“‘Bout damn time. I was beginning to wonder if our prodigal son wasn’t going to show for his scouting trip,” Thunder said. He wore his leather motorcycle club vest over his riding leathers. The Red Stripes tag sat above another that read President on his left breast. Below that, a tag read Thunder. Just below a diamond 13 sat a skull and crossbones on his other breast with an FTW patch below that.
Steele ground his teeth. “We can take the bikes if you don’t want to risk your neck for us.”
The club members laughed loud and mean led by Thunder. These men weren’t the least intimidated by Steele’s presence. He had no doubt the club would gang beat him if not kill him if they had the urge. Motorcycle clubs had a strict code of honor that only a member of one could understand, and it was clear Steele was not a part of them.
“Fucking A, you think I’d let you take one of the bikes?” Thunder’s belly jiggled with mirth. He turned toward his men. “This guy doesn’t know shit.” He grinned at Steele and shook his head with the amusement of a father watching his toddler. “I’m going to make sure my choppers come back in one piece. Take a look at Lenny’s old bike,” Thunder thundered into a rancorous laugh.
A motorcycle sat unmanned.
“This is a sweet ride,” Steele said. He ran a hand along the gas tank. “May I?” he asked. His eyes darted at Thunder, seeing if the man would allow it.
“Since you asked nicely,” Thunder said, talking down to him. “‘Cause I don’t want you doubling up with any of my guys.”
Steele threw a leg over the seat, letting his hands rest on the handlebars.
“Lenny spent every penny he had on Marissa. If I didn’t have my own hog, I’d snatch up this one.” It had a navy blue gas tank accented by two reflective silver exhaust pipes that were shadowed by all black wheels and tires.
“What kind is it?”
Thunder laughed. “I’m embarrassed for you. This bike deserves better than you. It’s a Harley Davidson Blackline.” Thunder circled the bike. “Twin Cam 103 V-Twin engine. This thing will ride. Go ahead.” He nodded at Steele.
Steele turned the key in the ignition. He flipped the kill switch to run, kept it in neutral, and hit the starter. The engine growled to life underneath him. He let it settle on a nice hum.
“Listen to her purr,” Thunder said with a grin. “Give her some love.”
Steele twisted the throttle. The engine roared, showing the power of the bike.
“She’s a beauty,” Steele said.
“Let’s keep her in one piece,” Thunder said. “Alright lads, mount up,” Thunder called out.
Three more Red Stripes—grizzled veterans of wars, bar fights, and gang life—saddled up.
“I want to search north of here,” Steele said.
Thunder nodded. “All right. Pagan, you roll with Rat-Face and Joker take the south shore. Half-Barrel, you and me are with the FNG. We’re going to have to find you a nickname if you can manage to ride with us.”
Fucking new guy. Not the first time he’d been called one. Best to let it slide.
Half-Barrel smiled at Steele. Everything about Half-Barrel suggested he was procreated by bowling bowls. His head was the size of a basketball and his body resembled a beer keg. “This wannabe,” he snorted. “Fuckin’ pigs can’t ride. Ha,” he laughed.
“FNG is fine with me, but let’s go,” Steele said. He added, “We’ve waited long enough.” He could care less about their MC outlaw biker code and nicknames. He wanted to be on the road. He needed to be on the road. If his mother was in danger, then minutes could be the difference between life and death.
“We’re going to ride up the coast, cut inland, and cross back and forth. About a forty-mile circuit. We should be back by nightfall,” Thunder said.
“We’ll find her,” Pagan said with a nod. Steele nodded his appreciation.
“Let’s roll!” Thunder shouted, revving the throttle, and they were off.
“Keep the rubber side down,” Half-Barrel said. He placed a skullcap atop his melon-sized head.
“You steal your helmet from a kid?” Steele mocked.
A disgusted look crossed Half-Barrel’s face. “You’ll be laughing a different tune when you horizontally park that hog. Then Thunder will finish off whatever’s left of you.”
“Okay, big guy, show me how it’s done.”
Half-Barrel rolled forward and Steele followed with a rev of his engine.
