"All the old folks are out there," he told Chris and Jack. He took the joint from Jack, pulled down a hit. Then he picked up the telephone. "I'll call the other guys. Hey, the phone's dead."
"What is going on?" Chris went to the window.
With startling clarity, a voice sounded over the Civil Defense public address system, silencing everybody. "This is an emergency. Repeat, emergency. All residents assemble on the beach. All residents assemble on the beach as quickly as possible. Do not stop for anything. Your lives depend on moving quickly. Repeat, this is an emergency."
"Who's that?" Roger asked.
"It isn't the sheriff. That's not his voice," said Chris. "Let's get moving, maybe mom and dad will need help."
"Let Sheriff Fletcher help them," Jack blurted. "We help ourselves. With everyone down on the beach, we can take whatever we want. We could get a whole mountain of loot. We could be set for years!"
"What are you talking about?" said Roger.
"You can forget that," Chris glared at Jack. "The law says looters get shot."
"He goes to college and he thinks he's a lawyer," Jack sneered. "Who's going to see us? It's dark out there. It'll be like Watts. Everybody gets a color TV."
* * *
Glen Shepard riffled through his wife's closet in search of a maternity dress. Ann waited, sitting on the edge of the bed, eight months pregnant. She picked up the bedside phone, dialed, listened. She clicked the receiver several times.
"Come on, stand up, let's get some clothes on the sleepwalker."
"The phone isn't working."
"Lines are probably jammed. Everyone calling at once."
"No, there's no tone at all."
"Arms up." He dropped the dress over her head, guiding it over her shoulders. "I'll go find out what's going on, but you've got to be ready to move."
"Why? If it's war, we're in the best place we can be. And if it isn't, there's nothing anyone..."
"Just turn on the radio," Glen cajoled his wife, his voice soothing. Anemic because of her pregnancy, she had not worked in weeks. She had stayed in the house, slept, and if awake had alternated between boredom and bad-temper. "I'll be back from the beach in a few minutes. I saw everyone on the block go down that way ten minutes ago."
They heard heavy boots on the porch. Their dog, a year-old rotweiller, ran from the back of the house and barked a challenge.
"I'll see who it is," Glen told her. He walked quickly through the house. He pushed aside the front curtains.
"Who's there?"
"Get to the beach! This is an emergency."
Glen switched off the living room lights, simultaneously flicking on the porch light. He saw a bearded, leather-jacketed man in a chromed Nazi helmet. He saw the longhair swinging a short-barreled shotgun toward him.
Even as he stumbled back, the door exploded in front of Glen, the lock and knob and door jam disintegrating. Glen fell backward, and tumbled to the floor.
The man kicked the door open, saw the dog, fired again. The blast took away the dog's foreleg at the shoulder. The yelping animal rebounded from the wall and, in crazed rage, leaped at the man. The gun blasted again, and the dog's head disappeared in a red splash. The gunman stepped over the twitching remains and pointed the sawed-off barrel at Glen's face.
"Up, motherfucker! Out on the street! Who else is in here?" The biker stepped past Glen, started toward the bedroom.
"NO!" Glen screamed, lunging up from the floor. He grabbed the weapon with both hands, trying to twist it away. The biker kneed him in the stomach. Then he whipped the shotgun's stock into Glen's face.
Blood and broken teeth sprayed from the householder's mouth. Glen attacked again. The bearded man grinned and kicked Glen in the stomach with vicious force, slamming him back against the wall.
"Okay, hero. Die."
Glen twisted away as the biker fired once more.
Pellets slashed his back. He scrambled across the floor on his hands and knees. There was another blast behind him, then another and another. It was the biker who fell hard, groaning.
Ann stood in the doorway, their Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum in her hands, the Model 13's four-inch barrel still smoking.
A voice called from the street. "What's going on in there? Bull!"
Blood foamed from the mouth of the longhair on the floor.
Glen saw him try to grasp a pistol in a shoulder holster, trying to get a hold on it inside his jacket. Glen grabbed the shotgun from the floor. He pointed it at the man's head and pulled the trigger. Nothing. He pumped the slide, heard the hammer click. Empty.
