Looking around, he couldn't see any of the Goats. That was good. That meant they couldn’t see him, either. But he could hear them. All around the small hospital, the engines growled and Nathan was perched on the tongue of a churning maw. Then there was the smoke. It came from the trailer park. Not just one cloud, but several merging to choke out the sky. Yet there were no fire engines. No sirens. No one had been brought into the ER. Somewhere out there was Erica. Had she gone to her parents? Had she gone shopping in Tucson? Or was she in a burning trailer right now, surrounded by the Black Goats? Nathan held on to that. He grabbed it between his teeth and let it settle into his bones. Erica.
Scanning the southern side of the rooftop, he found his approach. Close to the edge, but not too close, was an air conditioning unit. It was just big enough to conceal him. He scurried over to it and peeked around. In the emergency lot behind the ER, he counted seven. Some took lazy shots with their pistols at the shuttered door. Others drank or smoked. Some rode in slow circles, doing donuts around the rest of them. It reminded him of a tailgate party. The one they called Gideon sat slumped over on his bike. His long gray dreadlocks, now stained with blood, swayed in the breeze. But he was breathing. He was breathing and that was impossible. Not just improbably or unlikely. Impossible. Nathan squinted and inched forward as much as he dared and every time one of the Black Goats moved, he fought the urge to flinch, to turn and run back to the trapdoor.
Gideon was still alive. He was clearly hurt and his duster was in bloody tatters, but he was still alive. Nathan had seen the hole open up in his chest. Sure, he was on the other side of the ER, but he'd seen the light from outside break through the wound, like in the movies. It had to have obliterated a good chunk of the man's spine and shredded his insides. He shouldn't have just died - he should have died instantly. And behind him, sitting under a tree in a small, manicured island in the asphalt, was Panzer. The grass at the base of the tree was now a crimson carpet. Panzer sat there and Nathan could see her chest heaving. Her left arm, from the elbow down, was a bloody mess. It was crudely bandaged and looked to be tied off with a leather belt. It was possible that a normal person could have lived, but . . . not likely. In between the Gideon and Panzer was the skinny one, Harlan. In spite of taking a full clip of nine-millimeter rounds, he was fine. He sat astride his motorcycle, defiantly revving the engine. Nathan's mind immediately jumped to kevlar, but there was none. The freak just wore a filthy tank top. Even from his perch on the roof, Nathan could see the blood, the bullet holes. Just to the left of all of this was Nathan’s target. The ambulance, thirty feet away from the main building, rested under a sheet metal carport that connected to the side of the hospital. If he could stay low, he could lower himself down, crawl across the roof of where the carport connected to the building, drop down on the other side of the ambulance, and climb behind the wheel before anyone spotted him. Midway across, the branches of a palo verde tree, with its thick canopy, provided some cover. A surge of adrenaline flushed through him. He said a quick prayer that spun apart into panicked worries before amen, and laid flat on his stomach.
He squirmed along towards the edge, trying to make himself invisible. The roof was coated with tarred gravel. It jabbed into his ribs and made long, loud crunches as he moved. At the precipice, he poked his head over. The carport was a four foot drop from where he lay. He held his breath and looked at all of them. They weren't looking, but he was close and would be exposed the second he tried to leap down. Rather than jumping, he eased his legs over and lowered himself. The second his foot touched the roof of the carport, he dropped and went prone. He listened. The roof of the carport vibrated as the Goats rode beneath it. No one screamed an alert. No shots zipped in his direction. Slowly, he inched towards the branches of the palo verde. Even now, lying flat, they might see him. If they were at the right angle and looked up . . .
The branches enveloped the top of the carport. While they provided cover, he'd have to navigate them without causing too much disturbance. Gingerly, he raised himself up and over. He crawled through them like tripwires on a battlefield, but as he got closer, they became too thick. Nathan gently raised up into a crouch, trying to part the branches with his hands while -
His ankle flared with pain and his leg was pulled out from under him. He slammed down onto the carport roof and started to slide. A chain was wrapped around his lower leg. At the other end down below was Harlan, grinning and reeling him in. Nathan flailed, trying to grab anything before going over the edge. He grasped a branch and felt it slip from his fingers, leaving only splinters. Then the carport was gone. The asphalt of the parking lot rushed up to meet him.
