A wall of heat hit her as the bus terminal doors opened. Heat like a furnace, powerful enough to have its own weight. It closed around her like a fist of fire, reflecting up from the cracked concrete and bearing down from the burning star in the sky. Everyone knew deserts had high temperature. No one warned her that the heat had a presence of its own that scoured the color from the landscape and stole breath from the lungs.
Several white sedans dotted the parking lot, as did a couple trucks and one old sportscar with a tattered ragtop. No motorcycles. Definitely not one with a sidecar, and no sign-bearing werewolves in leather. She groaned. I hope they didn’t leave because the bus was late. Did I tell Anita the right day? I’m pretty sure I told her the right day… Is it Tuesday? It has to be Tuesday. Please, God, let it be Tuesday, and let me not be the idiot here. All I want is a shower with real soap. Or water. No, I’ll just open my mouth and let the water from my shower fall in. Just the shower would be fine.
No taxis, either. Not that she had the money for one. She spotted a diner across the street and her stomach rumbled. Not that I have the money for that, either. Maybe if I can scrape up enough for a soda, they’ll let me use a booth to sort through my backpack for Anita’s number. And their phone. Fuck, I hope Anita didn’t forget. Please do not let me have come halfway across the country to work for a flake.
Like she had anywhere else to be now. Even a job for a flake who left her stranded at a bus terminal was an improvement over the empty life she’d hopped on the bus to drive away from.
You’d be laughing at me by now, wouldn’t you, Meg. You can’t leave me alone for a minute before I’ve gotten myself into a strange situation. Not a minute. Not a month. Not five months and sixteen days.
Erin tossed the strap of her ugly old duffel bag over the padded shoulders of her backpack, then headed across the street.
Would a theoretical person die if she threw herself out of a theoretical semi that was, in theory, doing sixty-five miles per hour on a shitty, theoretical Arizona back highway? Would that theoretical person care?
Every taxi company that worked the area had refused to drive her from Kingman to Coyote Trail, and she’d called them all. The one that had considered it backed out when she mentioned she’d provide payment upon arrival. Too dangerous to drive those roads this late in the afternoon without a guaranteed fare, they said. They wouldn’t arrive until after dark, and then the driver would be stuck, because no civilian would drive those roads at night. Then they wished her well and hung up before she could try to convince them further.
She’d just realized she had left Anita’s number in her email along with the electronically signed employment contract, and wondered if she could find a kind soul with a suitable charging cable, when the trucker cleared his throat from behind her. One look at his smugly benevolent expression told her he fancied himself a knight in shining armor.
“I couldn’t help but overhear, m’lady,” he said, with a tip of his baseball cap. “You need to get to Coyote Trail? I’m headed that direction myself. Why don’t you ride with me? You don’t have to worry. I’m a nice guy.”
Which means you’re the opposite of that. I should just try to find a charging cable, call Anita, and ask what happened to my ride.
Except she didn’t want to be any trouble, or to put her new employer off. The contract had a trial period written into it, and while Anita hadn’t come off as a hard-nosed boss, her need for a solid, professional mechanic had shone through fine. Calling for a lift like a teenager stuck at the mall didn’t present the first impression Erin wanted to give.
“Thanks, I appreciate that,” Erin said, and gritted her teeth in a grimace she hoped resembled a smile.
He held out a hand. “I’m Andy. Let me carry your bags.”
“I’ve got it, but thanks.”
He frowned. “A pretty lady such as yourself shouldn’t have to carry her own bags. They look heavy.”
“That’s all right. I’m used to it.” His mouth opened to protest, but she cut him off. “It would be really great if you could get the door for me, though.”
That got him. “Of course! I would have anyway. I’m a real gentleman. One of the last nice guys out there today.”
I’m never going to want to hear those words again by the time I get to Coyote Trail. Or end up dead in a ditch because I took a ride from the wrong man.
Or landed too hard when she threw herself out of the theoretical truck doing sixty-five on a backwoods Arizona highway.
