The Black Goat Motorcycle Club

by Murphy, Jason

  Hank ran. As he got closer, he could hear the sounds of a struggle coming from the room. When he got there, Otero and Bullet were leaning over the body.

  "What . . . what are you doing?"

  Bullet looked over her shoulder, as she gripped the dead man's good leg.

  "He's alive."

  "What? But that's . . . his head . . . "

  Otero screamed at him, "Dr. Renard, help us, please!"

  Hank shoved past them to stand over the man. He was thrashing. His eyes were closed, but his mouth opened to show gritted, yellow teeth.

  "Did no one check his vitals?" Otero asked as she attempted to hold him down.

  Bullet nodded. "I did. Twice."

  "Well, you obviously missed something, Miss Boulet."

  Hank tried to grab the man's wrist for a pulse. "Simone, the back of the man's head is gone. He was dead."

  "Clearly not, Doctor."

  The man in the bed began to wail.

  "What in the name of sweet Jesus..." Whitey said.

  He stood in the doorway now, his face as pale as his beard. The man in the bed flailed, bloody froth erupting from his mouth. Hank abandoned searching for a pulse, trying instead to just hold him down. He looked back over his shoulder, "Whitey, help us out here!"

  But a new kind of terror shrouded Whitey's face. He stared at the man in the bed, backing away slowly. Hank looked down. It was a tattoo on the man's back that transfixed Whitey. Between his shoulder blades was a blood red, horned goat.

  "Whitey, come on. What - " But the old man was gone.

  Nurse Otero began to slap the man in the bed across the face.

  "Simone? What the hell?!"

  "We need to get him to calm down."

  "He's seizing, you stupid bitch, not throwing a temper tantrum."

  Otero slapped Hank, a sharp flash across his left cheek. Stunned, Hank released the man and stepped back.

  "What the - "

  Whitey barged past them both before Hank could lay into her. Using his bulky frame like a linebacker, he knocked Otero and Bullet aside and subdued the man with a single broad hand across his chest. With his free hand, he shoved leather restraints into Bullet's chest.

  "Let's get these on him. Now."

  Bullet didn't hesitate. She tethered the man's limbs to the bars on the bed and pulled the buckles tight, leaving the bloody stump of a leg to thrash about.

  Hank, still reeling from Otero's slap, said, "Restraints? I didn't even know we had those."

  "Pulled 'em out of storage," Whitey muttered and backed away from the man as if the convulsing amputee were a live cobra.

  "Whitey, you recognize this guy?" Hank asked.

  "Not now," Otero said. "We need to get him stabilized."

  Bullet said, as if in a daze, "Look at his head."

  She pulled her hands away from him. The back of his head had returned. The skin was smoothed over, as if it hadn't been a gaping hole only minutes ago. It was fresh and clean, like a baby, covering up the hollowed out soft spot where his skull and brains had been.

  "Wait..." Hank started, stepping forward.

  And the trashing stopped. The man's eyes opened. He looked right at Otero and grinned. "Come on, sweetheart. No more slapping? I thought we were gonna play."

  Yelling erupted from the emergency room. Hank looked back, poking his head into the hallway. "Oh, what now?"

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  1:14 PM

  With no idea what to expect, Hank jogged down the hall into the ER. Bullet was right behind him. A frazzled man, about thirty, in a wrinkled black suit was throwing a gurney in front of the automatic doors to the ER's back entrance. Nathan stood next to him, holding his hands out to calm the man. The guy wasn't listening. He was panicked, grabbing whatever he could to block the doors.

  "What's going on? Nathan, what in the hell is this?"

  Before Nathan could answer, the man looked over his shoulder with bloodshot eyes. "There's no time to explain. Help me with this."

  He struggled to move a medicine cabinet, pulling it from the wall. It fell forward with a crash. On the bed nearby, Elena recoiled and pulled her son close to her breast. The man grappled with the fallen cabinet, trying to slide it over to the doors.

  Hank moved on the man, reaching for him. "Hey! Relax! What do you think you're doing?"

  For a moment, the man paused and looked up at Hank with a face etched with fear and determination. "I'm Agent Castle. I'm with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I need you - I'm ordering you - to help me barricade this door."

  "FBI? What?"