***
"No. No. No!" Hank yelled.
He stepped away from the bullet hole in the shutter and felt vomit surge to the back of his throat. Nathan had hit the ground hard. The Goats rushed in like wild dogs. He couldn't watch. Bullet and the others had stood nearby as Hank told them what he saw, but now . . .
"What?" Bullet asked. "What is it?"
He looked up at her and felt tears well up. "They got him."
"Move." Bullet pushed him aside to peek through the hole in the metal.
Hank heard her whimper. Outside, the cacophony intensified. There was laughter. It curdled his stomach. Bullet watched.
"Ms. Boulet?" Otero asked. "What's happening?"
"They're beating him. Kicking him. Hitting him with chains..." Her voice trailed off. She slid away from the hole and her face was slack with horror.
Hank pressed his face to the opening in the door, trying to get a better view. They crowded around Nathan, laughing and spitting on him. One of them started to piss. The rest cackled. Harlan stepped out of the crowd, still holding the chain like a leash. He hopped back on his bike and tied his end of the chain to the chassis.
"Oh Jesus," Hank said.
"Somebody fucking do something!" Rudy said. His face was contorted with tears and rage.
Otero looked as if she would slap him. "Young man, you watch your language."
"Fuck you! They're going to kill him!"
Harlan, throttled the engine and looked back. He smiled at the gang and it was almost inhuman - a gaping, jagged grin that made no sense to Hank. Then the lanky biker released the clutch. The bike's front wheel raised up as the back wheel shredded the asphalt beneath it. Then it took off, dragging Nathan behind. The crowd yowled and raised their hands high. Even Gideon and Panzer, with wounds that should have killed them, joined in.
Hank pulled away again. His hands shook. Everything inside him went soft and cold.
"What are they doing, Hank?" Bullet asked.
He shook his head. He couldn't speak.
"Tell me. What's happening?"
His words came out hoarse and wet. "They're dragging him."
And in that second, the beauty of Bullet's lean face was gone. She became hard and sharp. Fury gleamed. She turned and strode across the ER, clutching the tiny Ruger. "Bullet?" Hank called out, but she wasn't listening.
Each step was quick and with purpose. Radiating with determination, she crossed into the lobby and went to the front storm door. For Hank, the realization sank in as she crouched to unlock it. He tried to move. He wanted to stop her, but she was on the other side of the building now and nothing in Hank’s body seemed to work under the wave of fear. He was wading through wet cement. "Bullet!"
She threw the latch and raised the door just high enough to crawl under. Hank was sprinting now, watching her disappear through the broken glass and into the late afternoon light. He was screaming at her, but the words were just noises. He stopped short at the door and looked underneath.
Bullet marched out in front of the hospital, down the main sidewalk. He could see by her gait, the loose way her legs moved, that Bullet was gone. She was firing blindly at them, standing exposed. The Goats were surprised. Some of them ducked behind their bikes or dove behind cars in the front parking lot.
Harlan sped by. He laughed directly at her. Behind hi
m, Nathan - all raw meat and compound fractures, struggled weakly at the chain that held him. His head smashed a curb and left a red, wet spot. His body went wobbly. Hank could see the asphalt stripping away long, rough swaths of skin.
Hank was running. Before he knew what was happening, he was under the storm door and moving towards Bullet. Her gun was empty now, but she dry fired at Harlan as the biker went for another lap around the hospital. Hank was halfway to her when the rest of the Goats started to shoot back. He felt the heat of a bullet flash by his face. The concrete of the sidewalk burst up in pockets of dust. Bullet just stood there, seemingly unaware. She lowered the gun and stared at her feet. She was standing on a streak of Nathan’s blood and viscera that was smeared across the pavement. Slowly, she knelt and pulled a small, silver crucifix – Nathan’s necklace - from out of the gore. She held it up and just looked at it. Hank got to her as she stood and a shot tore through her shoulder. She fell back onto him without a sound and he threw his arms around her waist. He dragged her back. She pedaled clumsily with him and he struggled to keep them upright, to keep them moving. The shots continued. Hank pushed her in front of him, towards the front door. His back was to the parking lot. The blood from her wound slicked his hands and he expected a hail of bullets to chew into him.
