Brogan had bought the Yamaha a few days ago in preparation for his journey. Seeing as the three perps traveled by motorbike, it seemed a good idea for him to have one as well. It gave him more options than traveling by bus, and if he ran into any trouble, he could get out of town fast. Carter had helped him chose it, explaining that the poor condition of the roads in the Outzone meant that a dirt bike was the best way to get around.
Carter had also shown him the message board at Che’s, where travelers could arrange to hook up for long-distance trips, since it wasn’t safe to travel solo outside of the cities. The previous day he’d vetted Brogan’s traveling companions. There wasn’t much point in leaving Winter’s Edge accompanied by a pair of murderous cutthroats.
“Yes, I’m Frank,” Brogan said, replying to the young man’s question. “Making you Earl, right? Or is that just your title?”
The man laughed. “Actually, I’m a duke, but I keep pretty quiet about that around here.” He hooked a thumb to the rider behind him, a broad-shouldered man around the same age as Earl. “This here is my buddy, Derschel.”
Brogan quickly appraised the men as they shook hands. Despite their young age, he reckoned the two could hold their own. They had a certain confidence about them. Over the years, Brogan had become adept at figuring out who had the mettle in them.
“Are we ready?” Brogan asked. It was over a six hour ride to Two Jacks. He was anxious to get going.
Earl blipped his throttle, grinning at him. “We’re on our bikes, waiting on you, buddy.”
“All right…” Brogan said, resisting the temptation to tell Earl just how long he had been waiting for him. Most folk didn’t run on military time in the Outzone, other than those perhaps best to avoid.
He drained his coffee cup and took it back to the stall, where the vendor dropped it into a bowl of soapy water next to him. Walking back, Brogan grabbed his rifle case resting against the wall and slung it over his shoulder. Swinging his leg over the saddle of the Yamaha, he started the engine and signaled to Earl he was ready. Moments later, he followed the two men out of the square.
Almost as soon as they set off, the skies turned darker and the rain finally came down. Brogan flipped down the visor of his helmet and zipped up the collar of his rain jacket.
They headed south, exiting the Barrio T into South Park, where they turned right, heading west until they reached 20th Street, then into the Reclamation Area in the direction of the South Valley. To the east, through the thick rain, Brogan could make out the ominous gray outline of the Exclusion Wall looming in the distance.
At the southwest edge of the Reclamation Area, the road began to wind up into the hills and the three riders stopped for a moment by the roadside to remove their rifles from their cases. Slapping in fresh magazines, they slung them back over their shoulders and took off again. Outside of the city, it was safer to carry rifles openly and, in fact, advisable. Here, street law quickly turned into no law at all.
As they headed farther into the hills, the quality of what had been an old forest road got progressively worse. Soon it became no more than a single-lane track. The rain started to come down even harder, drumming relentlessly across the visor of Brogan’s helmet, and his legs quickly became soaked to the bone. Though he had wrapped his travel pack on the tank with a plastic sheet, he cursed himself for not taking the time to buy waterproof leggings like the ones his two companions had changed into.
It was windier up in the hills, and cold flurries tugged at his jacket on their ride up the mountain. Finally they dipped over the far side of the hill, and the city of Winter’s Edge disappeared from view.
A short time later, the riders descended onto the flat plain of the South Valley, where the forest road joined up with a secondary road, which joined the old state highway a few miles farther up.
Soon the rain stopped, and above them the clouds turned a lighter shade of gray. Earl and Derschel opened up the throttles of their machines and blemmed ahead along the highway. Brogan followed suit, the powerful engine of his Yamaha propelling him forward to easily catch up with his two companions.
Chapter 22
They rode hard across the plains, passing small acreage farms where occasionally young children playing in the fields ran out after them, yelling and waving as they roared past. Dogs chased them too, snapping at their heels and requiring a swift kick of the boot to send them off with a yelp.
More troublesome than the dogs were the potholes. After years of neglect the road surface had deteriorated badly, many of the holes deep enough to throw a rider over the handlebars if he didn’t pay close attention.
