by Zoey Parker
“To Colridge!” the old man eventually declared when he realized he didn’t have a handle on the bustling crowd. In mass, everyone started to retreat back out of the bar. Henry hoped that Max had enough of a head start not to encounter any of them. Not that they’d even notice him. Everyone was focused on finding their bike and being the first to arrive in Colridge.
“Let’s fuck shit up!”
“Death to all Red Riders!”
They were all spoiling for a fight, Henry included. He pulled himself up onto his own bike, ignoring the ache in his bones from a lifetime of hard living. He was almost salivating at the prospect of spilling some fresh blood.
“Where’s Max at?” Aaron was beside him, throwing a leg over his own bike and staring at Henry through glassy eyes.
“He’s already there,” Henry said mildly. “He wanted to get a head start on us all, scope the place out.”
“Figures,” Will nodded with understanding. “Max has always been a thinker like that.”
“Uh huh.”
The sound of numerous engines revving up was deafening. Bikes began to peel off into the night, as though part of some giant medieval beast which had awoken. Their headlamps pooled out to the highway, and they all began their trip over to Colridge.
It felt good to feel the wind in his hair. Henry briefly wondered if this was to be his last ride. His body was riddled with scars, new and old, from previous fights. He had his fair share of near-death experiences. Everything he did, he did to excess. Be it drinking, fighting, or sleeping with women. He always had to be the one who did it the most. And over his lifetime he’d excelled in his field.
In his peripheral vision, he could see Aaron riding, bent low towards his bike. Further back in the group he could hear pack members cackling and hollering. Everyone was in high spirits, even though they might be driving to their doom. Because that was what it meant to be a Reaper; that’s what drew Henry to the pack. They laughed in the face of danger. They didn’t shy away from a fight - they ran toward it wearing a most-wicked smile, one that he assumed the boogeyman under the bed wore. Henry’s grip on his bike tightened as he drove past the welcome sign for Colrigde; they were almost there. He could taste the anticipation that was carried in the air, along with the bike fumes and liquor which surrounded the pack like smog.
As one, the pack drove down the main street when they came to a screeching halt. Greeting them was a wall of headlights. The motherfucking Red Riders were already assembled, awaiting their arrival. Killing his engine, Henry parked his bike and carefully unloaded his machete, unsheathing it from its leather case. If the Red Riders were fixing for a fight, then a fucking fight is what he’d give them.
“So they’re already here,” Will noted quietly as he pulled out a hammer from the waistband of his pants.
“Yep,” Henry nodded, “ready and waiting.” Looking up at the houses bordering the main street, he saw some drapes drawn tightly shut, while others open for display, with light shining out from within. He imagined people in their homes for the night, after a long hard day of the 9-5, stupidly unaware of the fight that was about to break out beneath them.
“Think the cops will show?” Will wondered. It was always a fear, but the cops never showed up to intervene. They know better than to fuck with this.
Henry and Aaron joined their brothers in line and began to advance towards the waiting Red Riders members, who were moving in a similar formation. Crude weapons glistened beneath the street lights. There were blades and crowbars, wrenches and baseball bats adorned with rusty nails. No one was equipped with a weapon that could potentially bring about a swift death. Everything had been carefully selected for its ability to maim and cause relentless pain and suffering. Henry ensured he had a sturdy grip on his machete. There were thirteen notches on its handle, one for every man he had slain with it. He remembered the last time he’d used it, how it had sliced through the other man’s gut, as though he were made of butter.
“Ready to do this?” Will asked. There was no fear in his voice, only excitement. Henry nodded.
“I was born ready,” he growled. There, on the darkened main street of Colridge, their fate would be decided.
Chapter Ninety-Six
Max slowed to rub his eyes. How long have they been driving? He’d lost all concept of time and now his fuel gauge was hovering near the empty line. He’d have to stop soon and rest. He just hoped that he’d managed to drive far enough to outrun his past. Brittany was slumped against him, and he wondered if she’d fallen asleep. He hoped so, at least if she was resting she was being released from the grief she felt over her brother leaving.
Scanning the road ahead, Max spotted the neon sign for a motel; the vacancy sign was lit. He started to slow the bike and veer away from the highway. The streets of Colridge were probably already bathed in blood. He was thankful that he’d finally found something to take him away from that life, something to give his life meaning. He owed Brittany everything.
Chapter Ninety-Seven
Zack liked how the engine of his motorcycle trembled thunderously between his legs as he rode. It made him feel powerful. And with the wind in his hair, it made him feel wild and free. Infinite.
Zooming up the highway, he tried not to think about what had just happened with Brittany. He had no choice but to walk away from her. But he knew he’d forever be haunted by the pained look she’d given him as he possibly walked away from her for the last time. But how could she expect him to give up everything for her? He owed the Red Riders his loyalty, how could Brittany not understand that?