  Hank grabbed him by the arm. "Listen, you're scaring everyone and - "

  He wrenched free of Hank's grasp. "Everyone should be scared. Now if you don't help me - "

  "What in God's name are you doing to my emergency room?"

  Otero burst into the room like a banshee. Her hair was coming loose from its usual severe bun and her gaudy Southwestern sweater was smeared with the mystery patient's blood. Even the agent stopped at the sound of her voice.

  Hank looked back at him. "Well, now you get to deal with her."

  He stepped away, giving Otero room to pounce. She moved in, getting in Castle's face.

  "Sir, you need to stop this immediately!"

  Agent Castle stopped, stood up straight, and met her face to face, loosening his thin, black tie. "Do you want to die?"

  This caught Otero off guard. "What? I -- "

  "Because if you don't get your shit together and help me seal this place off, that's what's going to happen. You're going to die. I'm going to die. That boy is going to die."

  Elena clutched Rudy closer. For a moment, everyone was silent and there was only the sound of the automatic doors swishing open and closed. Hank stepped forward, keeping a close eye on the nine millimeter holstered inside the man's jacket. "Alright, pal. That's enough."

  Castle's face went white. He remembered something, something that scared him.

  "Shit. The crate. The crate!"

  He pointed to Nathan. "You. Help me."

  The agent started dismantling his crude barrier, casting aside hospital equipment to get to the doors. Bewildered, Nathan looked to Otero and Hank for guidance.

  Otero stepped in again, but her voice was faltering. "Sir, you are clearly suffering from a mental break. I need you to tell me your name and if you're taking any medication."

  The agent ignored her. He looked back to Nathan before sprinting out into the ER parking lot. "Come with me. Now!"

  Nathan shrugged and followed. Otero called after him, "Nurse Neal!"

  She shook her head and walked angrily back to the nurse's station. "I'm calling Sheriff Larson."

  Hank looked out into the parking lot, watching Nathan help the agent pull a large, heavy crate from the back of a bullet riddled SUV. "Yeah. Call the Sheriff. I think that's a good idea," Hank said to no one but himself.

  He looked over at Elena. One hand held Rudy close. The other gripped a seven shot Luger she kept in her purse. She held it at her side, out of sight, but ready. Hank locked eyes with her. He gave her an affirming nod. She nodded back. Bullet stood next to the back doors. Her body was tense, ready.

  "Bullet, when he comes back in . . . "

  "I got him," she said.

  "What's that noise?" Rudy asked, squirming out of his mother's grasp.

  "Rudy!" she yelled, but he ran to the doors to look outside.

  Hank heard it, too. The roar of a dozen motorcycles. It descended on the hospital, a thunderhead rolling over the building. Arms straining, faces grimacing at the weight, the agent and Nathan dragged the crate inside by its thick chains. The agent sat it down gently and rushed back to work on blocking the door.

  "They're here!" he screamed. "For God's sake, help me!"

  Rudy backed away from the door. Bullet looked to Hank, waiting for a cue. He was about to move to tackle the agent when Otero strode back in.

  "The phone lines are down again. Where is Whitey? I need him to take
a look."

  Hank didn’t move. His heart, already racing, began to flutter with a fear he couldn’t get his hands around. Outside, motorcycles passed by at the far end of the parking lot. Rifles rested on dusty, leather shoulders. Hell's own two-wheeled legion. "I don't think Whitey can fix this."

  Nathan saw it, too. He said nothing, but moved to help Agent Castle barricade the door. The lights flickered. There was the low hum of everything electrical winding down and dying. It went dark and quiet and they found themselves trapped inside a silent, shadowy cone. Someone in the ER gasped. With a click, the emergency lights sputtered to life, making everything look drained of life, like the aftermath of a war. In the parking lot, the bikers revved their engines. They circled, a war party cornering a wagon train.

  Elena clambered down from the bed and went to look. The bikers were sharks moving serenely through the water. Some did lazy donuts on the asphalt. One of them had stopped. He parked at a distance, his bike facing the back doors. Hank stared out at him through the wreckage amassed by the back door. It was a giant of a man, anywhere from thirty to ninety years old under the matted gray dreads that tangled down the black duster he wore. He smoked a cigarillo. His lips curled into a smile around it.

  "Gideon," Agent Castle said in a whisper.