The truck, like its driver, had to work too hard to accomplish what it wanted to. A quick look at it as she set her bags down to untangle the straps revealed axles and wheels in need of repair. How whatever company he worked for let him on the road like that, she had no idea, but she would never have signed off on the truck herself. The engine’s rough start left her wondering if she’d watch a piston blow through the hood, instead of listening to him try to put his piston in her cylinder. She didn’t know how it managed to run the refrigerated portion of the cargo trailer, given how bad it sounded.
Women, he told her for the first fifty-three miles of desert wasteland, did not appreciate men who treated them well. They wanted rich assholes to mistreat them, cheat on them, and buy them nice things. “So-called ‘alpha males’,” he said with derision. “You ever dated an ‘alpha male’?”
“I’m not really a fan of alpha males, no,” she said truthfully. “They try too hard.”
He didn’t have the self-awareness necessary to recognize that last statement referred to him. “Good. You keep it that way. You deserve a man who will respect you as the queen you are.”
Igh. “I’m not really a queen. I’m just a person like anyone else.”
“All women are queens until they step down off their thrones. Like my ex-girlfriend.” He scowled. “She left me for one of those asshole alpha males. He has a house in Las Vegas behind the wall. I told her, the Ferals aren’t that big a problem. One came to our house, I’d fucking shoot it dead. I’ve got the guns to do it.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“With me, even. Behind the seat, there’s a couple, because these runs are getting dangerous.” He looked over with a condescending smile she briefly daydreamed of smacking off him. Maybe with a torque wrench. “Don’t worry, though. I know how to use them. You’re safe with me.”
Strange how I don’t feel safe. “I have no doubts.”
“You’re a smart one. My ex, though? I told her. I showed her, even. But she still left for that rich asshole.”
Erin could see several problems with that series of statements, starting with the thought that maybe the rich asshole had treated the girlfriend like a human being, and that perhaps he’d had a personality that less resembled a roadkill porcupine who’d met up with an SUV last week. No sense pointing that out. How far can Coyote Trail be?
“That’s too bad,” she said.
“She said he’d do more than protect her. He’d treat her right. How could he treat her more right than I would? I told her she didn’t have to work. Just keep up the house. It would be more convenient when we had kids, anyway. Then she told me she didn’t want kids. Of course, she’ll change her mind,” he added.
“Uh-huh.” Why is this happening to me? What did I do in a past life to deserve this?
“You want kids, right? I mean, that’s a given.”
“Uh.”
“It’s the most natural thing in the world. Women are made to nurture, and—”
That was the next forty miles. Though it still couldn’t beat the most awkward ride she’d begged in the last year. I didn’t break up with this guy three months ago. I’m not pleading with him for a lift to the mortuary because I sold my car to pay for the funeral and don’t want to cry on the bus. Next time I have money, I’m putting aside an emergency taxi fund.
She entertained herself by counting cactus and imagining him tangled in a passionate embrace with a saguaro. Nothing for miles but dirt, stunted bushes, and cactus thorns. Do Ferals really
live out here? How does anything survive? Even them. There’s nothing to eat.
Except people. She tried not to think about that, especially since she intended to live here now.
A green highway sign proclaimed, “Coyote Trail, 36 Miles”, which pulled him away from his truck-seat sermon about the nature of women and their need to provide offspring for the non-alpha nice men who so eagerly courted them and deserved intimate attention for their thoughtfulness. She wondered if he’d decided she was his girlfriend now, and all he had left to do about it was finalize the arrangement. I could walk thirty-six miles. That would be fine.
“What are you doing in Coyote Trail, anyway? Visiting a relative? I could come with you, if you wanted.” The sign seemed to remind him she had her own agenda for him to insert himself into.
“Starting a new job. I’ll be running an auto repair shop.”
“Oh, you’re a secretary?”
She groaned inwardly. Not this conversation again. “No. I’m a mechanic. I fix the cars.”
His head snapped around to stare at her. “You what?”