They cut down a sidewalk to a parking lot with a single entrance leading into a forest of white pine and maple. The motorcycles glided over the roadway, winding through the trees for over a mile. They reached a green and white sign that read Lakeshore Drive. They took a left and headed north.
Steele rode behind Thunder and Half-Barrel, feeling the freedom of the road as the wind blew through his hair. The coolness on his bare scalp combined with his wound sent a myriad of nerve sensations through his skull.
From behind the bikers, their gang colors were clear. A black skull with its mouth slightly open was encased in a diamond of blood red. Stripes lined overtop of the skull were the same blood red color. Four small blue naval stars decorated the background. Above the center patch in red-outlined black letters was their gang name: Red Stripes.
They sped past fields of tall grass. Forms shambled toward the motorcycle riders, but they were easily passed. The motorcycles rumbled down the road, and the two club members navigated obstacles with ease. They would use hand signals to let Steele know of upcoming obstructions in the road.
They traveled north for miles. The road disappeared beneath their two-wheeled stallions. As they got closer to a town, they started to pass rows of old Victorian-style houses. Thunder slowed down when a cluster of buildings emerged in the distance. Short structures, which only a small town would have, were topped off with a slightly newer and taller residential structure.
“Pentwater is up ahead. Been through there a few times. Nothing but the dead. We’ll drive around Pentwater Lake and cut back down the main highway. There are more cars over that way. You good to navigate through them and the junk that was left behind?”
“I should be alright. My dad had one of these growing up and he taught me to ride.” A total of about two times.
“Waxer,” Half-Barrel smirked.
Steele had no idea what he meant.
“That’s enough Half-Barrel. Let’s keep moving.”
They circled around Pentwater Lake. Three-story modern condos sat along the water by a marina. An aqua-colored water tower rose up on end of the town. Only a few white boats still sat in their slips, seemingly abandoned by their comrades.
Crossing the southernmost tip of the town, they slowed their bikes down to look for any signs of anyone living. A white utility van with a ladder on top had been driven into the storefront of a pharmacy. The blue and orange sign above read Gerkin’s Pharmacy and Shop.
Thunder slowed his bike to a stop.
“We should check out the pharmacy and see if they have anything useful for Little Sable.” Steele figured this would happen. How can I expect these guys to put their necks out on a limb for me and not try to find some positive in the matter?
“I wouldn’t mind stretching the legs a bit,” Steele responded.
“Good man. I’d rather not come back empty-handed.” Thunder gave Steele a glance to see if he had offended him.
“I ain’t mad. I only want some answers,” Steele said, dismounting his bike and swinging his M4 to his front.
“Half-Barrel, stay with the bikes,” Thunder commanded. Half-Barrel nodded, releasing a sawed-off shotgun from his riding holster and setting it on his lap.
Steele and Thunder approached the van with caution. Thunder held the short 12-gauge Benelli shotgun in his hands. Guns in the low ready, they scanned the outside of the two-story brick building for anything that moved. They pointed guns at either side of the brand-new apocalypse doorway created by the van.
Steele and Thunder locked eyes, steel blue with dark brown for a m
oment, and Steele gave him a slight tilt of his chin. The Vietnam vet scooted around one side of the van as quick as his tactical girth would allow and Steele followed a step behind him. A hand reached out of the driver’s side window. Fingers curled, grasping Thunder’s leather vest.
Thunder beat down with the stock of his entry shotgun, unable to get a shot off at the infected. Steele twisted to his side behind Thunder, aiming his carbine over Thunder’s shoulder. With a squeeze of the trigger, he put a bullet into the infected’s brain. Thunder ripped his vest free from its dead hand.
“No one touches these colors.” He hacked a loogie on the decaying body of the infected still pinned in the driver’s seat. He adjusted his vest and gave Steele a nod.
“We’re good,” Thunder called out to Half-Barrel.
They continued cautiously inside, step by step.
The electricity was out in the small hometown pharmacy. Shadowed ramshackle shelves sat barren, raided by looters at some point since the outbreak. Black blood stained the thin hard carpet. More blood had been smeared over the carpet leading behind the counter as if someone had dragged a body that way.