The land here made pleasant scenery, though nothing close to the raw beauty of the West Valley. Brogan spotted cattle and horses in fenced-off wooden corals, and hog pens and paddocks containing pigs, goats, and hens. Most of the fields lay bare, their crops—wheat, corn, sugar beet, and oats—now harvested and cut down to their stems.
The road ran straight for miles and miles, undulating gently up and down like soft ocean swells frozen mid-motion. Farther away from the highway, much of the land on the plains remained unused. Dormant brown grasses grew high, the wind rippling through them like waves. To the west, the high buttes of a long mountain range could be seen in the distance.
Brogan thought about the task that lay ahead of him in Two Jacks. By Cole’s calculation, he would arrive in the city the same day as the perps, as both he and Cole continued to describe them. Without names, it was hard to know what else to call them.
Two Jacks was a gambler’s town where loggers, miners, and trappers working in the nearby mountains came to spend their hard-earned money on what was known as the “Triple W”—whiskey, whoring, and wagering.
Perhaps because those who’d left the safety of the Strata State were risk takers at heart, gambling was popular in the Outzone, and the city had gained a reputation as the place to go to play cards or rattle some dice, and attracted people from far and wide. That included professional gamblers, professional women, roughnecks, drifters, and those who lived by the gun. As such, it was a rough place, easy to find trouble in, and a town most of the local farming community considered wise to leave long before nightfall.
“Badder than Winter’s Edge, where no mercy is shown and none expected,” Carter told him, eying Brogan curiously when he’d first broached the subject with him.
The perfect place to take down the murderers of my family, Brogan thought to himself, while his friend continued to describe the city. I’ll show no mercy either.
Just after three p.m., Earl raised an arm in the air and motioned for the group to slow down.
Brogan pulled up alongside him. “What’s up?” he shouted across into the wind. “Anything wrong?”
“You bet. My stomach’s rumbling.”
Now that Earl mentioned it, Brogan realized he was hungry too. It had been several hours since he’d last eaten. “Okay, let’s find somewhere to pull over.”
A few hundred yards farther, the trio drove down off the highway and through thick brush until they came to a clearing. Brogan came to a stop and killed the engine. Climbing off his machine, he took a look around at their surroundings.
They had come to the edge of the plains, close to a mountain range known as the Iron Hills. Ahead Brogan could see a forest road winding up into the foothills in a series of switchbacks. On its lower slopes, livid scars were visible from recent mining activity, and he spotted several mine shafts.
“That’s got to be Scar Mountain,” he said to Derschel, who was unhooking the cords from around his tank so he could open his pack.
“That’s it, buddy. Over the far side is Two Jacks. Reckon we got another two hours of riding still.”
The three chose a spot twenty yards away to eat their lunch, where a raised outcrop of rocks protected them from the wind. They sat down with their backs to it, and started on their lunches.
At La Cumbre the previous night, Brogan had bought an extra burrito for the journey. Tho
ugh cold, it was still delicious. Along with rice and pinto beans was a generous helping of beef, cheese, and a spicy salsa. Earl and Derschel both ate cheese sandwiches made from thickly cut slices of bread.
“We didn’t get much of a chance to talk before leaving, Frank. What brings you to Two Jacks?” Earl asked, taking a bite from his sandwich. “Are you a gambling man?”
“No, I’m just taking a look around, that’s all. I got a friend knocking about somewhere in the Outzone. Couldn’t find him back in the city, so I figured he might have come up this way. How about you two?”
“Visiting my sister,” Earl said. “She moved there six months ago with her husband. They got some land about ten miles outside the city. Took Dersh with me for protection, seeing as he had nothing better to do.”
Derschel grinned. “That’s right. Any excuse to get out on my bike, especially seeing as Earl’s paying for the gas.”
“So neither of you have been to Two Jacks before?”
The two shook their heads.
“First time. And we’ll mostly stay clear of the city, though I hear it’s a fun place if you like bar brawls, gambling, and paying for your women,” Earl said with a grin. “I’m guessing you won’t stay long. Maybe we’ll ride back together in a few days.”