  Elena grabbed Rudy by the shoulder. "Come on. We need to go."

  She tucked the Ruger back into her purse and with her good hand, started pulling the barrier apart.

  "You can't go out there," Castle said.

  "You can't stop me. I have to get home to my other kids. It's my Rudy's birthday. He was having a birthday party and we have to get back to it."

  "Ma'am..." Castle said, but let his voice trail off.

  Hank looked down at Rudy. The kid was scared. He didn't want to go either, but he wasn't about to tell his mother 'no'. She struggled to get around the massive, metal cabinet that lay on its side. Bullet put a hand on her shoulder - not a firm one, just enough to get her attention. Elena stopped and stared straight ahead. She set her jaw and didn't speak, but Hank saw tears welling in her eyes.

  Nathan appeared, running from the lobby. "They're around front, too. They’ve surrounded us."

  Agent Castle came alert again. "How many doors are there to this place?"

  "Not counting this one, three," Nathan said. "No, four."

  Castle's shoulder's sagged. "Four? Jesus, this place . . . "

  Bullet said, "It's indefensible."

  Castle looked to her for help, but she had none to offer.

  Hank asked Nathan, "Is everything locked?"

  "Yeah, for whatever that's worth."

  He was right. The doors were glass. They wouldn't stop some meth-fueled biker with a shotgun.

  "Why aren't they trying to come in?" Otero asked. She had shrank now, staying back the farthest from the doors.

  Agent Castle looked out as they continued to circle. "They want us to know we're trapped."

  "I bet they're looking for drugs. They're Zetas. From Mexico," Elena said, shaking her head.

  Everyone winced when she said 'Zeta'. Even Bullet pulled back a bit from the doorway. She spoke up, thinking out loud. "They're probably here for oxy and morphine."

  "Then give it to them!" Elena said, now putting Rudy squarely behind her.

  "They're not here for drugs," Hank said. "Are they, Agent Castle?"

  Hank looked over at the old crate, then back at Castle. Castle, crouched behind a tipped-over gurney, said nothing. The crate was big, seven feet long by three feet wide. It was splintered and scuffed in places, but still sturdy. Knives had gouged fresh scars into the wood, profanities and epithets. The chains were absurdly thick, reminding Hank of the anchor to a boat. They criss-crossed all over the thing, with multiple padlocks to keep them in place.

  "Castle, what's in there?"

  Before Castle could answer, gunshots erupted. Hank stumbled backwards, careening wildly. He landed on his ass, rolled over, and started to crawl. Castle drew his Glock while Bullet pulled away from the door, shielding her face with her arm. Elena Solis jerked Rudy aside, putting the bed between them and the doors. Otero ran in wild, clumsy circles, trying to find somewhere to hide. Sliding on his stomach, Hank made his way to the barricade. The glass doors of the ER were intact. The men outside weren’t firing at them. Not yet. Peeking over the overturned gurneys and piled up equipment, he saw that they had stopped circling. With a slavering fervor, some of them fired their guns into the air. A gaunt, bald man with leathery skin stretched over old bones lowered his rifle and beat at his chest, screaming to the sky. A fat woman with a hair-lip and an Iron Maiden t-shirt joined him. The rest revved their engines loud enough that Hank thought the glass doors would shatter. From deep in the hospital, he could barely hear their legless mystery patient howl along with them. He hooted like an ape in a rage. A crescendo of black powder, gasoline, and screams. Hank wanted to curl up in a ball and cover his ears. He spotted the symbol of the horned goat on one of their jackets and saw that it was everywhere - tattooed on flesh and painted on chassis.

  "The Black Goats?" Hank asked Castle.

  Castle only nodded, too frightened to look away. Hank said to Nathan, "The radio."

  Nathan, crouching next to him, just narrowed his eyes as if he didn't understand.

  "The radio. It's in a box somewhere in the nurse’s station. Do you know how to use it? Wait. Shit! The power..."

  Nathan's eyes caught fire. "It's on a battery."

  "Hook it up."

  Nathan ran to the nurse's station and hopped over the desk. He started to rifle through the boxes stored beneath it. The roaring and screaming finally died. Some of the Goats laughed. Hank could hear the patient, still bound to his bed, cackle.

