurt the eyes. Tight jeans, fancy cowboy boots and slicked back hair completed the picture. An image of his teen-age hero, the ‘Fonz’, flashed through Josh’s mind, though Arthur Fonzerelli had never had to resort to using semi-automatic weapons.
“Tell those shitheads with ya to stay put!”, the Fonz ordered.
Part of Josh was waiting for the ‘Yo!’; part of him wanted to give the snot-nosed little punk a detention!
The other man, a dead ringer for the star of ‘Mister Roger’s Neighborhood’, took a long pull on a nearly empty bottle of Popov Vodka, following it up with a none too steady step forward. “Gat’ny fee-males widjya?”
Jessie looked at his father and shrugged. Josh shook his head. “We’re just four men who want to move on, friend. We don’t want any trouble.”
The Fonz giggled, raising his semi-automatic. “But ya got it, aint ya Pops? Just like that stupid bastard over there. He tried to hold out on us too!” The barrel of Fonzie’s weapon pointed at the side of the road.
That was when Josh saw the body. It had been dragged off the road and partially hidden behind some bushes.
Cursing himself for being caught off guard, Josh glanced back at the others. The tow-truck was several yards behind the Westfalia. Josh could see Bobby sitting white-knuckled behind the wheel. Eddy’s van was out of view somewhere further back.
Fonzie called out to the Winnebago. “Hank! Get yer lazy ass out here!”
The door opened and a woman was pushed out. She wore a spiked dog collar around her neck and nothing else. A long leash trailed back to the door of the RV. Another man stood there, the leash in one hand, a large revolver in the other.
“Tie the bitch up ‘n search their vans!”, Fonzie ordered. His cold smile turned back towards Josh. “It could be these fellas are tryin’ to hold out on us!”
Hank looped the leash around the front bumper and strolled over to Josh’s Westfalia. As he passed, he gave Jessie a shove. Grinning, he pulled open the side door --- and was met by two growling dogs. Princess lunged at him and Hank jumped back. The handgun began to rise. Just then Eddy’s shot took him in the left leg. The powerful deer rifle struck the kneecap, tearing half the leg of as it exited. Hank screamed and spun around, the revolver flying from his hand.
Suddenly the tow-truck pulled out of line and began speeding directly towards the two riflemen. At the same time Eddy, laying on the ground at the rear of his camper, fired again. The bullet whizzed by Fonzie’s ear and exploded Mister Roger’s bottle of Popov, taking a finger or two with it’s passing. The two men, their well laid plans having suddenly gone awry, broke and ran. Within seconds they had vanished in the greenery. Sounds of their flight quickly faded. As Bobby slammed on the brakes, the tow-truck fishtailed around and clipped the end of a smashed Datson. Dust and bits of shattered tail-light flew though the air.
As quickly as it had begun, the violence was over. The challenge, the dogs, Eddy’s shots, all of it. Josh found himself holding his breath. Another close one! How many more before one of them was hurt or killed?
“What do we do with this one?”, Eddy asked. He was standing beside the downed man. Princess was leaning over Hank, still growling. The pup, Og, excited by the smell of blood, was running around its mother.
Josh came over and looked down at the wreathing form. “See if you can stop the bleeding. I’ll check on the woman.” Walking over to the naked form cowering by the road, Josh set Jessie and Bobby to watch that the other two didn’t return. Both young men took their rifles placed themselves at both ends of their little caravan. Josh found a blanket just inside the Winnebago and handed it to the woman.
She shrank back, her dark rimmed eyes wide with fear. Clearly Hank and his two partners had abused her terribly. There were bruises and scratches all over her body, a purple bruise on her cheek and her lip was bleeding. Josh untied the leash and stepped back. The woman, her glance darting from him to the still groaning Hank, snatched the blanket and bolted for the trees. Josh called for her to stop, but she ran like a frightened deer. Within seconds she too was gone.
“Jesus Christ!”, Eddy swore. “What do we do now? Go after her?”
Josh sighed. “It’s too dangerous. Those others could be waiting out there.”
Eddy frowned, but said nothing. They both walked back to the wounded man. Several yards away the heavy pistol lay on the ground. Josh picked it up and pointed it at Hank.
“Why?”
Sitting in the dirt, pressing a rag against the large hole in his leg, Hank spoke through clenched teeth.
“Why the fuck not? Just wanted a little fun.” His expression changed slightly. “You gunna shoot me now?”
Josh looked at the revolver, unaware he was still holding it. He tossed it aside and called the boys. They came quickly. Jessie looked down at Ha
nk, then turned away. By now Hank was sitting in a puddle of his own blood.
“We’re leaving,” Josh announced.
Bobby’s eyes widened. “But, Mr. Williams; what about him? And the woman might come back.”
Josh turned towards his former student. “So might those other two. We can’t risk it.”
“Dad,” Jessie said, nodding towards Hank. “If we leave him --- he’ll die.”
Josh turned back to his son, but when he spoke it was to all of them. Jessie hardly recognized his father’s voice. “He’s as good as dead already. Look at him. He’s bleeding to death. We can’t help him. I’m not sure I would if I could. He and his friends have killed that man over there and probably would have killed us. As for the woman, she’s beyond anyone’s help. Now let’s go.”
As they moved away, Eddy touched Josh’s arm. Their eyes met. “You want me to put him down? End it?”
Josh frowned. “You could do that?”
Eddy shrugged. “I started it. I should finish it.”
Josh shook his head. “You saved our lives, Eddy, but you didn’t start this. They did. Leave him.”
Eddy sighed. “Old Doc was right again.”
“What does that mean?”
Eddy attempted a smile. “Doc said that down deep you had a tough streak in you. Not mean, but tough.”