by J. Thorn
Jana followed Peter to the door. They made loping strides on their toes to avoid stepping on or waking the others. Peter pulled a silver chain out of his shirt. It hung around his neck with a key on the end. He slid the key into the hole and opened the padlock, gently dropping the chain until it lay coiled like a venomous snake on the concrete floor. Peter pushed the door open a crack. He placed his right eye to the opening and stood motionless for a minute. The calm silence of the store convinced Peter to push the door open so that he and Jana could squeeze through.
Peter walked down the aisle closest to the back wall, where the coffeemakers stood cold and silent. Jana inhaled the scent of coffee grounds, closed her eyes, and shook her head. Peter picked up two cups and handed one to her.
“Here. Shake it a little bit and then pull the top off.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“It will be hot coffee.”
Jana looked at him with a quizzical expression.
“These are kind of new. They have chemicals in the bottom of the cup. When activated, they give off heat, giving you a warm cup of coffee, hot chocolate, soup, whatever. It’s not like a French roast from Phoenix Coffee, but it’s the only hot coffee you’re going to find around here.”
Jana followed Peter’s instructions. She felt the cup come to life in her hand. The chemical warmth spread from the bottom toward the top.
“Why hasn’t everyone drank these already? Seems to me they would be one of the first food items to go.”
“Because nobody knows about them. I hid them under the cabinet.”
Jana smiled and took a sip. She caressed the outer lip of the cup the same way she did with her favorite mug in the break room.
“Do you want it?” Peter asked.
“Want what?” Jana replied.
“My story. We all have one, don’t we? Being here is like being shipwrecked. We’re a bunch of castaways forced to live in a cramped space together for an indefinite period of time. Nobody knows if we’ll be rescued or not, so we continue to live out our existence as best we can.”
Jana sipped the warming cup and sat down on an overturned, plastic milk crate.
“I’m not about to sleep, so go right ahead.”
Peter pulled another milk crate up next to Jana and began his tale.
“I’m originally from Wales. You may have detected the accent.”
Jana blushed again, pretending to be surprised by his revelation.
“I came to the US about ten years ago. I’m a math teacher at Brush High School. I have a wife and two kids.” Peter paused and spun the wedding band on his finger. “I’m not sure what’s happened to them.”
He paused , struggling to form the words.
“I was at school late, trying my best to get papers graded before parent-teacher conferences next week. I had a desk lamp on, but the room lights were off. I think that’s what saved my life. I could hear the sound of the military vehicles marching down Mayfield. Bursts of light came through the window when the slaughter began. I turned the lamp off and crawled to the window. I could see troops everywhere. The school was dark and, because it was night, they didn’t come inside. I watched them pull people from the homes across the street and shoot them in the head, right there on the front lawn. Other soldiers spray-painted a pentagram on the house. They moved right down the line. People were dragged out on to the lawn and shot. Others were bound with plastic zip-ties and thrown into a troop transport, and others, I assume, were killed right in their own beds. I could see the flash of a machine gun as it lit up the bedroom of the poor people inside. This went on for an hour, maybe two. I stayed in my dark classroom and waited. As the troops moved west on Mayfield Road, the streetlights went out behind them. The phone on my desk was dead, and the power to the school was off. I live on Belvoir, near the school. That was the direction the troops headed and all I could think about was my family. I stumbled through the dark hallways and exited through a door in the back of the cafeteria. There was no one else around. I ran as fast as I could over the football fields and on to the quiet, residential streets of South Euclid. I don’t know what happened to everyone. Houses were dark, cold, and empty. It was as if everyone had fled. When I finally reached Belvoir, almost every house had the pentagram painted on it, including my own. I ran through the backyard, tripping on my son’s bicycle he left in the driveway. Our kitchen door was open, and the screen door had been tossed aside. I grabbed a flashlight from the closet and dashed through the house. There wasn’t a sound nor a soul in it. The good news, I think, is that I didn’t find any blood. They took my family and I’m holding on to the belief that they are alive somewhere. That’s more than I can say for many others.”
