by David Rogers
He rolled around to the back of the barn, to the doors the Dogz tended to leave open to make getting in and out easier. Bikes were already filling in along the sides of the barn, where stalls used to be. Darryl eased in and walked his Softail back against the northern wall before shutting it down and pulling his helmet off.
“Think any of that beer we bought is still cold?” Shooter asked.
“Fuck that.” Low said, shrugging. “There ought to be at least a case left over from last weekend in the house. That for sure is cold.”
“Unless someone snuck up here and drank it.”
“Better not have.” Shooter said, making a fist and shaking it around at everyone mock menacingly. “That ain’t right.”
“I ain’t carrying all this shit in the house myself.” Big Chief yelled as he got out of his truck. “Everyone come grab something and get it inside.”
Darryl hung his helmet on the handlebars by its strap and paused to stretch his arms and back out a little before stepping off the Harley. He tapped a fresh smoke out, lit it, then called Bobo.
“DJ.”
“What up Bobo?”
“How it looking out there?”
Darryl dragged on the cigarette, enjoying the tobacco after the long ride out, and glanced around. “We just got here, but things look okay. What you worried about?”
“I mean, are there any problems?”
Darryl walked out of the barn, trailing a big cloud of smoke, and looked around again. “Things quiet man.”
“No people wandering around, no fighting or anything like that?”
“Naw, it cool.” Darryl replied, hitting the cigarette again.
“Okay.” Bobo said, though he sounded like maybe it wasn’t okay.
“There something we maybe should know?” Darryl asked after a moment.
Bobo was silent for a few seconds, and when he answered his tone was uncharacteristically cautious. “I’m listening to the radio. Shit getting bad.”
“Like how?”
“Like they’re saying downtown is turning into some sort of, I don’t know, riot or something.”
“Riot?”
“Fuck DJ, I don’t fucking know.” Bobo’s voice, having moved towards irritated anger, subsided as he breathed into the phone for a moment. Darryl took another drag on his cigarette, waiting. When Bobo spoke again, he was calmer. “I don’t know what to call it, and I don’t think the radio do either. They just saying everything downtown going crazy. Lot of people getting hurt and killed down there.”
Darryl heard music start inside the clubhouse, quickly turned up loud enough for the thumping bass to be heard through the stone walls. “We ain’t downtown.”
“No, we ain’t.” Bobo said. “But some of our people gonna be coming from there. And downtown ain’t the only place where things getting bad. I called some people who are at home, and they checked a little for me. Athens kinda bad too, and a bunch of other places like New York and Los Angeles . . . this ain’t just us down here.”
“Shit.”
“Right.” Bobo said, sounding stronger and less uncertain. “So, I need you to do two things for me.”
“Anything Bobo.” Darryl said, flicking his cigarette butt into a metal barrel at the end of the clubhouse’s big porch.
“First, don’t let the party get out of hand. They gonna party, fine. But no one should get fucked up. Keep a lid on.”
Darryl pondered that one. He wasn’t sure how feasible that might be. He didn’t know if anyone was ready to dive into a bottle this early, but if they were, it would almost certainly require a fight to keep them out of it. “Bobo, I ain’t sure this the best time for me to be bouncing here at the clubhouse.”
“Yeah it is.” Bobo said immediately. “And you can tell anyone who gives you shit about it to call me.”
“Where you at?”
“Leaving Snellville now.” Bobo said. “Probably thirty or forty minutes out.”
“Man, watch yourself heading through 78 that way.” Darryl warned. “The road pretty fucked up when we went through.”
“I’m good. So, second thing. Anyone who shows up, you need to look them over and make sure they ain’t sick.”
Darryl was silent for several seconds, pondering. Then, “How the fuck I supposed to figure if they sick or not?”
“It don’t take no doctor to figure out this kind of sick.” Bobo said, sounding quite certain. “If they ain’t talking, if they having trouble walking, if they keep trying to come at anyone near them, then they sick.”
“Okay, so watch out for sick people.”