The storm door had closed. Hank shoved Bullet aside and struggled to raise it. More bullets. They bounced off the metal and he felt tiny, hot shards burn through his pants and embed in his skin. The door gave way and rose up. Whitey stuck his head under, followed by his shotgun, and returned fire.
"Get your asses in here!"
Hank grabbed Bullet by the arm and shoved her inside. He dove after her. Whitey slammed the door back into place. Hank rolled over. Broken glass cut into his chest. He ignored it, reached over, and locked the shutter. Whitey reloaded and looked at Bullet. She was weeping, staring off into nothing.
"Damn, girl." Whitey shook his head. "God damn."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Nurse Otero furiously swept the floor. Her bun, which she'd refastened at least three times, came unwound again and dangled in her face. It was unprofessional. This entire place was a circus, even before the maniacs on their motorcycles arrived. If they'd only let her run things as she saw fit, but no. No, there was always some hotshot getting in the way, like Dr. Renard. Some hotshot who thought his fancy education made him better, made him smarter, than the rest of the people who lived and worked and raised their families here.
She swept at the chunks of dry wall, not realizing that using the broom was like trying to drink up the ocean. And just standing there, watching her work, was Rudy Solis, the little fiend. He always had a foul mouth. His mother clearly didn't know what she was doing. She let him ride his bicycle around town at all hours, causing trouble. He was a bad apple, just like his whore mother. And now he was staring at her with wide, red-rimmed eyes. He judged her. He looked at her like she was crazy. Everything else was crazy. Everything else had fallen apart. She was the only one who was keeping this from going straight to hell.
"Young man. Come here."
Rudy came over to her, but took his time, of course.
"Vamanos. Right now."
She thrust the broom into his hand. He stared at it, uncomprehending.
"You need to make yourself useful, young man. Instead of standing there crying like a little baby. You're old enough to help out. You need to start helping. Now get this cleaned up."
As she walked away, Rudy only stood there with a confused look on his face. He'd figure it out. She'd return in a minute and if he wasn't getting it done, she'd teach him that she was serious. She looked back into the ER to see them gathered around Ms. Boulet, treating her wound. It was what she deserved, wandering out there and firing at them. She was no better than they were. In fact, she probably associated with some of the bikers, if rumors were to be believed. Boulet probably did dance at the Blue Bunny. She seemed like the immodest type, like someone who would strip naked for strangers. No, Otero wouldn't be surprised at all.
This was God's judgement. This was His wrath brought down on them. It wasn't the first time she'd thought it. Boulet was a stripper with no fear of God. Dr. Renard was prideful and an alcoholic. The boy was insolent and she knew for a fact, a bastard. Elena Solis, his mother, tarted up all whorish, had already paid for her sins. And Nathan. She felt a tinge of sadness at Nurse Neal. He was trying to be a good Catholic boy. He’d converted for his wife. He was quiet and usually respectful. But she’d missed something. There was something about him that she didn’t know, clearly. It wasn’t her place to know. Questioning why he was punished was questioning God’s will. She was only there to bear witness.
She strode into the bathroom and in the sickly green fluorescent, again pulled her hair tight into a bun. Her clothes were rumpled now and entirely unpresentable. It was shameful. Still, The Lord would see her through. Once Boulet's wound was addressed and she'd seen to Mr. Oliver, she'd witness to them. They likely wouldn't listen, but it was her responsibility. There was a bible in the desk in her office and she already had verses chosen.
She exited the bathroom and walked with her head high, pushing away the shame of the fear she'd shown earlier. She had nothing to fear, not here. This was not her time to die. And if it was, if God saw fit to take her along with these others, then she was ready. She was at peace and could meet Him at His throne.
