“That’s in case you get into trouble again. Take a syringe and plunge it anywhere on your body. Once the solution wears off, I think that is when the blood lust begins and you lose control. I apologize for the cold bath, but ice helps bring your core temperature down to manageable levels in an emergency. You were overheating because the port was broken, but it’s repaired for now. As long as you keep your core body temperature down, you should be ok. Otherwise your body will begin to shut down and you will die eventually. Your brain is the key. You have been generating entirely too much heat, and your body cannot regulate it fast enough. While you were unconscious, I took some blood, and somehow a synthetic opioid got into your system, something similar to what I would prescribe for pain. I must implore you to inject only the solution into your body—nothing else. Any outside substance you introduce can amplify the effects of hyperthermia, leading to brain tissue destruction.”
He sat there trying to remember something—anything. The events of the past kept coming to him in gaps while he was unconscious. He remembered fighting in a war, in different places, and he also remembered being shot multiple times and feeling almost no pain. It dawned on him that he was extraordinarily powerful, but with limitations. His body could endure only so much … and he was tired no longer.
“You’re not saying much,” Dr. Keitel commented. He sat down across from his patient, sipping on a cup of coffee. “I have a plan.” He took another sip, carefully eyeing the other man, who sat passively, black eyes unblinking. “We are going to create an army of followers, but we need to do it the right way. Your methods, while instinctive, are creating too much attention. Once you are at 100%, we will proceed.”
“An army,” the words escaped his dry, chapped lips, “that I can lead once more.”
Dr. Keitel smiled and set his coffee cup on the table. “Yes, you will once more lead an army on the field of battle. With my help, you will be unstoppable.”
The black Mercedes pulled into the parking lot of a T&A Truck Stop, just off of the interstate. Dr. Keitel drove the vehicle into a parking spot, halted the car, and placed it in park. Across the road was a large, nondescript wooden building, but what was behind it, nestled inside a gated compound, intrigued the doctor the most. The smaller, one-story building held a faded, hand-painted sign reading “Dean’s Automotive and Body Shop.” Even at first glance, it didn’t seem like much of an automotive shop. A large party appeared to be taking place inside, and loud music blasted out whenever the front doors were opened. A long line of motorcycles of various makes and models fronted the building, and a few pickup trucks were parked haphazardly in the dirt lot.
“This might be a good place to try,” Dr. Keitel said to his passenger. “The city is getting too dangerous, with the police attention. Go in there and see what you can do. We need soldiers. I’ll be close by.”
With a grunt, the passenger exited the car, closing the door behind him. Dr. Keitel backed the Mercedes out of its spot and left the lot rapidly. His passenger walked purposefully across the street, anticipating a battle. He was ready.
Two bikers, each drinking a bottle of Lone Star beer, looked at the strange man walking through the front door, and one commented “Get a load of this fucker.” The man, built with a solid frame and wearing a brown motorcycle jacket marked with numerous holes, entered the smoke-filled, crowded bar. The jacket was unzipped, and he was bare-chested beneath it. His jeans, torn in several places, featured numerous stains that appeared to be blood.
The man stopped a few feet inside of the crowded bar and began to look around. A large sign over the bar read “Meine Ehre heißt Treue.” The crowd was pretty rough; the majority wore their colors on the backs of their cuts. The words “SS Viking” were emblazoned on a top rocker on the backs of their leather cuts, complementing a large distinctive skull and crossbones of the Waffen SS. “Texas” was stitched on the bottom rocker patch, with a small rectangular “MC” patch and diamond shaped “1%er” patch completing the cut. Several bikers noticed the newcomer and eyed him with keen interest. The area around the pool table emptied as Cyrus walked toward the bar’s entrance. He was wearing black leather chaps with the same distinctive SS Viking cut and several additional patches, the most notable reading “Club President.” He displayed several SS-inspired tattoos; most noticeable was a large red swastika on his left shoulder.
Cyrus slowly walked toward the unwelcome visitor, holding a pool cue with both hands. “I think you’re lost, friend. This is a private bar.”
