“For a bus-riding guy you sure are a pretty conscientious … back-seat driver.”
Charlie said nothing. He leaned back over to his side and, with the events of the previous day still burned into his mind, checked the back seat just in case. Seeing nothing dangerous back there—specifically not a crazed person whom he had only wanted to get medical attention—he settled in and clicked the shoulder belt home.
After affording the old guy’s bloody back porch one last long visual once-over, Duncan accelerated down the drive and then wheeled right onto Flavel.
The same light he’d turned at to go to Tilly’s the day before was dead ahead and flashing red. Cars were moving through in both directions in as orderly a fashion as could be expected considering a few blocks behind them a couple of Humvees and a pair of tall, tan, multi-wheeled deuce-and-a-half troop transports had taken up station at the intersection with 82nd Avenue.
Still waiting for the driver in the compact car ahead of him to grow some balls and turn left on the flashing red, Duncan flicked his eyes to the mirror and gestured toward the roadblock. “We got lucky. Looks like the governor is content with 82nd as the east perimeter.”
Following Duncan’s lead, Charlie consulted his wing mirror. “Gotta be a dozen armed soldiers there.”
“I’d imagine reinforcements have either been flown in through PDX on transports or, more likely, Washington Guard units are augmenting our guys and gals. No way to tell what they’re wearing from here, but they may be regular Army who’ve recently come overland from joint base Lewis/McChord.”
The car ahead finally turned left. Awaiting his turn, Duncan let the two crossing cars go and, when the SUV sitting opposite him on Flavel committed to the opposing left, he eased off the brakes just as a roar the likes of which he hadn’t heard since joining in on a Shriner’s Toys For Tots run a dozen years ago shattered the still air. He ground the truck to a complete stop, the front bumper a hair into the crosswalk. Instinctually he looked toward the noise and saw Charlie staring at him and mouthing, “Where the hell did they come from?”
By the time Duncan saw the true cause of the sonic assault, the initial flashes of denim and leather and sparkling paint and chrome, there was no evasive action for him to take.
The first few bikes into the intersection were black and nondescript. They stopped a yard in front of the old Dodge.
Ignoring the grim glares of the sunglass-wearing bikers, Duncan tapped Charlie on the leg. “What’s the difference between a Hoover vacuum cleaner and a Harley Davidson?”
Time and place, thought Charlie, shooting his friend a sour look. After a short beat and no punchline dawned on him, he shrugged as if to say Go ahead, lay it on me.
Barely able to contain himself, Duncan delivered the punchline real slow, but garbled the words because he had started cackling before even getting started.
“What?” asked Charlie. “I didn’t catch that.”
Seeing the bikers going rigid, probably on account of the sudden out-of-place outburst of laughter coming from the truck’s open window, Duncan composed himself and said in a near whisper, “The position of the dirtbag. Get it?”
Charlie got it. And he wanted to laugh. But considering that the two muscled outlaw bikers within earshot probably harbored issues concerning ego and self-esteem and mommy, he wisely kept a straight face.
Wiping away a stray tear, Duncan raised up off the bench seat a few inches to get a better look at the bikers. Both men had blue bandannas wrapped around their heads in place of helmets which, last Duncan had heard, were required by Oregon law. Also bucking the law of the land, both men wore pistols on their hips in full display, one a chrome revolver, the other a boxy modern semiautomatic with a matte black slide riding atop a light-brown polymer frame.
The biker’s leather vests were adorned with all kinds of different patches, most of which were so small Duncan couldn’t read them. The largest patch, however, which was plastered on the backs of both bikers’ jackets, featured a wild-eyed jester sporting a wicked snarl and brandishing an AK-47—the latter of which was well-known to Duncan from his time spent in Vietnam.
The gang’s name, NOMAD JESTERS, was stitched in red and curled around the ubiquitous jester’s hat in a shallow rainbow-like arc. And embroidered at the bottom of the main patch, in a similar descending arc, was the city which each biker hailed from. The blond biker on the left was from Boise, while the taller, dark-haired biker on the right was from Stanley, Idaho, apparently. And rendered in black on a white background, Nazi swastikas flanked both sides of each chapter city.