“And if any show up, you gotta put them down.”
Darryl paused on the steps of the porch. “What’s that mean?”
“I ain’t kidding around DJ, you know what it mean. Dogz, friends or family, locals, anyone. If they sick, they can’t be there. They gotta leave or they gotta be dropped.”
“Man, just ‘cause I go strapped don’t mean I like plugging folks Bobo.” Darryl said. “It just a hobby, it fun like riding and playing pool.”
“Well, it ain’t for fun no more.”
“Bobo–”
“This for real DJ.” Bobo said firmly. “You get that piece of yours and keep it on you. Be ready to use it. Go turn on the teevee if you don’t understand why.”
“What channel?” Darryl asked after a moment.
“Any of them. Anything local if you want it to be around here, but they all talking about the same thing. This thing.”
Darryl gazed out across the lake. The water was rippling slightly in the breeze, reflecting the strong Georgia sun like a shifting mirror. He heard some birds chirping in the trees on the other side of the lake. It all sounded normal, looked normal. “I ain’t going down for no shooting.” Darryl said finally.
“You fine.”
“I’m serious man.” Darryl insisted. He had a tough guy image; liked his tough guy image, but it was mostly just that. An image. Oh he was about as strong as he looked, and he was six four, and he did ride a motorcycle and know how to fight. And how to shoot. When push came to shove, Darryl had never doubted his ability to handle himself. It was part of what made him such a good bouncer; that image and the confidence he had behind it.
But he wasn’t a hell raiser. At least, not like most normal people assumed anyone who looked like him and rode a motorcycle would be. Darryl was fully capable of dealing with a lot of shit, but he didn’t start it and didn’t cause it. He’d seen too many of his friends get taken down by the cops for all sorts of things, some of them pretty stupid. Darryl liked his life too much to want to waste it rotting in jail. Especially for a gun or murder rap.
“DJ, listen.” Bobo said. “I swear on my momma’s grave, my hand to God, just keep anyone who sick away from the clubhouse and you ain’t gonna have no trouble. If any of them get in though, there be a lot of hurting and bleeding. I talking to you ‘cause you got more than two bits of brains to rub together, and you a calm guy. Just keep your eyes open and that gun handy. I be there soon to take over.”
“Alright.” Darryl said, almost muttering. “Fine. Keep your foot down and get here then.”
“I rolling. You hold the fort until I get there.”
The call clicked off as Bobo hung up. Darryl stared at his phone’s screen for a few seconds, then tapped it into standby mode and stuck it back in the holder on his belt. Turning, he walked back over to the barn, looping around to the back doors and reentering.
Unlocking the left hard bag on his bike, he lifted out the spare helmet that had been last worn by Bethany the previous night. He wondered, for a moment, if she was okay. After Bobo’s comments in the past few minutes, he wasn’t so sure she was. The bottom of the hard bag had a false bottom. It wasn’t an actual secret compartment, but it would pass a casual glance.
Beneath it was a holstered pistol and three magazines. Darryl picked the gun up and popped the restraining strap off before drawing it from the holster. The Glock 26 was small, almost vanishin
g into his hand as he held it. It was designed to be small, and it was. With only minimal effort the weapon effectively disappeared when Darryl wore it beneath a loose shirt.
He studied the weapon for a few moments, then put it inside the hard bag long enough to clip the holster to the side of his belt and adjust it comfortably so it was on the front of his right hip. The Glock went back in with a tactile click as the fitted holster snapped into the hollow of the trigger well to hold the weapon securely in the holster.
The extra flush magazine, the backup that had come with the weapon, went into his front left jeans pocket. The other two, both the extended magazines the news was so fond of waxing hysterical over, went into his back left pocket. They looked pretty absurd when loaded into the small pistol, but they held thirty-three rounds each and made range shooting a lot more enjoyable. Once you got them loaded, you could shoot for a minute or two before you had to screw around with ammo again.