  Hank looked for Otero. She was crouched in the shadows, hiding in a corner of the ER. "Simone, go give that guy a sedative."

  She just stared at him.

  "Simone! The guy in the bed. Knock him out. Go."

  As if jerked from some fugue, she nodded and stood. She smoothed out her slacks, pulled an errant strand of hair out of her eyes, and Hank watched her jaw set with that imperious scowl he loved so much. In no hurry, she strode back to the west wing.

  Hank looked to Bullet, who crouched next to the doors. "Bullet, can you go check on Mr. Oliver, please?"

  Her eyes went wide. Everyone had forgotten about him. She nodded and ran, following Otero to the west wing.

  "How many patients are here?" Castle asked.

  "Aside from Elena here? Just one. Mr. Oliver."

  "What's his condition? Can he run?"

  Hank frowned. "Stage four colo-rectal cancer."

  "Shit."

  "Yeah."

  Hank turned his attention back to the invaders. The one called Gideon sat on his bike and smoked a cigarillo, looking imperious. A giant, gray beast on his throne. He smiled and joked with the hair-lipped woman. She smiled, showing the rotting wreckage of her teeth. A gangly one crouching on the curb took a long drag from a cigarette and looked up at the fall sky. They were in no hurry. This was fun to them. They were tailgating. A surge of icy fear spread out from his center and found its way to his bladder. The day’s bourbon nearly came spilling out down his leg. The men outside weren’t angry or desperate. It’s like they were bored. And he realized he had no way to rationalize that. There was no way to apply bedside manner or basic psychology to make sense of this. Hank looked at Castle and pointed to the crate. "Maybe we should just give them that and see what happens. Give them that and their naked friend back there."

  Castle stared at him. "What? What friend?"

  "Yeah, we've got one of these guys chained to a bed in the west wing. He was . . . when Whitey brought him in, we thought . . . " Hank shook his head, unsure of how to continue.

  "You have one of them? Here? Why?"

  Nathan interrupted, "Dr. Hank! I got it!"

  Hank stayed low, shuffling along the ER floor towards the nurse's station. Nate tried to raise Sheriff Larson - or
anyone - on the radio.

  "Umm. Mayday? This is Nathan Neal at Tribes Memorial. Sheriff Larson, do you copy?"

  There was only static. "Keep trying," Hank said.

  Hank turned to Agent Castle. "Agent, I think you need to tell us just what in the hell is - "

  The static on the radio stopped. Someone was transmitting. Nathan turned up the volume and listened. There was a conflagration of noise coming through. Hank recognized it as the roar of motorcycles. And screams. His heart sank.

  A voice came through. "Nate? This is . . . this is the Sheriff. I . . . I need you to call for help. I'm hurt. I'm hurt pretty bad. There's so damned many - "

  Static cut him off. "Sheriff? Sheriff, do you read me?"

  The next shot rang out with a pop! The glass above the barrier by the door shattered. Elena screamed again, but it was cut short by another shot. And then another. Then a torrent of gunfire. Agent Castle scrambled back from the rain of glass. Hank instinctively ducked. Plaster exploded near his head.

  "Down!"

  The roar of the gun blasts was constant. Bits of their makeshift barricade flew off as the bullets chewed them up. A cardboard box on the counter exploded into pieces. Hank threw himself flat on the cold, marble floor. He could hear the zip! and feel the heat of bullets that came too close. The clean plaster and tiled walls erupted in bursts of powder. The curtains whipped about like ghosts in a hurricane. The ceiling tiles rained down in bits of dirty, white debris. Lights shattered. They swung crooked from their supports. Bedding material shot into the air, a miasma of feathers and scorched cotton. Hank combat-crawled back towards the barricade, hands over his ears. Castle was making himself as small as possible, bullets spraying around him.

  "Shoot back!" Hank screamed at him.

  Castle looked at him, uncomprehending.

  It stopped. Smoke and powdered plaster choked the air. Ruined chunks of wall and ceiling continued to fall. Hank got to his knees and peered over the barrier with Castle. The one he called Gideon was off of his bike and leisurely crossing the parking lot towards the ER. A gangly freak of a man, like something out of a carnival sideshow, flanked his left. To his right, was a giant woman with a hard, German face and a greasy, dark mullet. They took their time.