“Bad dudes,” Charlie muttered as more of the lead element peeled off and blocked Flavel’s east side, stopping the SUV across the way from completing the intended left turn.
Duncan and Charlie tracked the noisy mob with their eyes as it passed by right-to-left. Scruffy bearded men atop Panheads, Sportsters, Baggers, stretched-out choppers, and a few three-wheeled trikes made up the stream of rolling thunder blipping by. Including the few women in the mix, they all wore hard looks that reeked of bad intention. There were no stuffed animals riding sissy bars on the way to a sick kid’s waiting embrace. In fact, Duncan was certain these wastes of skin had never been on a toy run, let alone set foot anywhere near a Shriner’s Hospital. And it became abundantly clear that benevolence was not their calling card when a pair of them headed up by a big redhead rolled their bikes up to the blocked SUV, where an emaciated woman hopped from the back of the trailing chopper brandishing a stubby revolver. After hitching up her leather pants, the grimy thirtysomething old lady approached the hemmed-in Chevy Tahoe, yelling and waving what looked to be your garden variety snub-nosed .38 Special—a six-shot revolver usually lethal only at close range.
Duncan read the look of terror on the Tahoe driver’s face and saw her mouth moving as she pleaded for her life.
Seeing the carjacking taking place, Duncan realized that until the bike gang moved on he and Charlie were also in danger of losing their ride. So to counter any play they might make for the Dodge, he slipped the .45 from its holster and pressed it flat against the outside of his right leg. Then, still returning the bikers’ steely glares, through clenched teeth he whispered to Charlie, “See if you can reach the shotgun. Move real slow so the dirtbags don’t catch on.”
Ever so subtly, Charlie nodded.
More bikes cleaved through the intersection bouncing on springed suspensions, their long pipes emitting ear-splitting exhaust notes. Those with passengers holding on or that were weighted down with an inordinate amount of supplies out back scraped the oil-streaked roadway, throwing sparks from underneath the already low-to-the-ground machines.
Charlie waited until a Harley loaded down by a case of beer, a bulky bedroll and an especially large beer-bellied biker entered the picture. He timed his move for the moment the bike met the convergence of Flavel and 92nd, where buildup from years of repaving and stop-gap repairs had left the transition lightly raised.
Sure enough, when the tiny wheel and stretched-out front forks crossed the threshold, the emerald green chopper bottomed out with a shrill metal on metal grating noise that momentarily drew the nearby bikers’ undivided attention.
In a smoothly enacted maneuver, while remaining ramrod straight in his seat, Charlie hooked the shotgun’s strap with the toe of his boot, dragged it up to the firewall and balanced the barrel on said toe. Next, with his left hand, he punched free of his seatbelt, leaned forward a degree or two, and lifted the shotgun balanced atop his left foot off of the floor. The combination leg lift and forward cant allowed his left hand to grasp the ribbed pump with the bikers none the wiser.
“Got it,” he whispered, resting the shotgun flat on his lap.
The whole operation took less than two seconds. By the time the leather-clad sentinels swiveled their heads back to the Dodge and lengthening queue of cars formed up on its bumper, some whose drivers were now laying on their horns, Charlie had gotten the pump gun turned around on his lap and had
covertly racked a round into the chamber.
Hearing the telltale click-clack of the pump gun’s well-oiled slide in his right ear set Duncan somewhat at ease. Knowing Charlie had his six definitely went a long way toward bolstering his confidence level. So much so that he made the snap decision to take back the initiative.
Hoping to gain eye contact with one or the other of the sunglass-wearing bikers, Duncan released his grip on the wheel, stuck his left arm out the window, and waved them over.
Boise bit. With the heel of his dusty scuffed boot, he threw out his kickstand. He removed the dark shades and fixed an icy blue-eyed stare on Duncan. Let it hang there for a second before locking eyes with Charlie.
Come to Papa.
Shedding his ventriloquist routine, Charlie raised his voice to be heard above the din. “What the hell are you doing?”
Duncan said nothing. Instead, he smiled and again beckoned at the nearest biker.
Boise unstraddled the vibrating machine.
Fish on.
“Duncan?”