Motörhead’s “Ace of Spades” had stopped playing, and the bar was all but silent, with all attention on the newcomer. The bikers had surrounded the man. Some held knives, and a couple had drawn pistols.
The pale man did not speak. His black eyes were fixated on a redheaded waitress with curly hair standing behind the bar. She was frozen in position, unable to move as her gaze met his. He seemed to be staring at her large breasts, which were barely contained in her low-cut leather halter top.
Cyrus stepped down from the elevated platform holding the pool table area and stood directly in front of the man. “You deaf or what? If you want trouble, you’ve come to the right place.”
The man turned and faced the bar. “I’m thirsty.”
Howls of laughter erupted from the crowd. Cyrus stepped closer, now face to face with the man.
“You got some balls, buddy. This is my clubhouse and bar, and I say who gets to stay and who gets to drink.” He looked out at the crowd and continued, “Should we let him stay or make him go?”
A chorus of boos and other noises emanated from the crowd. A couple of beer bottles arced across the room and struck the man across the back of the head. He remained in place, unfazed.
“The people have spoken, my friend. Now get the fuck out!”
Cyrus raised a fist and landed a tremendous blow on the man’s face, knocking his head backward. Still, the man did not flinch. He stared at Cyrus with his black eyes and spoke very softly. “Do not do that again.”
Cyrus stepped back, holding his hand in pain, almost in a daze. He felt like he had just punched a concrete wall. The man grabbed him by the throat, picked him up, and held him three feet off the ground. He tossed Cyrus into a group of other bikers, sending the bunch crashing to the ground. A pistol shot rang out. Mayhem quickly ensued, as several terrified women ran out of the bar and the remaining bikers grabbed whatever weapons they could find. The pale man turned around, grabbed the nearest biker, and threw him through the front door, sending wood splinters flying in every direction.
Within minutes, the battle was over. Smashed tables and chairs littered the entire floor, and bikers lay in heaps. The pale man turned back to the red-haired waitress, still standing behind the bar. He strode purposefully toward her.
“Give me beer,” he commanded in a low tone. The terrified waitress retrieved a mug and filled it with beer from a tap.
“Here,” she responded nervously, her hand shaking as she set the mug on the bar.
The man looked at the glass and lifted it and drank the contents in one gulp. A small smile crossed his face. “More,” he said.
The waitress refilled the mug, which the stranger again drained in one gulp. He paused and turned around. The bar was pretty much empty, save for the gang leader and a few of his disciples. The rest had managed to crawl or walk out. The remaining few managed to extricate themselves from the debris and stand. Two drew pistols but did not aim them at the stranger. Cyrus regained his composure, stepped forward, and spoke. “When someone enters my bar and they are not welcome, they die.” Seeing no reaction from the man, he continued, “I like your style. I think perhaps we may be able to help each other.” The waitress filled the man’s mug again, and he again drained it in one gulp.
“You ever hear of the Viking Motorcycle Club?” Again, the man provided no response or reaction; he just stared straight ahead, blankly. The waitress continued to refill his glass. Cyrus shifted from one booted foot to the other nervously. He con
tinued, “You should join up with us. It would be worth your while.”
The man finished his beer in one gulp once again and slammed the glass to the ground, shattering it into several pieces.
“I need an army, weapons.”
Cyrus responded matter-of-factly, “We have lots of guns. Whatever you want, we have or we can get, but this army is mine.”
The man turned around and looked at the waitress. “I want her.” The waitress didn’t react; she just stared into the depth of his black eyes.
“She’s yours, man.”
“Randy, I swear I shot that guy,” the skinny biker said, as he took a long pull off a fat joint. He sat on a stack of worn out tires, with Randy standing beside him; both of them stared in the direction of a nearby mobile home. The night sky was dark and cloudy, but so far there had been no rain. “I hit him right in the back, and he didn’t even flinch. There is something seriously weird about that dude.” He passed the joint back to Randy, who was standing next to him.