As the biker finally pulled the pistol from the holster, Glen swung the shotgun like a club and smashed the man's head. He brought down the shotgun three times.
A gun blast outside sent slugs ripping through the house. "Down, Ann!" screamed Glen. The words felt strange coming from his numb, shattered mouth. Then he crawled again, kicked the front door closed, dragged the couch across the doorway. Glass and plaster fell around him as more bullets punched through the house.
"Glen, where are you?" Ann screamed.
"I'm okay, I'm okay. Lie down on the floor. Go back to the bedroom."
He crawled back to the dying biker. The man still breathed. Glen found his revolver, a snub-nosed stainless steel Colt Lawman. He put the pistol in his pants pocket. He searched through the man's jacket pockets, finding speed-loaders and a box of cartridges. He unbuckled the nylon bandolier of shotgun cartridges from the man's waist, then he took the bloody shotgun and crawled out of the living room.
Ann lay on the bedroom floor. The Smith and Wesson was still firmly in her grip. Her swollen breasts rose and fell with deep, slow breathing. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Is the baby..."
"What's wrong? Someone's shooting at us! I'm trying to stay calm. Did I kill him?"
"Not quite..."
She was pissed. Pregnant and pouting, she cursed the biker. "I can't stand this — Oh, God! Your face, you're..."
"I can get new teeth. Now we have to get out."
"What's happening out there? Where can we go?"
Glen threw open the back window. "Away from here. Let's go."
* * *
"Mom! Dad! You here?" Chris Davis walked through his parents' home, calling out. No one answered. He glanced into the bedroom. A commercial jingle prattled from the bedside clock-radio. He went to the living room and saw the front door standing open. He looked outside. The street was empty.
"They here?" his cousin Roger called from the kitchen.
"No."
Gunshots boomed through the night. Jack Webster raced in through the kitchen door. "Someone's shooting on the other side of the block!"
"Christ. A shotgun." Chris locked and chained the front door. He hurried through the house, turning off all the lights, checking the windows and patio doors.
"Still want to go looting?" he cried at Jack as they passed each other.
There were more shots a few blocks away, toward the beach. The youths looked at each other, words failing them. Then a strange scream came from the street. It rose and fell; it wasn't a scream of fright, it was like a rebel yell. It ended in a crackle of mad laughter and the roar of a motorcycle engine.
The three teens heard the sound of their surfboards fall. They had leaned the boards against the back fence. Someone was coming in through the back.
The house was dark. Chris felt his way to his father's study. Roger and Jack were only a step behind him. Chris didn't risk turning on the lights.
"Gimme the lighter, Jack."
By the flame's soft glow, Chris found the second drawer of his father's desk, pulled it out, found the key taped to the underside. It was the spare key to the gun closet.
From the closet he removed the long-barreled semi-automatic 12-gauge that his father had used to win second place in Catalina's trap shooting tournament. Also the double-barreled 12-gauge that his dad took hunting. He passed the double-barreled weapon to his cousin Roger.
"What do I
get?" Jack protested. "I've got to have..."
"Here." Chris passed him a holstered pistol.
"An automatic. Wow. What about ammunition?"
"In those pouches on the belt." Chris found a day pack in the closet drawers, hastily dumped boxes and boxes of 12-gauge shells in the pack.
The back door screen rattled. Chris fed shells into the long shotgun's magazine. He passed a handful of shells to Roger.
Jack struggled to fasten the gun belt around his waist as he walked to the kitchen. Once there, he unsnapped the holster flap, took out the Colt .45, pointed it at the shadow on the kitchen door and pulled the trigger, even as Chris smashed the pistol down..
"You jerk-off!" Chris hissed. "We don't know who's out there. Anyway, you have to cock an automatic." Chris worked the shotgun's action, calling out in a loud voice: "Who's out there? Identify yourself or I'll fire!"
"Don't shoot..." a woman pleaded.
"It's Glen Shepard, from the other street..."
"That's the political freak, the guy with all the bumper stickers," Jack said.
"Please let us in," said a male voice. "My wife's pregnant..."