Steele’s boots crunched shards of glass and chunks of rubble alike from the destroyed wall. Flicking his tactical light on, he shined it along the walls, its beam lighting up empty packages, trash, and wrappers. He heard them before his eyes caught them. Inch by inch they stood, specters materializing from the ground up. They stood behind the counter, undead pharmacists motionless for a moment, blood causing their clothes to cling to dead gray skin.
“Ugly cocksuckers, aren’t ya’,” Thunder said behind him. Steele sensed him taking aim and before the man could fire, he thrust his gun up, tapping the trigger on one and driving his hips, firing again into the other. Both infected collapsed onto the counter.
Steele gave Thunder a sidelong glance. FNG. I been through enough. He held his tongue. Rounding the counter, they went to work, collecting whatever they could get their hands on.
Steele dumped them all in his bag not caring what they were. Round disks, packs, and bottles of pills that read simvastatin, omeprazole, metformin.
“Ain’t much here. Most the good stuff has been picked over. No oxycodone. No azithromycin. What the hell are these things?”
Thunder held a round yellow package in his hand. Steele had recognized it as something that Gwen had in her purse all the time.
“Birth control. Put it in. I know somebody who might want it.” She will be happy to have a fresh supply. Keep us from putting a loaf in the oven.
“He, he, he. You kids and your pills. Back in my day, we didn’t have all that shit. There was only one method of birth control. Pulling out.”
Steele laughed. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Worked for me.” The older man shrugged his shoulders. “I think.” He scratched at his beard and went back to cleaning out the shelves.
Steele dug through boxes, shaking them to see if there was anything left inside.
“Tell me about the club.”
Thunder smiled. “We got some history.” He shoved more pills in his bag. “The Red Stripes were founded in 1952 by United States Marine Corps Lance Corporal Michael Abbott, 2nd Raider Battalion, 1st Marine Division. He was the only survivor of the captured raiders on Makin Island in the Pacific.”
“Sounds like a tough SOB.”
Thunder smiled. “He was one of a kind. A legend. Him and eight men were left behind at Makin. In 1945, after years of captivity, the Japs knew they were going to lose and were trying to get rid of any extra liability. The story goes they beheaded his raider team one by one until Abbott was the last one left. They shoved him in front of the garrison commander. The evil bastard looked down at him with a nasty grin. That particular bastard loved that shit. The commander swung his samurai sword high above his head, waiting for Abbott to cry out, but he didn’t. He just looked that mother fucker right in his slanty eyes. Then you know what he did?”
“No.”
“That bastard, Abbott, leapt up and killed the commander. Ripped out his fucking throat with his teeth. Took that fucker’s own sword and put a bunch of the other Japs down like dogs. Problem was, the island’s radio equipment had been destroyed in a rainstorm weeks before, and he was stuck there for years after the war.”
“The Navy never conducted a rescue operation?” Steele said, massaging packages of medicine for scraps.
“They claimed they did, but he had been declared KIA in 1942. Seven years later, a fishing boat ran aground in a nearby reef. When a ship came out to tow it away, they saw a man on the beach. Wasn’t waving or nothing. Just standing.”
“Abbott?”
“Yup. But he wasn’t alone.”
“Who else was there?”
“He had three of those slant-eyed fucks as captives, all linked together with some sort of vine rope that he had made by hand. Government denied the whole thing.” Thunder shook his head. “After he got back to the states, he retreated from society, embittered with his own government, mistrustful of people he had sworn to defend. Tossed all his medals here into Lake Michigan. In ’52, he met up with some other Marine Corps members, and they formed the motorcycle club.”
“Geez. That’s a hell of a story.”
“Proud to call him our founder,” Thunder said.
Boom. Boom. Gunshots roared outside on the street.
“Half-Barrel,” Thunder said under his breath. Gripping their guns, they ran for the street.
KINNICK
Peterson Air Force Base, CO
Kinnick turned around. They had never met, but he had seen the man on television enough to recognize his face: Vice President Patrick Brady.