Darryl sighed as he replaced the false bottom and helmet, then closed the hard bag up. He started to turn away, then went into the other bag and found the half carton of cigarettes he kept there. He pulled a fresh pack out and slid it into his left pocket next to the flush magazine, then headed back outside and around to the front door of the clubhouse.
The noise level inside was easily equal to the Oasis. Big Chief and Bones were puttering around in the kitchen, fitting stuff into the fridge. This was harder than it sounded, since the bottom three shelves were nothing but cans of beer. Darryl wanted a beer, but he didn’t want to be dragged into helping with the organizing. Instead he cruised over to the game room.
“DJ, what the word?” Zeebo asked as Darryl entered.
“Bobo headed this way.” Darryl shrugged, tapping a fresh smoke out. “He say we shouldn’t get too partied out before he gets here.”
“He better hurry then.” Stony laughed. He was leaning over the pool table, cue in hand as he lined up a shot. “I’m feeling a big one coming on.”
“Don’t talk about your ass.” Psycho said, leaning on another cue. “That’s nasty.”
“Homo.” Stony said. “Three in the side.”, then snapped the cue forward. The cue ball skidded forward and tapped the designated ball before reversing and rolling back across the table. The three went right into the side pocket, while the cue ball bounced off the far rail and came to a stop in line for a pretty good shot on the four ball in one of the far corner pockets.
“Man, you ain’t drunk yet?” Psycho shook his head.
“Not yet.” Stony grinned. “You fucked.”
“I guess.” Psycho shrugged.
Darryl leaned back against the wall next to the doorway. A ledge had been installed on the walls just above waist height, for much the same reason as in bars. It was a convenient place to set drinks and ashtrays down. There was already an ashtray within easy reach, and he could glance over his shoulder and see right to the front door of the clubhouse from here.
“DJ, you gonna play?” Low asked, gesturing to the table that he’d just finished setting up for a break.
Darryl shook his head. “Nah, gonna chill for a bit first.”
“You can play me in a minute.” Stony laughed. “Four in the corner.” He hit the cue ball with a hard snapping motion that rocketed the number four ball into the corner pocket while leaving the cue ball right where the four had been. “And five in the other corner.” Stony continued, rotating around the table and using another backwards English shot to tap the five in while drawing the cue ball up the table towards the six on the other end.
“Not for no money I ain’t.” Low said.
“Fucking cheap bastard.” Stony observed as he leaned down to line up his shot on the six.
“Damn straight.” Low shot back. “You a hustler.”
“It ain’t hustling when I tell you I’m gonna win.”
“Can’t beat me if I don’t play you.”
“Loser. Six in the corner.”
“Not winning, not losing. Just smart.”
“Hah!” Stony chuckled, then shot. The cue ball skipped off the six at a sharp angle. The six rolled off to the corner and dropped in while the cue ball took two cushion bounces and stopped in a position that looked suspiciously optimal for a combination shot that would let the eight get dropped in a single shot with the seven.
“Come on DJ, don’t leave me hanging here.” Low said.
Stony, leaning down to line up his shot on the eight ball, glanced over at Darryl and grinned.
* * * * *
Chapter Five – Glad I could help
Peter
Peter took his foot off the GTO’s gas pedal as he frowned at the GPS stuck to the windshield next to the rearview mirror. It was a newer unit, and one of its features was traffic tracking that was fed by radio signals sent by a subscription service. The service drew from a number of sources, including the Navigator information provided by G-DOT, and he had found it quite accurate. Atlanta’s traffic was legendarily bad even on good days.
Today was not a good day.
The little GPS screen had been showing the top end, the section of I-285 on Atlanta’s north side, was heavily congested. That wasn’t unusual, especially for a bad day, and he had been expecting it. However, the ETA number in the bottom left corner of the GPS screen had just jumped from a touch under forty-five minutes to well over three hours. Peter cursed. Simple heavy traffic had, at least somewhere between here and I-75, had probably just turned into a complete blockage.