Roger opened the door. Even in the semi-darkness, the curly-haired boy had to turn away when he saw Glen Shepard. Glistening blood covered his face and chest. There was blood on his hands up to his elbows. His pregnant wife was smeared with it.
"God, what happened?" Chris asked.
Glen helped Ann to a chair. "A hoodlum shot his way into our house," said Glen, gasping for breath. In the window's light, they saw that most of his teeth were gone. "Ann gunned him down. Then a bunch of them started shooting at the house..."
"We've got to call the sheriff." Roger went to the kitchen's wall phone and dialed in nervous desperation. He clicked the receiver twice.
"Nothing, right?" Glen asked.
"The line's dead."
Outside, shots popped in the distance. More shots burst out on the other side of the block. Glen took a dishrag from the sink and wiped off the bloodied shotgun he was carrying.
"I think it's up to us to help ourselves," he muttered.
3
Islanders in robes, pajamas, casual clothes crowded the wide walkway that paralleled the beach. Family groups and clusters of neighbors waited for official explanation of this emergency assembly. The sirens were wailing again. It was ten minutes since they had heard the voice over the loudspeakers.
Babies cried; children ran through the cold tide-soaked sand, parents calling after them. Friends talked and waved to each other and introduced neighbors. Islanders continued to stroll down from the residential areas. In twos and threes they joined the mass of people already on the beach. They too talked animatedly with their neighbors as they walked.
One man on the beach — stocky, his short hair sticking up in various directions — limped from group to group, always questioning. People shrugged, shook their heads.
Then he went in to one of the tourist hotels, The Pavilion Lodge.
"Hey, Max!" The desk clerk called out to the limping man as he crossed the lobby. "You talked to the sheriff yet?"
"Can't find him anywhere," Max said. "I been up and down the beach. Haven't talked to anyone who has seen him, either."
"Christ, just what we need," the clerk complained. "A weekend crowd in the hotel and we get an emergency I can't even explain."
"Pass out the complimentary booze," Max smiled. He was almost an old-timer on the island. "Keep them pacified." Despite the lobby's warmth, he kept his coat closed. He was shivering. He wore a sports coat, slacks, a pinstripe shirt with a tie, shined shoes: Max was a traveling salesman accustomed to dressing quickly.
"Not that easy," the clerk told him. The balding man leaned across his desk, spoke quietly. "I got some people here — the reservation came on a fancy corporate letterhead, they pay with corporate checks, but they've got two Secret Service agents with them. I can tell. These big guys in gray suits, nasty metal things with handles on them right here..." the clerk reached for his left armpit, "...you get the picture. They ask me what's going on, I can't tell them. They look at me like I'm dog shit on their shoe."
"Do you really think they're Secret Service?" Max had studied all the guests in the lobby. He saw one wide-shouldered young man with a briefcase in his hands, stationed in front of the door leading to the hotel's party lounge, who looked like he was on a military field, standing at parade rest.
The clerk pointed at his lapel. "They got these little buttons — and anyway, the sheriff told me. There's two of them with these six professor types. Why did all this have to happen this weekend?"
Max stared hard at the young Secret Service agent, then he turned and without a word limped quickly out of the hotel. As he did so, there was the nearby sound of automatic weapon fire.
* * *
"Mayday, Mayday!" the officer chanted into the shortwave radio's microphone. "This is Deputy Sheriff Fletcher of the Avalon Sheriff's Office on Santa Catalina Island. We are under attack by an armed motorcycle gang. We are under attack by an armed motorcycle gang. They have automatic weapons. They have killed several residents. They are taking hostages.
"Mayday, Mayday. Please, anyone hearing this call, notify the mainland. We are under attack..."
The young deputy heard motorcycles, then voices. The glass of the office's front door shattered.
"Mayday, Mayday. This is Santa Catalina Island. We are under attack by a motorcycle gang. They are killing..."
Shotgun blasts rocked the outer office. As he spoke into the microphone, the deputy took out his speed-loaders and laid them on the table in front of him. Then he cocked his .38 service revolver and aimed it at the closed inner office door. He heard the front door being kicked open. He heard the sickening shock of rifle fire and shotgun blasts. Slugs punched through the office wall.