The vice president was taller than Kinnick, hovering about six feet in height. His hair appeared to be fleeing the front of his head for the back and sides. Long wisps of brownish-gray hair were brushed across the top. His tie was loosened, and his collar stained yellow with sweat. A patchy beard had grown on his face, focusing around his jawline and chin. He was flanked by a four-star general in blue and a three-star in a slightly darker blue uniform. Their uniforms were crisp and clean.
Brady’s eyes were intelligent with a glint of unsettledness, almost as if he enjoyed chaos. Kinnick hadn’t remembered that look in his eyes before when he saw him on television. Has he always been like this?
Brady leaned closer to Kinnick. “Which part of my fearless armed forces are you from, good sir?”
“Air Force, sir,” Kinnick said.
“You have the look. What’s your name?” His eyes narrowed in judgment.
“Colonel Kinnick, retired, sir.”
“Retired?” Brady’s eyes narrowed.
“Yes, sir. In light of recent events, I found myself back in service,” he said. The whole interaction made Kinnick uneasy.
“As long as you remember that you are here to serve.”
The words slipped off Kinnick’s tongue before he could reel himself in. “Like General Travis at the Pentagon?”
Brady’s eyes widened. “You came from the Pentagon?”
“Yes, sir. General Travis sent myself and two patched-together squads on a search and rescue mission for a CDC doctor. We found him and Patient Zero and brought them here.”
The vice president’s eyes gleamed with gratitude as he nodded. The four-star general leaned in and whispered into the vice president’s ear. The vice president nodded. “Yes, I recall the report. Your country owes you a debt. You have my thanks.”
“It doesn’t owe me, but the men who sacrificed their lives to make it so.”
“Many men have made sacrifices since this started,” Brady said. He gave Kinnick a wave. “Come into the War Room. We must speak in private. Generals, please see to the ongoing operations.” He dismissed them nonchalantly with a shooing motion.
The two generals glanced at one another and only a fraction of dissatisfaction crossed over their faces. The Air Force four-star general looked Kinnick up and
down, a sour look on his face, but left with a slight bow of his head.
Kinnick followed behind the vice president into a conference room attached to the operations floor. A long, oval wood table sat in the middle. Twelve large black leather chairs surrounded it, unoccupied.
“You may close the door behind you,” the vice president said. Kinnick complied and stood at attention near the edge of the table.
The vice president strolled to the end of the room to a long waist-high cabinet. He pulled a crystal stopper out of a decanter and poured two glasses. He walked over to where Kinnick stood and set one down in front of Kinnick.
“Pick it up and drink,” he commanded. Brady took a big swig from his.
Kinnick hesitated. One didn’t have a drink with the acting president every day. “Mr. President, I would rather not drink at this time.”
“Colonel, if you want to keep your rank and stay inside the fences, you will sit down, pick that glass up, and take a drink.”
Kinnick momentarily debated the option of quitting on the spot. The de facto president eyed him.
“I know it’s bad out there. Have a glass of nice scotch. We don’t know how much longer we will be here to enjoy it.”
Kinnick sat hesitantly in a leather chair. He picked up the crystal glass and took a sip. The scotch was smooth and rich with a smoky peat flavor and a hint of sherry and fruit. It didn’t burn his tongue at all but only warmed his insides.
“Mr. President, you know your scotch,” Kinnick said setting the crystal glass down.
The de facto president raised his eyebrows as he swallowed the alcohol. Sitting for a moment in silence, he stared at the glass.
“Bowmore’s.” Brady held up the glass, looking at the deep mahogany liquid. “Between you and me, I could care less about how good it is.”
“Mr. President, surely a man of your standing would care?”
Brady shrugged his shoulders and held up a finger. He leaned in toward Kinnick. “You know, I never signed the paperwork transferring the power of the presidency over to me.” His eyes met Kinnick’s. They were a vibrant brown like the scotch he drank. “The man is missing, not known to be dead.” He leaned back again, taking a sip of his alcohol.
The Rising (The End Time Saga Book 3) Page 9