“Jesus, Peter.”
Jana finished her coffee.
“May I have another?” she asked, tipping her empty cup in Peter’s direction.
“Here.” He handed her another. The label identified it as a cinnamon-spice latte.
“I was saving this for later, but you can have it.”
“Thanks Peter, you’re very generous.”
Jana activated the chemical reaction and waited for the magic cup to heat.
“I’m sure your family is okay.”
“I’m not… but thanks for making the effort. I don’t think I could have continued if I found them slaughtered in my own home.”
“How did you end up at the gas station?” she asked.
“Well, I went to my neighbor’s houses. Not all of them were as lucky as my family. Gary Wilson’s body was sprawled across his front doorstep, and others were gunned down in bed. I decided that I needed to get out in case they came back. So, I moved carefully down Mayfield. I thought the food mart might have useful dry goods and other things of value in case this thing went on for an extended period of time. By the time I got there it was clear that the troops had as well. Glass was everywhere and bodies were under the pump canopy. Ruth, Sally, and her son Jay were already inside. They had huddled together behind the counter. It was just us that first night. Bill, Andrew, and Jake showed up the next day. Since then, we’ve been hunkered down, trying to decide what to do next. If we could get news about what was happening, we could make decisions. But, nobody knows anything, anywhere.”
“How do you know that if you don’t ask?”
The question jolted Peter and Jana – it came from the direction of the storeroom.
“Thought you were sleeping, Jake.” said Peter.
“Hard to do that with people moving around and yapping all night, eh Jana?”
Jana gave Jake a nasty look and shuffled her milk crate closer to Peter.
“We couldn’t sleep,” she said.
With Jake’s sleeves rolled up, Jana tried not to stare at his tattoos.
“It’s the niggers’ fault. All of it. They’re demons from hell.”
Peter stood up and placed himself squarely between Jake and Jana.
“Back off, dickhead,” said Jake to Peter.
Peter started to step forward when Jake pulled a nine-millimeter handgun from behind his back.
“It’s time we do things my way.”
Chapter 19
The floor rumbled underfoot. The generators in the basement roared as electricity spread to the rest of the building. Black spray paint covered the windows, keeping the light out. John and Alex followed the men into the Jigsaw Saloon.
They wore black, leather biker jackets. Each one had a stitched patch covering the back of it. In a gothic script, the words “Keepers of the Wormwood” arched around the outer edge, and a white circle held two lightning bolts crossing over the top of a barren tree. Underneath the tree, “Cleveland Chapter” filled a rectangle on the bottom of the jacket.
Wallet chains swung low and rattled off the hunting knives the men wore on their hips. One man wore a tight buzz cut while the other let a frazzled, braided ponytail dangle in the middle of his back. Their dirty jeans met scuffed, black riding boots.
“Where are we headed?”
asked John.
“Shut up and follow us,” replied the man with the ponytail.
They passed through a dark hallway and into the main club area of the Jigsaw. A bar ran parallel to the street, with glass blocks running from the floor to the ceiling. Stale beer and cigarette smoke clung to every surface. A pair of pool tables sat at the bottom of four steps that led to the main floor. On the raised stage, monitors sat in silence by piles of tangled cables.
The four men passed by the soundboard and headed to the right of the stage. A door blocked their access to the backstage area. The man with the buzz cut pulled a cache of keys from his pocket. He fumbled through three or four before he found the one he wanted. The lock turned without protest, but the hinges squealed in pain as the door swung open.
Beyond their two escorts, electric lamps blinded John and Alex. Heavy rock grumbled at low volume like fog clinging to moors. Several other men, all sporting the same leather jacket, sat around a table playing poker. Others drank beer while women crawled on their laps. John glanced at a stack of metal filing cabinets and an ancient desk in one corner. The windowless room provided a buffer for the noise and light.
The biggest man in the room stood up.
“They’re all yours, Sully,” said the armed escorts.