"...This is the Avalon Sheriffs Office! We are under attack by a motorcycle gang. Contact the mainland. All communications here are dead. Please contact the..."
Sections of the wall exploded inward. Plaster, framed photos and certificates, books flew through the office. Deputy Fletcher felt a slug rip across the top of his thigh. He fired his .38 at the door. The pistol made only a pop-pop-pop against the noise and chaos.
Then a shock literally threw him against the radio.
As he lost consciousness, he raised his pistol to fire at the silhouette in the doorway.
* * *
Howling and laughing, the Outlaws swept down from the hills, islanders sprinting in panic before them. The bikers fired their weapons into the night sky as they herded groups of residents to the beach. Forming bike lines of chrome and steel where the side streets met the beach walkway, they blocked any escape.
From the south, a line of Outlaws pushed the crowd toward the old Casino. Shouting commands, firing weapons over the heads of their prisoners, the bikers rode handlebar to handlebar. Other men on motorcycles criss-crossed the beach, their wheels throwing sprays of sand and salt water, cutting off the few islanders who had attempted to dash to small boats moored only a few yards offshore in the calm bay.
Gang members ordered the tourists from the hotel lobbies, then searched the rooms. Those who attempted to hide, or who struggled when they were dragged out, suffered a kick in the groin and a smash over the head from a gun butt.
Max limped beside his wife and teenage daughter. He watched for a chance to break free. He had lived on the island for the fifteen years since his discharge from the army. He knew every shop, every doorway, every alley. He pulled his wife Carol and his daughter Julia close to him and said:
"We're going to slip away from here. Move over toward the shops as we walk..."
"You can't outrun them," his wife told him. "You try and..."
"I know I can't run. That little alley beside Jim Peterson's restaurant? The lock on the gate is broken... You push on it, it opens. We're going to duck into that alley, close the gate behind us. We'll hide back there."
"You have your gu
n?" Carol asked him.
Max pressed his coat. There was the outline of an auto-pistol. "You ready?" he asked. Carol nodded. "And you, Julia?"
His daughter clutched his arm and nodded. They pushed through the mob of terror-stricken friends and neighbors. The restaurant was three doors ahead of them..
"One more thing," Max told them. "Nobody comes with us. Now move fast."
They passed the restaurant. Max took a last look around, then shoved his wife and daughter ahead of him, knocking the iron grill open with the force of their bodies. In an instant he kicked the gate closed behind them. Then he pushed them into the shadows.
A bare bulb lit the narrow alley. Max found a bottle and gently smacked the bulb.
The alley went dark. He slipped the Colt Hard-baller from his belt. "Let's go," he whispered.
He led them down the alley. Behind them passed a line of men on motorcycles, screaming and howling and laughing, like something from a nightmare.
Max led his wife and daughter around a corner. Here, the alley passed behind the Pavillion Lodge. Someone moved in the hotel's service entry. Instinctively, the three of them took cover.
It was the Secret Service agent Max had seen earlier. He held an Uzi machine-pistol. Max and his family were so close they heard footsteps on the concrete.
The agent spoke to some newcomers. "I'm point. Follow me, gentlemen." The agent led five briefcase-bearing men in suits from the doorway. At the street the agent glanced in both directions. He motioned the five men against the hotel wall.
"Where's Mr. Severine?" the agent asked the men. The five all looked at one another. The agent pointed at them. "Stay there."
Cat-silent, he returned to the doorway. He stopped short, his face going slack with surprise: "Mr. Sever..."
A point-blank pistol shot threw him back. Seeing the agent killed, the five men in suits scattered into the street. There were shouts, the roar of motorcycles, as laughing, yelling bikers saw and pursued them.
As Max watched, a sixth middle-aged man appeared. This was Severine. Like the others, he wore a conservative suit. But he also held a pistol. He walked over to the dead Secret Service agent and dropped the pistol. Then he walked calmly into the street and let the bikers take him.
The Hostaged Island at-2 Page 2