He ground his teeth, then reached into the pocket of his utilities and pulled out Amy’s phone. Snapping it open with his thumb, he glanced over his right shoulder before slowing further to let the car there pass him before putting his foot down and jerking the steering wheel. The GTO darted across two lanes of traffic, earning him horns and middle fingers from the drivers he cut off, which he ignored as he settled into the right hand lane half a mile from the next exit.
Barely looking at the road, he used his thumb dial Dan’s hastily memorized number, then punched the call through. Jamming the phone on his shoulder, he slowed, down shifted to third, and took the Peachtree Industrial Boulevard exit, reaching quickly to turn the radio off. As he heard the phone ringing, he hung onto the steering wheel with both hands and accelerated through the turn as he curved north, cutting along the inside shoulder of the exit to pass a slow moving sedan.
“Foreman.”
“Captain.” Peter answered as he straightened the GTO out and accelerated further after sliding back through the gears to fifth, pushing his speed past seventy before he was even beyond the barricade wall that separated the exit from the north moving lanes on Peachtree Industrial. This section of the thoroughfare, known to G-DOT as State Route 141, was closed access just like the actual Interstate he’d left moments ago.
“Where are you?”
“Top end, but GPS is telling me there’s just about no chance I’m getting through that way.”
“Yeah, it’s a cluster-fuck that’s headed for epic proportions. I haven’t seen it this bad since the last time Gwinnett voted down the MARTA expansion, when that tanker over turned and took out the utility poles? Christ, I thought the traffic jams that night were bad.
“Anyway, there are three different snags between Spaghetti Junction and the Cobb Cloverleaf, and one of them is I don’t even remember how many semis that are wrecked and overturned somewhere around Ashford Dunwoody. You’d better get off quick before you’re mired in the backup.”
“Already done sir.” Peter said, glancing over his shoulder as he slid into the flow of traffic. As he did, the phone slipped down and he barely caught it before it vanished down between the seat and door. Straightening the GTO out in the middle lane, he blew past three cars in the right hand lane, then got back in that lane and exited at Tilly Mill Road. As he braked, he got the phone back into place. “Sorry sir, maneuvering. I’m going to pick my way across on the back roads.”
“How long? I think some of the lead might be about to come out
of the process on my end.”
Peter shrugged involuntarily as he thought, thinking about the maze of back and forth he would have to traverse to get across the north side of Atlanta without using the interstate. Not for the first time, and not the first native resident of the city to do so, he cursed the lack of good options for moving around the metro area that didn’t involve the interstates. “Probably most of an hour, even pushing it.”
“Push it Master Gunnery Sergeant, that’s a direct order.”
“Semper Fi sir.”
“Good man. I need you here. Over half my people are God only knows where, and of those that even responded to the call-up, most of them are saying it’ll be hours before they can report. This is not a good time for a unit commander to be unable to handle the missions being given out.”
Pete braked hard at the intersection, pumping the pedal as the GTO’s tires threatened to lock up under the deceleration. He reluctantly came to a halt as about two dozen cars went by in either direction, then pulled out against the red light and made a left onto Tilly Mill. The muscle car’s engine responded enthusiastically as he fed it gas, and the GTO jumped past the cars in front of him before the road narrowed back into a two lane road.
“Doing my best Captain.” He hesitated, then made himself say the next words. “If I don’t get there in time, just do what you have to sir.”
“Oh no you don’t.” Dan Foreman said with a wry snort. “My highest NCO on hand is a staff sergeant who’s career Guard, and everyone beneath him is a corporal or lower. I need you here, so hurry up. I ain’t dealing with all this shit with a guy who works at a carpet installer’s all month.”
“Semper Fi.” Peter said again.
“Alright, drive.” The captain hung up, and Peter folded the phone back into the shirt pocket of his utilities as he flicked the radio back on and concentrated on his driving. Clay National Guard Center, which was what the retasked Atlanta Naval Air Station had been renamed when the Navy gave it up as active facility, was located in northwest Atlanta, just outside the Perimeter. Normally it was about forty-five minutes from his house. Today . . .