“Sounds good,” Brogan said. “I’m like Derschel here—any excuse to ride my bike.”
As they finished up their lunch, Brogan heard the distant rumble of engines. Coming from the direction they had ridden, he could make out a large group of riders approaching, stretched out in a long line along the highway.
“Looks like we got company,” he said, standing up. “We best get ourselves ready.”
The trio had come across several groups of riders already on their journey, so far without any problems. This was a large pack. Brogan guessed it was the warrior chapter whose name he’d forgotten who roamed these particular plains; no one else was allowed travel in such a large group. According to Carter, they lived by a strict code and didn’t cause trouble for other travelers, so Brogan didn’t expect any. Though in his experience, the better prepared you were, the easier trouble was to avoid.
The three gathered their gear and went back to their bikes. Brogan grabbed his HK419 and rested it against the side of his machine. Earl and Derschel did likewise with their rifles.
The three then made themselves busy securing their packs, and moments later the first of the motorcycles reached them. Brogan counted fifteen in total, a mix of men and women. All armed with semi-automatic rifles.
They rode by slowly. At the front of the pack was a huge man wearing faded black leathers, with a red kerchief tied around his right upper arm. Underneath his open-face helmet was a craggy face, lined and weathered. He had high cheekbones and a sturdy jaw.
Sitting astride his motorcycle, Brogan couldn’t help but marvel at the man’s immense size; the huge frame, long legs sticking out at right angles, big dusty boots resting on the foot pegs. The man truly was a force of nature. Brogan estimated he must be around six foot seven.
Sitting behind him was a pretty black girl wearing a deerskin jacket, jeans, and boots. Her slender arms were wrapped around the man’s waist, the side of her face pressed into his back like she was trying to grapple a giant tree trunk.
As they passed, the rider looked across at the three men standing by their machines and gave them a cursory nod. Brogan lifted a hand in return.
“Don’t worry, they’re cool,” Earl said in a low voice. “That’s a mixed-race warrior chapter known as the Black Eagles. They won’t cause us any problems. Take a look at their colors.”
On the backs of their jackets, Brogan saw that the riders all had large patches depicting a swooping eagle on them, its talons outstretched.
“Okay,” Brogan said. “We’ll just let them ride awhile before heading off ourselves.”
The passing riders didn’t pay much attention to the three men until the last four motorcycles drove by. They had become slightly separated from the pack, and rode several hundred yards behind them.
The first of the stragglers, a man in a wine-red leather jacket, stared hard at the three as he passed by. He slowed, turning to talk to his companions. One of them shook his head and pointed ahead.
The man didn’t pay his friend any heed. A moment later, he jammed on his brakes, swept around in a large U-turn, and headed back toward Brogan and his two companions. The other riders looked at each other, shook their heads, then turned around and followed him. Ahead on the road, the rest of the pack continued on their way, oblivious to what was happening.
“Alright, guys,” Brogan said quietly to Earl and Derschel, “you two head back behind those rocks we were just at and cover me.”
“I’m not sure we need to, Frank,” Earl said hesitantly. “They’re probably only coming over to—”
“Just do it.” Brogan snapped. “I’m not taking any chances. Let’s find out what they want first.”
“He’s right, Earl,” Derschel said to his friend. “Best to play this safe.”
“Keep your weapons trained on them, fingers off the trigger,” Brogan said in a more even tone. “Let’s do this nice and easy, okay?”
The two friends grabbed their rifles. Sprinting back, they got into position, one to either side behind the rocks where they had just lunched.
The four motorbikes came down off the highway, nosing their way through the brush, coming to a halt just yards away from where Brogan stood, his rifle cradled in his arms.
The first rider, the one in the red jacket, leaned over the handlebars of his machine and stared at Brogan.
A crooked grin came over his features. “Hey amigo, how come your friends run off like that, leaving you here on your own? That’s not cool.” As he spoke, Brogan noticed he was slurring his words badly.