“You shouldn’t shoot people in the back anyway, you pussy.” Randy took a hit off the joint and started to hack as he inhaled the smoke and broke out into laughter.
The SS Viking Motorcycle Club compound sat in a four-acre tract of land a few miles north of the city, in a rural area. The men talking were just outside two run-down, double-wide mobile homes, parked side by side. A giant red flag bearing a black swastika fluttered on a flagpole nearby. Below it was another flag, displaying the club colors. Several customized Harley- Davidson and Triumph motorcycles were parked haphazardly all over the compound. Beer cans and bottles littered the ground, almost as if they had fallen from the sky like rain. Several scantily clad women, ranging from jailbait to middle-aged and varying in build from anorexic looking to obese, lounged around. A few bikers with AK-47 rifles slung over their shoulders guarded the compound’s gates. Inside one of the mobile homes, an initiation of sorts was taking place.
“I can’t believe you don’t have any ink, man,” Cyrus said to the man sitting on a stained couch, looking at his naked upper body. “We got to change that.” He waved at one of his bikers, who disappeared into a back room and reappeared moments later with a tattoo needle gun.
“We’re going to put some ink on you. The crowded mobile home erupted into yells and cheers. The man said nothing. Someone had cranked up the stereo, which blared Skrewdriver through the speakers. The man allowed himself to be led to a kitchen table and chair by the red-haired waitress from the bar at the other end of the mobile home. He sat down, and one of the bikers began to tattoo on his shoulder. The red-haired waitress sat in the man’s lap and raised a joint to his lips. He inhaled deeply. Swallowing the smoke, he began to cough but immediately took another hit. An image of the Nazi swastika began to form on his shoulder as the steady buzzing of the needle gun continued. The night was just beginning.
The sound of automatic fire ripped through the air. Several bikers were lined up side by side, shooting at an old washing machine and refrigerator. Both were liberally perforated.
Cyrus handed his new SS-Viking member a SAW M-249 light machine gun and said, “Try this on for size.”
The man took it, examined it for a second or two, and aimed at the washing machine. He let the machine gun rip in bursts of ten to fifteen rounds. Expended shell casings flew out the side of the gun. Within moments, the box magazine was expended. The washing machine had a neat three-inch hole in the center of its front.
Seeing the smile on the man’s face, Cyrus said, “You like that? That’s what the Marines are kicking ass with in Afghanistan.”
“It will do.”
“Good. You’re carrying it tomorrow when we hit the bank.”
The other bikers on the firing line ceased shooting. Cyrus put his arm around the man’s shoulder and led him to the other mobile home which served as the club headquarters. “There is something I want you to be a part of.” Two of the other bikers attempted to follow inside the mobile home but were turned away. “I need to speak with our brother alone,” Cyrus said to the two bikers.
As the door slammed shut, the first said to the second, “That’s bullshit. Since when does Cyrus discuss plans without us?”
The second biker replied, “I don’t know. That new guy just ain’t right. It would be a real shame if they both had an accident tomorrow.”
“Yeah, I see what you mean. It would be a real shame. I ain’t cutting up my share for that fucker. There needs to be some changes around here. Who does Cyrus think he is letting someone in, bypassing our laws? I was a fuckin’ prospect for two years before I got in. This ain’t right.”
“Sit down,” Cyrus said. He reached into an ice chest and retrieved two Busch tallboys. He tossed one to his new member. “You need a name, man. I don’t know what to call you.”
The other man opened his beer and began to chug its contents. He responded, “Call me whatever you like. I remember I was a corps captain once. I was killed in action.” His voice drifted off as he sat down on a worn- out, stained cloth couch. The fresh swastika tattoo on his shoulder caught the dim light from a grimy window.