As the flow of bikes, once a massive column consisting of four or five abreast, slackened off to a steady stream of ones and twos, the biker hooked his shades on the collar of his stark white T-shirt and loped up to Duncan’s door.
“The fuck you want?” he growled.
“You have a permit for that parade of clowns?”
“Jesters, asshole. And my permit’s right here, motherfucker,” the biker spat, his hand alighting on the handle of the stainless revolver.
“Well, that’s all fine and dandy. But me and Charlie here are late for an appointment,” Duncan drawled. “Y’all going to be finished soon?”
Wearing an incredulity-filled you’ve got to be kidding me look on his face, the biker shook his head and took a step nearer.
Still locking eyes with Boise’s blue-and-bloodshot orbs, Duncan lifted his left forearm an inch off the window channel and, holding the .45 horizontally, gang-banger style, slipped three inches of its rectangular barrel into the newly created space.
Boise’s eyes went to the gaping muzzle. Then, resembling an Old West gunslinger trying to come to a decision, his eyes narrowed and his gloved fingers hovering over the revolver twitched ever so slightly.
Three booming gunshots sounded from across the street as the redheaded biker, whose body language screamed leader, gunned down a trio of lookie loos drawn to the commotion.
With no hesitation and the largest pistol—short of Dirty Harry Callahan’s .44 Magnum—still clutched in his monstrous fist, the shooter dismounted his bike and sauntered a few feet to the prone and writhing bodies to finish them off execution-style with single point-blank shots to the head.
Boise said, “Three more biters down. Ganz loves killing the infected almost as much as he loves killing cops.”
As much as Duncan hated knowing the truth, the puzzle pieces began interlocking inside his head.
Another pair of Harleys rolled to a stop a yard from the Tahoe’s left side. Immediately a scrawny biker chick crawled from one of the throbbing steeds and, brandishing a pistol, clambered aboard the trapped SUV.
The biker hailing from Stanley called out to the one from Boise. “Shoot ‘em so we can go.”
Seeing the biker chick steer the commandeered Tahoe onto 92nd and fall in behind a handful of straggling Harleys, Duncan shook his head and said, “You don’t want this truck. The A/C don’t work and she’s running on fumes. Besides, Hoss, if you don’t ride off into the sunset after your murdering leader, I’ll blow a forty-five-caliber hole into your belly before your fingers touch that pistola hanging there. Then I’ll put a couple of holes in your buddy and for good measure kneecap ya both and leave you here for the, what’d ya call ‘em … biters?”
Boise’s eyes got big and in rapid succession flicked from the muzzle to Duncan’s eyes, then fixed on the shotgun barrel Charlie was now waggling in his general direction. The biker’s eyes made the circuit once more as another Harley pulled abreast and a heavyset biker chick wiggled off the pill-sized back seat and formed up next to Boise brandishing a shotgun of her own.
“This one’s no good,” Boise said, waving her off. He pointed at something behind the Dodge. “Take the yellow H2 at the back of the line. And tell those fuckers in the little car to quit honking.” Spittle flew from his mouth. “Shoot them if you have to. And make it quick … looks like the National Guard has a block set up down the road.”
“Shit,” said the woman, flashing bad teeth. “Let’s go take ‘em out. Steal the real thing.”
“Not yet,” said Boise, staring her down. “We do what we’re told. And that’s to get some wheels. Not shoot it out with the military … Ganz says we’re not prepared for that yet.”
Glancing sidelong to his left, Duncan watched the scrawny male hop off the newly arrived bike and follow his shotgun-wielding passenger down the left turn lane towards the civilian Hummer.
A half-beat later there was a booming report and the honking stopped.
“Compact driver just bought it,” Charlie said in a funereal voice.
“Stay calm,” Duncan replied under his breath.
The Nomad Jester from Stanley revved his motor and began walking the stretched-out bike toward his Nomad brother.
Boise was looking down the line when another shotgun blast split the air.
Charlie craned over his shoulder. “The walrus-looking bitch just executed the Hummer driver and threw him to the road,” he said, his chest and gut rising and falling noticeably. “And I suspect the soldiers at the roadblock saw and heard it all going down.”