Room 5W, Mr. Oliver's room, was halfway down the West Wing. It was kept dim, usually with just a bedside lamp glowing. The machinery that monitored and kept him alive clicked and beeped. Otero checked his chart and noted without surprise that no one had tended to him - their only patient - in hours. It was inexcusable. And now that Nurse Neal was dead, this would fall in her lap. Of course. Everything else did.
Lane Oliver spent most of his days - his last days - asleep. The morphine drip took the edge from his pain, but was potent enough to keep him in almost constant torpor. Even the clamor the bikers were making hadn't stirred him. They were lucky for that. On the rare occasion he was awake and lucid, he was a prickly old fart. He was their only patient and he knew it. He was happy to boss them around. Otero didn't put up with it, but still managed to treat him with dignity. Dr. Renard, on the other hand, treated him like an old sack of meat. It was disgraceful.
Now, in the faint glow of the bedside lamp, he looked more bone than meat. The cancer was everywhere now. What started in his colon was now in his bones, his lungs, and his brain. His hair was gone and the color of his skin had long since sapped away. The look on his face was the contorted grin that lay somewhere between a smile and a scream. She'd seen it many times on the faces of terminal patients. Always elderly, always dying. His chest fluttered shallowly as he wheezed beneath the oxygen mask. Even in his sleep, his gnarled fingers - claws now - clutched at the bedsheets. This was what God has visited upon him. It wasn’t something to be excused or explained. It just was. Maybe he deserved it. Maybe not. It wasn’t her place to say. When the good Lord presented her with someone she was to shepherd into death, she did so with respect. You didn’t question God if you respected him, if you feared him. So she realized the true nature of today. It was a test. If she questioned the deaths of those who were taken, she would fail. Instead, she would thank God for this judgement.
Thank you for bringing your wrath down on Nurse Neal, oh Heavenly Father.
We are blessed with the punishment you cast upon the whore, Elena Solis.
This cancer that rots every inch of Mr. Oliver is a gift. May he learn from it. May we all see your grace in his suffering.
Nurse Otero crossed herself and stepped out into the hallway. There was something she had forgotten. It tugged at the back of her mind. She turned around, half expecting to see someone at the end of the hall. Instead, there was a carpet of broken glass and up against the wall, a motorcycle. A motorcycle! She sniffed with disgust and headed back towards the center of the hospital.
But something . . . As she walked, she knitted her
brow. She felt like a phone was ringing, or as if she'd heard the doorbell while in the shower. It flitted away again, like a wisp of smoke in a dark room. At the end of the hall, she found herself standing, trying to put it together. In front of her, next to the nurse's station, the boy was sweeping. He looked up at her, "Ma'am, uncle check gone at the where you might uncle?"
She nodded, trying to piece together exactly what he said. The words were there. They turned softly around in her mind as she tried to grab them, to push them together in a way that meant something. The boy stopped sweeping and looked her right in the eye. "Mrs. Otero, aren't you going to go check on your uncle?"
She nodded again. "Yes. My uncle."
How could she have forgotten? He was at the end of the hall. It was room eight. Or was it six? Of course. He wasn't well. Tio Sesar. She was the one taking care of him. She'd need help, though. She needed the boy. Tio Sesar would like to meet him. He had a soft spot for children.
"Young man. Come with me."
Rudy was clearly confused, but smart enough not to backtalk her. He leaned the broom against the wall and followed her back down the east hallway.
That must have been what she heard. Tio Sesar had called her. He needed something and called her, but his voice was too weak. She was a terrible niece and hoped he would forgive her. He probably needed a snack or book to read. She walked down to room six and opened the door.
The candlelight always soothed her. She kept votives lit for him at all times, out of reach so that he couldn't knock them over, but just enough to give the room a warm glow. It was her favorite, and his, and she always made sure the Virgin Mary candle stayed lit. The sepia-toned picture of her grandmother sat next to it.
The Black Goat Motorcycle Club Page 9