Sully drained a mug of beer with one swig. His red beard glistened with foam, and hair covered most of his face and chest. He stood over six feet tall, and a jet fighter could land on his shoulders. In his other hand, he held a roach clip. The distinct aroma of burning marijuana filled the room. Sully put the joint to his lips and inhaled. The blunt responded. With a fiery, red ember glowing on the end, he held the toke and released it with a steady breath. John and Alex stood still, mouths shut and ears open.
“Which one of you is the Sleep fan?” Sully inquired.
John dropped his shoulders and unballed white-knuckled fists.
“I am. Seen Wino with the Obsessed back in ’90.”
Sully nodded and the mass of hair kicked back and forth in unison with his head.
“How about you, brother?” he asked Alex.
“Sleep is cool, but I’m still holding out for the Kyuss reunion.”
“Right on, man, right on. Come over here and have a beer.”
The two burly men set their assault rifles against a chair. John sat on Sully’s left and Alex sat on his right with a cooler of beer in the middle of the circle. He spied the ice cubes inside the cooler and raised an eyebrow toward John.
“I know. The ice and coolers are in indulgence. How did you find us?” Sully asked.
“We heard the radio message,” replied John.
Alex’s lips met the edge of the bottle. The cold beer hit him like an invigorating electric jolt.
“You’re the only two that have figured it out and responded. We shot the other assholes that showed up because they were here to pillage.”
“We came all the way from the east side,” said Alex.
“We saw you once you got off of 480. You almost got served Molotov cocktails driving around in that Humvee. Are you fucking stupid or something?”
Sully put an emphasis on “stupid” in a brotherly, joking way.
“That vehicle is what got us here. If we had been in anything else, we’d be dead. Sorry to give you a scare with the Humvee and camo.”
Sully laughed and the whole building shook.
“Scare us? You didn’t scare us, little man. We didn’t want to waste precious ammo on you. That was my main concern.”
“Where did you guys come from?” John asked.
“From our mama’s pussy,” said Sully.
The other bikers around the cooler chuckled and nudged each other with their elbows. The card game paused, and the slithering women turned to face the conversation.
“Yeah, I would hope.”
John’s voice cracked and stuck in his throat.
“Just fuckin’ wit’ ya my man. We’re the ‘Keepers of the Wormwood’, or ‘The Keepers’ as we like to call ourselves. We ride out of Cleveland, mainly Parma. Most biker gangs get into selling whores or drugs, but not us. We usually end up buying them from other gangs.”
Another round of robust laughter filled the smoky room. “We do our best to uphold the outlaw lifestyle of the Old West. We steal from banks and businesses and then party our asses off until the money runs out. Then we do it again. Simple as that, my friends, simple as that.”
“How many Keepers are there?” asked Alex.
“In Cleveland, a hundred or so. The dozen you see here are the only ones we know are still alive. There are other chapters nationwide, but…”
Sully let his words trail off while waving his hand in the air.
“But you have no idea what’s happened to them,” said Alex, finishing his thought.
“Does anyone? We haven’t fired up our bikes in days. Been holding out here, drinkin’, smokin’ and fuckin’. Ain’t much else to be done.”
The women smiled and resumed the lustful dance. Bleach-blonde hair cascaded over thin bodies, tanned dark from many years on the road.
“Have you checked out the neighborhood yet?” John asked.
“I think I’ve answered enough of your questions for now. We still have no idea who the fuck you two are. Believe me, there are dudes here that would like to slice your neck. Get on with your bad selves.”
John and Alex took turns telling their respective stories, starting with their introduction to the First Cleansing. The bikers listened and nodded, occasionally asking questions for clarification. Sully interjected, repeating names and jargon mentioned only once in the story. By the end of the retelling, John would have sworn Sully had stood beside him at St. Michael’s.
“The Holy fucking Covenant. Doesn’t surprise me at all. Those churchgoers have been plotting for years. We claim separation of church and state, but those motherfuckers outsmarted us all.”