Seemingly unfazed by the brazen acts of violence, Boise swept his gaze left and, seeing the rest of the gang disappearing to the north, made a show of moving his gun hand from his side.
“Shoot the fucker,” Charlie hissed.
“We aren’t the law,” Duncan replied softly as he watched Boise take his sunglasses from his collar and hide his piercing blue Boys from Brazil eyes behind their mirrored lenses.
“It’s your lucky day, Tex,” Boise called out, patting the bulge riding low in his left front pants pocket. “I could radio the others. Have them come back here and skin you alive.”
Duncan couldn’t resist. He said, “You’re right, Clown, I am feeling pretty lucky today. And you can bet none of it’s gonna rub off on you. ‘Cause the way I’m seeing this play out—cavalry coming or not—you go for that radio in your pocket and you’ll be dead and hitting the ground before your fingers get past that shriveled pecker of yours.”
Fingers curling into fists, the Nomad Jester’s jaw took a firm set.
With its engine revving near redline, the yellow Hummer swung hard right and rocked violently as it rolled over its former driver’s prostrate corpse.
Duncan flicked his eyes to the right-wing mirror and saw the big brick-shaped SUV roaring past the compact car and then begin to slow as it drew near to his truck.
Charlie made a play of looking down at the shotgun in his hands then swept his gaze back to Duncan, the look in his eyes screaming, Let’s do them all.
Boise threw his leg over the Harley.
Duncan looked left, then back to Charlie and shook his head. “Not in the cards today.”
Charlie cursed under his breath as the civilian H2 screeched to a halt on his side and the scrawny Nomad Jester leaped out. Grip tightening on the pump gun, he engaged the biker chick driver in a seconds-long staring match, then watched helplessly as the newly disgorged passenger climbed onto his waiting Harley and sped off after the others.
“They’re really leaving,” Duncan whispered, his eyes never leaving Boise as the biker waved for the H2 to follow and committed his Harley to a slow-sweeping left-hand turn across both northbound lanes of 92nd.
Displeasure evident on the biker chick’s face, she flashed Charlie the bird and roared off in the Hummer after the retreating Nomads from Idaho.
“That was close,” Duncan said. He flicked his eyes to the side mirror and saw a b
ody lying fetal in the westbound lane of Flavel. Blood had already pooled around the nearly headless corpse. A wide swath of gore, presumably disintegrated bone, scalp, and hair, painted the deserted street by the corpse’s drawn-up legs. Closer still, on Duncan’s side, he could see the former driver of the H2. Once a very large man, the weight of his own vehicle driving over top of him had crushed him flat and spit him out all twisted up, arms and legs bent at unnatural angles.
Feeling his hands begin to shake, Charlie let go of his death grip on the shotgun. As he placed it back on the floor by his feet, he caught a bit of movement in his wing mirror. So he craned around to see and without missing a beat, said, “The soldiers at 82nd are turning their rig around.”
Flicking his eyes to the mirror, Duncan saw a lone tan Humvee performing a jerky three-point-turn. He was about to turn left and put the pedal to metal to put some distant between them and the soldiers when, in his right peripheral vision, he detected numerous black shapes coming on at a high rate of speed.
More black choppers.
Duncan wisely stood on the brakes and they watched as more Nomad Jesters on Harleys blurred through the intersection, seemingly ahead of their own raucous engine rumble.
“Between a rock and a hard place,” Charlie said, stating the obvious.
Duncan said nothing. He let the engine idle for a few seconds as the Humvee grew larger in the rearview. Then, after a self-imposed five-second delay during which a couple of more motorcycles and a lone SUV following the herd passed in front of them, he hung a slow and steady right turn and then put the pedal to the metal.
Chapter 29
In hindsight waiting those few extra seconds for the remaining bikes and SUV to cross before turning right on 92nd had been the smart thing to do. On one hand, the pause let the soldiers in the advancing Humvee see the tail end of the gang passing right-to-left—surely more tempting a target than two fledgling AARP members in a battered old 4x4 Dodge pick-up pulling away slowly in the opposite direction.
Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (Book 10): Drawl (Duncan's Story) Page 16