“Sure it’s cool,” Brogan said in a friendly tone. “They’re doing exactly what I told them.”
“Really? How come?”
“Well, guess I’m a cautious kind of a guy, that’s all.”
“Cautious, huh? Is that a fact?”
The man cut his engine and got off his bike. He took off his helmet and hung it over one end of the handlebar.
“Mitch, quit fucking around, you drunk sonofabitch,” one of his companions said, shaking his head in exasperation. “We need to keep going.”
The man called Mitch ignored him and strode over to where Brogan stood, pulling off his leather gloves and stuffing them into his jacket pockets. As he got closer, Brogan saw he was young, about the same height as himself. He looked tough and rangy with a strong muscular body, and had spiky jet-black dyed hair which stuck out in wild tufts.
He stopped right in front of Brogan, a strong smell of liquor coming off his breath. Seemed like Mitch was itching to stir things up. Whiskey would do that to a young man.
“Amigo, what is it you want?” Brogan said, holding his stare. “If you stopped by to say hello, well hello. But it’s time we all got going now.”
The expression on the young man’s face soured. He stuck out a finger and jabbed it into Brogan’s chest. “Hey, fuckhead, don’t tell me what to do.” He leaned his head forward so that it nearly touched Brogan’s. “You want to leave, there’s nothing stopping you. Just tell your chickenshit friends to crawl out from behind those rocks and go.”
Brogan stepped back a foot. “We’ll leave as soon as you guys get on out of here,” he said firmly.
“Come on, Mitch, that’s enough,” another one of his companions called out from behind him. “We best get going. Bear will get pissed.”
“Shut up!” Mitch shouted over his shoulder, continuing to glare at Brogan. “I’m not finished here yet.”
“Yes you are, kid,” Brogan said quietly. “Quit fucking around and get going.”
Out on the highway, behind the drunken firebrand, the rest of the pack had turned and were heading back toward them. They were about a kilometer away. Brogan would give Mitch one more chance to leave, otherwise he
would have to take action. Who knew how things would turn out once the rest of the pack arrived? If they were as drunk as Mitch, maybe not great.
Mitch’s eyes blazed angrily at Brogan’s words. He bunched his fists and drew back his right arm. Before he could throw his punch, Brogan stepped forward, swinging the butt of his rifle up from his waist fast. It caught the young man flush under the jaw. With a gasp, Mitch staggered back. Without giving him a chance to react, Brogan swung the rifle again, this time toward the side of his head, smashing it across his temple with a heavy crack.
Mitch was out cold on his feet. His eyes rolled back in their sockets, his knees buckled, and he collapsed in a heap in front of Brogan.
Before he hit the ground, Brogan had already run past him, heading for the three riders sitting on their motorbikes, still with their gloves on, their rifles across their backs. They desperately fumbled for their weapons. One began tearing a glove off his hand.
Two shots rang out, one after another.
“Don’t even think about it or we’ll cut you down!” Earl yelled out from behind Brogan.
The three startled riders looked at each other uncertainly. They hadn’t been looking for a fight, and now their headstrong friend had gotten them into one they were totally unprepared for.
Brogan reached the three riders. His rifle at shoulder height, pointing from one to another. “Get your hands up in the air…now!”
The three men raised their arms.
“You!” Brogan said to the man on the left, waving the barrel of his rifle at the man’s waist. “Throw out that pistol.”
With a gloved hand, the man carefully took out the gun from his holster and dropped it to the ground a few feet away from him.
“Now your rifle.” Brogan said, eying the other two men warily as he spoke. From the highway, the sound of engines became increasingly louder.
Keeping his rifle trained on his three captive riders, Brogan glanced up at the road to see several motorcycles come down off the bank and ride parallel to the road till they came to a stop about a hundred yards away. There were only five riders. He glanced around quickly to see where the rest of the pack could have gone. Behind him, he heard the sound of engines farther out in the brush.
Winter's Edge: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (Outzone Drifter Series Book 1) Page 16