John looked at Alex and the realization smacked them hard.
“Why do you say that, Sully?” Alex asked.
“If this shit has gone down the way you say it has, who else could’ve organized it? Listen. You got soldiers breaking into homes and fucking shooting people on their sofas. Humvees, APCs, and tanks rolling down the streets. You think they randomly coordinated all of this on their own?”
Emotionally and intellectually spent, Alex and John leaned back until their shoulders brushed the wall. Wordless, they each downed the rest of their beer, then accepted another.
“How in the hell are we supposed to fight off the whole US Army?” Alex asked.
“I have no plans on fighting the entire army. I plan on maintaining my lifestyle for me and my buds. If we can forage enough beer, dope, and women to keep us happy, the fuck with everything else. Like always.”
John sat up straight and searched into Sully’s eyes.
“Are you telling me you don’t care what happens?”
“Why should I? Nobody gives a fuck about us. We’ve lived as outsiders our entire lives. We’ve stood against the standards of ‘moral citizens’. I say, fuck ’em all. As long as they don’t raid the ‘Saw, they can have this godforsaken place. Their religion fucked it all up, and it’s about to kill ’em too.”
“John and me, we have family we need to find,” said Alex.
“My family is in this room. You’re more than welcome to party with us for as long as you like, but don’t go lookin’ for us to join your fuckin’ renegade brigade.” Sully stood up and shouted, “Someone roll me another joint!”
“Then why bother with the radio broadcast at all?” asked John, his face reddening with rising frustration.
“That was a call to our brothers, nothing else,” replied Sully.
The other bikers got up, grabbed beers, and went their ways. Two men shuffled over to a Marshall JCM, marred by gashes and cigarette burns. A ragged instrument cable ran from it to a black Les Paul leaning against overflowing cardboard boxes. The men hit the standby switch on the head, and jammed with the t
unes on the boombox.
Alex looked at John with hopeful eyes.
“What should we do?”
“For now, I think we hang here and regroup. Let’s give the Covenant time to forget about us. Once they do, we won’t have such a hard time getting around the city.”
“Then what?”
“I have no clue. Hand me another beer, would ya?”
The Keepers fed John and Alex beer, but kept their distance. Conversations between the bikers materialized out of grunted whispers and hand gestures.
The Cleveland Chapter of the Keepers of the Wormwood consisted of over a hundred outlaws. They came from various neighborhoods, backgrounds, and ethnicities, which was unusual for most biker gangs in the Midwest. True to Scully’s description, the Keepers avoided many of the illicit activities that other criminals loved. They did not organize prostitution rings, run guns, operate underground casinos, or sell drugs. Every so often they would make the local news, though, as the Keepers were notorious for finding ways to steal ATM machines outfitted with internal security cameras. The ATM’s grainy, drop-frame video often showed longhairs on bikes, middle fingers in the air as a tow truck ripped the machine from the wall of a bank. Months would go by without a mention of the theft or gang, until the next surprise strike.
Most members of the Keepers lived in a ratty duplex a block down the street from the Jigsaw. The owner welcomed the patches every night as they helped to keep the peace. The heavy metal bands that graced the stage of the Jigsaw respected the Keepers of the Wormwood. The bikers in turn loved the music and ran unofficial security for the shows. Troublemakers or hecklers invariably found themselves bloodied and dazed underneath the dumpster in the back alley.
The rocker and biker chicks of Parma adored the Keepers. Keepers loved to party, and spent their money like it was nothing but paper. Girls could get whiskey, dope, or crank that would last days. The bikers never claimed an Old Lady, preferring to share the women as they did the alcohol and drugs.
Scully inherited leadership of the Keepers after his uncle died in a motorcycle accident. A soccer mom talking on her cell phone swerved right into the bike, sending it and its rider for a fifty-foot asphalt burn. By the time the paramedics got him to the hospital, he was dead. Sully took the President patch without opposition. The gang mourned his uncle with a weeklong party and then it was business as usual, but with a new leader.