“I fix the cars. And the motorcycles. If it has an engine, I fix it. If it can’t be fixed, I rebuild it.” Simple words for a simple man. A basic explanation for a man she didn’t expect to believe her anyway. They never did.
Andy didn’t prove an exception. “They hired you to come all this way to be a mechanic.”
You. The implication shone through. What, a woman? Carrier of breasts, vagina-haver, great nurturer of your future offspring, you sexist shitwaffle? “They did. To run the whole shop, actually.”
“No way.” The denial sounded almost hostile to her ears.
The hairs on the back of her neck tingled. She stared at the road ahead of them, where heat shimmered at the most distant part of the horizon and slicked the road with illusory reflections of water. “Calderon Auto in Coyote Trail. I’ve worked on cars since I was sixteen.”
Coyote Trail, 24 Miles. The sign taunted her. So close, yet every mile had started to feel like three. Restless energy stole her patience and amped up her nerves with every word he spoke. It’s going to be fine. You just have to keep cool and put up with this fuckwit for another twenty miles.
“Why would you do that to yourself? You’re never going to find a man who earns real money who’ll have you if you act like that.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his knuckles whiten as he gripped the steering wheel. The truck vibrated harder as his speed increased. “And I wouldn’t take my truck to a shop run by a woman.”
“You don’t take your truck to a shop at all, and you should, because it’s in shit shape.” The words fled her mouth before she could close her teeth on them. Oh, shit. Good job, big mouth.
The truck lurched forward as his foot twitched on the accelerator. “What the fuck do you think you’re saying?”
“I’m saying, you’re ignoring some important maintenance. At the best, you’re going to hit a pothole on one of these crap roads and a wheel is going to pop right off. At worst? You’re going to snap an axle and wreck the whole thing.” No sense reining in her loose lips now. She squinted at the road ahead of them. The mirage of false water on the overheated road wavered. Is that debris in the road?
Andy didn’t notice. He hadn’t taken his gaze off her. “That’s pretty fucking ungrateful, telling me my truck needs work. I gave your ass a ride without you even asking. No asking for money, no asking for anything else. Because I’m a gentleman.”
There’s definitely something in the road. Shredded tire? No. Too big. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say anything bad about your truck. I’m just trying to help, all right? Because you’ve been so nice. Can you slow down, though? I think there’s something in the road.”
“Now you’re telling me how to drive. God, you’re just like the rest of those bitches.” He still didn’t look away, and the truck didn’t slow. “That’s why you’re stuck going to a shit town in the middle of nowhere. No one wants you. You’re probably a l—”
The heat shimmer faded from the rubble scattered across the road as the truck hurtled closer to it. Erin could make out shapes at last. Handlebars. Wheels. Seats.
Bodies.
“Oh, my God, stop the truck!” she shouted over Andy’s angry tirade.
Reflex took him. He stood on the brake. Tires shrieked against the pavement, and metal screamed in protest. Then several explosions rocked the truck hard. It lurched sideways, threatened to keel over onto the road. A hard object bounced against the undercarriage with force. Erin braced her feet against the floor, as if she could stop the truck’s drunken lean through sheer willpower or halt the momentum that carried them toward the disaster on the road.
Five feet from the wrecks, the truck stopped. Erin gasped into the stunned hush as she forced herself to breathe. Her hands clutched at the handle beside the door, though she didn’t remember grabbing it. It’s okay. You’re all right. But those guys on the road might not be. Get out there and see if you can help. Wouldn’t be the first dead bodies you’ve seen.
The phantom memory of arrhythmic beeping haunted the back of her mind. She banished it and shoved the truck door open.
Heat again, even with the sun so low on the horizon. A reek of vehicle fluids and burned rubber. Beneath it all, a hint of a scent that prickled her skin into goosebumps despite the sunshine. She ignored it to jump down onto the dirt at the side of the road.
One quick glance at the truck proved they wouldn’t drive away from this. At least three tires had blown, and one of the wheels had ripped off completely. The axles looked intact, but she couldn’t assess the damage from here. Doesn’t matter. I’m not fixing that shit.