As his frustration mounted, Zack drove faster. He bobbed in between the lines of traffic, desperate to reach Colridge before it was too late. Jameson was always close by, keeping pace. No matter how fast Zack went, how much he pushed the limits of his bike and of himself, he knew that Jameson would always be by his side. Loyal to the end. He was his family, his brother.
With a loud screech, Zack pulled hard on the breaks. The putrid stench of burned rubber filled the air. Jameson stopped beside him a few seconds later, breaking just as abruptly. The two men were perched on their bikes and looking down at Colridge’s main street and the carnage unfolding within it.
“Jesus,” Jameson breathed while Zack remained silent. He could only stare at the apocalyptic scene which greeted them.
The street was slick with freshly spilled blood. Countless men were engaged in hand to hand combat. Even from a distance, Zack could hear the sickening squelch of a blade being thrust into someone’s gut. The air was heavy with the coppery smell of blood and death. It reached up towards Zack and Jameson desperate to entangle them in its fatal embrace.
Jameson dropped off his bike and retrieved his crowbar.
“I guess we’d better get into it,” he said solemnly.
“Can we even tell who we should be fighting?” Zack looked down at the writhing mass of men engaged in battle. It was impossible to distinguish friend from foe. Everyone was drenched in either their own blood or a stranger’s. The emblems on their jackets, they so proudly wore, had been obscured beyond recognition.
“Does it even matter anymore?” Jameson held his friend in a level gaze.
“People are dying down there.” Zack could see the fallen, scattered along the street. Left down there to rot like an unwanted piece of garbage.
“War is never pretty.”
Zack sighed and looked skyward. Above him, the stars in the sky sparkled like unobtainable jewels. If Brittany could see him now, she’d tell him to run, to turn away from the gruesome fight and never look back.
“As a kid I used to wonder if my parents were up there,” Zack was still gazing up at the stars.
“Watching over you?”
“Yeah,” Zack gave a sad smile. “I imagined them looking down at me, watching what I did. And you know what?” he lowered his head to lock eyes with his friend.
“What?” Jameson prompted.
“I’m pretty sure they’d be bitterly disa
ppointed in me.”
“No,” Jameson his head, his voice thick with certainty. “They wouldn’t.”
“Wanna bet?” Zack raised his eyebrows. He knew that he was far from a perfect son and now, was far from a perfect brother.
“Maybe you did some things you’re not proud of, but it always came from a good place.”
“Mmm.”
“Your sister is going to go on and have a better life, because of you.”
Zack felt his heart tighten in his chest. Where was Brittany now? She was probably driving down some dark road moving further and further away from him. Would he ever see her again?
“If you want to walk away from this, tell me now,” Jameson turned his back completely on the fight to stare at Zack. His crowbar was now lowered at his side, no longer being brandished as a weapon.
“We can’t walk away,” Zack sighed. This was their battle. It was here on the streets of Colridge that their fate was supposed to be decided.
“We can,” Jameson ventured softly. “We can get on our bikes and ride north until we hit the border.”
“And what then?” Zack demanded tersely. “We spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulder?”
Jameson pursed his lips and jerked his head towards the gang members still standing and fighting. It was gruesome. Men squealed like pigs as their limbs were severed by crude weapons. Whoever did come out as the victor would surely be gravely wounded. There was no longer a victory to be had. It was now just about survival.
“I think whoever walks away from this fight will have better things to do than come after a couple of fugitives.”
Zack couldn’t understand how his friend was having such a change of heart. Had the terrifying scene beneath them terrified Jameson as much as it had Zack?
“I thought the pack meant everything to you,” Zack challenged.
“It does,” Jameson confirmed. “But so do you.”
There was a heavy pause between them. Slowly filling up with thoughts unsaid.
“You’ve been my best friend for a long time,” Jameson continued. “And that friendship, Zack, it means something to me, it’s the most tangible thing in my life right now. How fucked up is that? Regardless, if you tell me you want to fight, I’ll walk down there with you, in all likelihood to our deaths. But we’ll be dying as we lived, side by side. If you tell me you want to walk away, then we’ll do that side by side too. I’m loyal to you over the pack, Zack.”
Zack was speechless. He’d always assumed that the pack mattered most. The desire to walk away was almost too delectable to ignore. They could assume new identities, new lives.
“We can’t run away.” But the reality was that they were men with violence hard-wired in their DNA. Wherever they went, trouble would follow. They were Red Riders through and through.
Jameson tightened his grip on his crowbar and raised it menacingly. “Well, then let’s do this.”
“We can’t fight either,” Zack added. He watched his friend’s face contort with confusion. “It’s suicide to fight in that.” He looked down at the street where fewer men were still standing. There was so much blood, so many anguished screams bleeding out into the night, being ignored. Even angels would fear to tread down the main street tonight.