Cyrus rubbed the back of his shaved head around the tattooed image of the SS runes. “Whatever. Your name is the Reaper. And tomorrow you’re going to reap some souls.” Cyrus took a big chug from his tallboy, and added, “And a shitload of money too.” He threw his head back and slammed the rest of his beer. Tossing the can in the corner, he continued, “We are going to take down a bank. There’s a huge amount of cash being transported out. I have someone on the inside that got us all the details. It’s easy in and out. I want you in on it, man. I want you to back me up. It’s going to be a big score, you can count on that.”
Reaper stood up and pulled a bag from his jeans pocket, filled with a green, leafy substance he got from another club member. He grabbed some rolling papers off of the counter by the kitchen sink and began to roll himself a joint. This new activity probably was the most enjoyable aspect of his new existence. “Enjoy it tonight,” Cyrus said, “but have a clear head tomorrow.” He stood up and headed for the door. He stopped and turned around. “What happened to Susie? I haven’t seen her all morning. I know she was all over you last night.”
Reaper finished rolling his joint and looked up. “She is around. She serves me now.”
“Yeah, OK. If you want her for your old lady I have no issue with that. She’s too old for most of the guys anyway. We’re going to gear up tonight, so make sure your shit is wired tight.”
About 30 minutes later, Reaper stumbled out of the club headquarters trailer. Once he disappeared into the darkness, two bikers strode purposefully inside. Cyrus was sitting on the sofa, smoking a joint staring at the ceiling.
“What the fuck do you two want?” Cyrus asked absentmindedly.
A tall, lanky biker pulled a chair from the kitchen and faced it backwards before sitting down. A rectangular patch on the front of his cut read, “SGT AT ARMS.” The other one took a seat at the end of the couch.
“I will tell you what I want. First off, you can’t admit new members without a club majority vote. This guy could be a Fed, for all we know, and you just let him in.”
“Is that all?” Cyrus responded calmly.
“No, and you letting him onto our score. That was supposed to be kept quiet. Who knows who he might tell?”
Cyrus leaned forward and extinguished his joint into an ashtray that hadn’t been emptied in days. He sat back against the couch, interlocked his fingers behind his head, and let out a large sigh.
“OK, listen, Skinny. I know what you are saying, but I think we have an opportunity here.” Cyrus removed a Marlboro Red from a pack from his shirt pocket and lit it. “This guy ain’t no Fed. He’s fucking insane. He was shot and stabbed, for Christ’s sake, and there’s hardly a mark on him. He can take the heat.” He took a long drag and continued. “This score Dean put me onto is going to set us straight for a long time. But there’s a reason I have only you and Randy on it. I know I can
trust you. We were part of the original five. Shit, we did four years together in Huntsville.”
Skinny bowed his head and rubbed the back of it, and Randy nodded solemnly. “Yeah, we have seen some shit,” Randy said.
“Do you trust me?” Cyrus asked.
Skinny raised his head and looked Cyrus directly in his eyes. “You’re my brother, man. I trust you, but—” His voice trailed off slightly. “Sometimes I question the direction you are taking the club in. I mean, we don’t know this guy. He isn’t normal, man.”
Cyrus leaned forward and put his hand on Skinny’s shoulder. “You gotta trust me on this one. This guy is crazy, and if we keep him high and drunk he will take the fall or get wasted. That’s why I originally had those two other prospects in. But damn, why waste two prospects when we have this guy? He’s an animal, and when we get the score, I’ll put a bullet in his head personally.” Cyrus stood up and looked at Randy. “Are we good?”
Randy looked at Skinny nodding in the affirmative. “Yeah, we’re good man, but good luck putting him down with one bullet.” The two bikers stood up and gave each other a quick embrace. Cyrus stood up, and Skinny embraced him as well.
“I’m good,” Skinny said. “The club is going to ask questions, though. We can’t let on he is in the club, prospect or not. You know they will get pissed if we made a decision without a club vote.”
Cyrus lit another cigarette. “I’ll handle the club. As far as he knows, he’s in. He ain’t gonna be around long enough to earn a cut. You guys just get everything prepped. Tell Melvin and Notch they ain’t goin’ on this run with us. Don’t tell them why.”
Dawn of the Mad Page 18