None of the flammable liquids dribbled onto the road, though. It left her free to turn her attention to the more important matters. Wrecked motorcycles. Bodies on the blacktop.
They’d crashed in an area where the highway cut through a small, rocky rise in the otherwise flat ground. The tiny valley looked more like the crews had piled large rocks to either side of the road where they could, then sheared through a stubborn one they couldn’t budge. Tenacious brush gathered around the stones. Some had thorns as long as the joints on her fingers. Others had yellow flowers and little white puffballs.
One of the riders had staggered far off the road. She didn’t need to go any closer to see he hadn’t lived. Too much blood soaked into the soil around him, and no one could have survived the gashes that cut through his riding gear to rend the flesh beneath. Bile threatened to strangle her when she noticed the shredded skin at the side of his throat.
She swallowed it down and looked at his bike instead. It remained upright by dint of its sidecar and looked like it had come out of the wreck mostly unscathed. One of the Russian motorcycles she’d always coveted but never had the funds to splash out on. Weapon holsters hung in easy reach of the seat, filled with knives, guns, and what she might have sworn was a small flamethrower. All still in place. No empty holsters. He didn’t draw any weapons.
A large piece of posterboard lay half-curled on the ground next to the sidecar. Guilt churned in her guts as she read the blue-marker words written on it. “Welcome Erin”. Oh, God. These were my ride.
The other rider had fallen near the bushes. A man in black leather riding chaps and a leather jacket despite the heat. No helmet. Covered in deep wounds, mostly along the left side of his body. He’d staggered a few steps away from his bike, or what remained of it. What happened? The front of that bike is mangled to hell, but it doesn’t look like a collision with one of the rocks. None of this feels right.
Andy had started to rant. His voice sounded far away, as if funneled through mud and a broken megaphone. Erin ignored him and touched her fingertips to the biker’s neck. A faint pulse tapped back.
“Andy! Andy, this one’s alive! Call for help!” she shouted over her shoulder.
“I’m already on hold with the goddamn service company to get a goddamn tow truck out here!” he yelled back. “No one will co
me out here until tomorrow morning! Not a tow, not the cops, nothing.”
“For fuck’s sake,” she muttered under her breath. “Hang on, buddy. Do you have a phone? I’m going to get a little handsy here. Sorry. Ah. Right front jeans pocket. Good choice. You know you should put a passcode on this, don’t you? Easier to swipe the phone awake while you’re driving, but totally insecure. Anyone who finds you half dead on the road can look through and find your bathroom selfies. I’m going to call for help, all right? And hopefully they can figure out where the hell I am, because I don’t know…”
Talking to the unconscious had become a habit over the past year and more. Narration returned a little control over their lives, or so she liked to think, and offered them a presence in the darkness of sleep. She tapped the phone icon. Maybe he has Anita in here. I can ask her who to call for a rescue.
The nearby bushes rustled. A sudden dread settled over her. Instinct screamed just before Andy did.
Erin dove for the mangled motorcycle to yank a sawed-off shotgun from the holster. She turned just in time to blow the hungry, malicious snarl off a Feral’s ugly face.
3
The Ride of the Motorcycle Valkyrie to the Wasteland Valhalla
News programs could not do the warped faces of the Ferals justice. Erin had never seen one outside the heavily sanitized news stories that warned people about a danger they hoped they would never encounter. Video broadcasts interposed a layer of distance between the viewer and the very real, very imposing creatures they feared. She could never have imagined how terrifying, how abhorrent they would look in person.
A face full of silver buckshot probably didn’t help the creature’s looks, either.
If she never again heard the noise it made, she might sleep at night. A horrible combination of yelp and howl, primal and without form for the lack of half its jaw. Survival guides warned of the three reactions one might have to a danger – fight, flight, or freeze. Fear threatened to seize her muscles solid. She held onto her wits long enough to choose the fourth option.
Brave the Night: A Bully Boys Novel Page 2