“Then what do you suggest we do?”
“We claim the Red Riders as our own,” an idea was starting to formulate in Zack’s mind. “We return to the bar and await the return of those who survive.”
“They’ll hate us for not fighting!” Jameson insisted, his face reddening with worry.
“Not if we say we were against it all along. That we always knew it would be a blood bath. We chose to forsake the fight in order to ensure the future of the Red Riders. No one from that fight will be in a fit state to oppose us.”
Zack could see the wilted stance of all those who still stood. They reached for wounds that wouldn’t cease bleeding, as they half-heartedly fought the next man in their wake. No one was going to chastise Zack and Jameson, not when they were the strong ones who still had some fight left in them.
“You’re saying we take on leadership of the Red Riders?” Jameson cocked his head to one side, weighing up the proposal. “Together?”
“Exactly,” Zack nodded and flashed his friend a grin. “We lead the Red Riders into a new era. Side by side.”
“We could still walk away,” Jameson ventured. “We get on our bikes and just drive until dawn.”
“We’re not the type to run away,” Zack gave him an apologetic smile. “Nor are we the type to blend into normal society. We were groomed to be pack members. Now it’s our turn to take the reins and mold us into the most powerful pack in the state.”
“I do like the sound of that,” Jameson was running his hands through his short hair.
“We’d live like kings,” Zack added, grinning devilishly.
“I can’t really argue with that,” Jameson laughed. “Maybe it’s time we get back to the bar and wait on the arrival of the others.”
“Yeah,” Zack took one last look at the fight which was drawing to a natural conclusion. He was ready to lead his pack. A part of him knew that all along this had been his destiny. He glanced up at the stars as he kick-started his bike. He no longer cared if his deceased parents disapproved of his choices. He was making his own way in life, and he was proud of himself. That was enough.
Chapter Ninety-Eight
Henry had lost count of the throats he’d sliced through with his machete. But for every killing blow he’d made, some punk had managed to sneak in a cheap shot. Someone had stabbed him in the thigh, another had brought down a hammer against his cheek. He could feel his teeth jangling loosely in his mouth following the blow. Limping, he pushed his way through the carnage. He had to pick his way over the fallen who either groaned in agony, curled up in the fetal position, or were deathly silent.
He knew that the fight was over. He had to do his best to walk away with his life. He spied Aaron wrestling with some asshole with a two by four embedded with nails. It struck Aaron in the leg and he folded like a piece of paper. His opponent raised his crude weapon, about to swipe it across Aaron’s face when Henry intervened. With one quick movement, he severed the guy’s arm with his machete. Hot blood spurted from the wound like a gothic fountain, soaking Henry’s face.
“Argh!” the man sank to his knees, squealing in agony and grabbing helplessly as his bloodied stump of an arm.
“Let’s get out of here,” Henry helped haul Aaron on to his feet. “We’re done.”
“But they're still standing,” Will objected, pointing in the direction of another fight.
Looking around, Henry wasn’t quite sure if standing was the correct term. People precariously remained on their feet as blood seeped into their clothes.
“If we want to see tomorrow, we need to go now,” Henry urged. “Let’s get back to the bar.”
Any alcohol in his system had run out, along with his blood, and now he felt impossibly tired. The bar on the outskirts of town felt a million miles away. But he knew he had to get there. He urgently needed medical attention, they both did.
“Alex will kill us…if we…go back,” Aaron stuttered. He was zoning in and out of consciousness and starting to shiver. Henry knew that they didn’t have much time.
“I saw the old man go down,” he told his friend gravely. Alex had been struck down within the first twenty minutes of the fight. Five guys with hammers and baseball bats had set upon him, beating him to death until the bloodied pulp they left in their wake was barely recognizable.
“He got jumped,” Henry explained. “He didn’t even have a chance.”
“Shit.”
“So we need to get the hell out of here so that the Skeleton Kings can eventually rise again.”
“Will we run the Kings?” Aaron asked dreamily as Henry finally reached their bikes. He climbed up on his own and hauled him up behind him. He just prayed that he’d be able to drive them safely back to the protectio
n of the bar.
“Run the Skeleton Kings?” Henry wiped the blood from his eyes and started the engine. He hadn’t thought about it, but with Alex gone, the pack would be rudderless without a leader. Max would have been Alex’s natural successor, but he was long gone by now. Henry rolled the idea around in his fogged mind and pulled away on his bike. The more he drove, the more he warmed to the idea.
“Sure,” he shouted over the roar of the engine, the bar now blissfully in sight. “Why the hell not? Let’s run the Kings, me and you.”
“Sounds good,” Aaron coughed. “Now let’s go get us patched the hell up.”
