Winter's Edge: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (Outzone Drifter Series Book 1)

by Mike Sheridan

  “Not a whole lot. About ten pounds. Look, Chief, don’t shoot this man on my account. Me and Mitch are all square.”

  “This is on my account. It’s got nothing to do with you now.” Bear kept the rifle aimed at Mitch’s chest. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay for the bullet.”

  “Chief, I swear to you…I’ll never do something like that again.” To give Mitch some credit, he managed to keep his voice steady, though his legs trembled badly.

  Bear stared hard at the man a few more moments. “Get over here,” he growled.

  Mitch walked hesitantly forward as Bear lowered the rifle. When he stood in front of him, Bear stepped quickly forward and swung the rifle up hard between Mitch’s legs. There was a second’s delay, then his mouth opened in a wide O and he sunk slowly to his knees. Raising the rifle in both hands, Bear sent the butt crashing into Mitch’s face, catching him above his right eye.

  For the second time that day, Mitch went crashing to the ground like a sack of potatoes and buried his mouth in the dirt.

  Bear turned to Brogan. “You reckon that was a harder lesson that yours?”

  “Oh boy. You could say that.”

  Bear handed Brogan back his weapon. “Ride with us to Two Jacks. I hear you’re going that way. I’ll make sure the three of you get there safely.”

  Brogan nodded. “Thanks, Chief.”

  Addressing the three riders who had sat quietly on their bikes all this time, watching the drama unfold in front of them, Bear said, “When Mitch comes around, you tell him to turn back north. The three of you have a decision to make. You turn back around with him, or take the one and only chance I give you and head on to Two Jacks. You’ll find us at Holtzer’s Place, five miles south on the east side of the lake.”

  “Okay, Chief,” the one named Johnny said. “We’ll be there.”

  Bear nodded, then turned around and walked back to his waiting braves.

  Chapter 24

  Brogan dropped down another gear as his Yamaha wound higher into the Iron Hills, passing the entrance to yet another mining camp where a hand-painted sign nailed to a wooden stake spelled out the name of the claim.

  In the land where possession was ten/tenths of the law, Brogan knew that miners were being killed every week over territory disputes. Sometimes larger outfits simply turfed out the smaller claimholders, giving them a little cash for not putting up a fight—plomo o plata (lead or silver), the Latinos called the choice: take the money or die in a hail of bullets. The potential rewards for the miners might be great, but the living was brutal and not for the fainthearted.

  Riding alongside Brogan was Roja, the crazy Latina who had pulled the wheelie as a way of introducing herself. She had waited for him at the side of the highway when the three men resumed their journey, aggressively nudging her machine in between his and Earl’s—her way of telling the young man that two was company and he was the odd man out. Grinning at Brogan, Earl had dropped back to ride alongside Derschel.

  “Come visit me!” Roja shouted into the wind, riding so close to Brogan their handlebars almost touched. “My camp’s not far from the city.”

  “Sure! I’d like that!” Brogan shouted back, thankful when the girl put a little more road between the two machines.

  It was a tempting offer, but Brogan had other priorities right now. Besides, the girl was crazy, and a combination of stunning looks and crazy was sure to be downright dangerous in a place like the Outzone. She was pushy as hell too, with shining black eyes that stared at him with a possessive intensity. Roja was obviously a woman who made up her mind about men fast. A part of Brogan liked that. But not the sane part. That part told him to run like hell.

  It took another fifty minutes before the riders negotiated the final pass and began their descent into the far valley. Directly below lay Arrow Lake, the cloudy late-afternoon skies making its surface a dull gunmetal blue. Sprawled around the northernmost tip of the lake, the city of Two Jacks sat in plain view.

  Two Jacks was considerably smaller than Winter’s Edge. Most of the houses had been built from local wood, not cinderblock, and behind the city the forest slopes had been stripped bare. Farther south, the city housing thinned out, and the farms and homesteads began where rolling green hills, paddocked fields, and pastureland ran down to the lake’s shoreline. Brogan envied the peaceful tranquility Earl and Derschel would stay in, unlike himself, who would spend the night in a town far from peaceful.

  Dusk was approaching when the group of riders reached the valley floor, the last of the daylight fading above the western ridge. Brogan had hoped to arrive in the city before nightfall, giving him time to acquaint himself with the place. That wasn’t to be. A punch drunk, twice rifle-butted head-case named Mitch had seen to that.

  After driving a little farther, they came to a fork in the road. The pack slowed down, then pulled over just before the turn. Ahead, Stalking Bear looked back to Brogan, beckoning to him in the evening gloom. Roja hung back as he drove past the pack, Earl and Derschel following right behind him.

  “This is the turn for the city, so here’s where we part ways,” Stalking Bear said when Brogan pulled in beside him. The chief pointed to the right-hand fork. “Take the west shore road. Follow it a mile or so until you come to Johnson’s sawmill, then take the left turn directly opposite it. It’ll take you all the way into the city.”

  “How long a ride is it?” Brogan asked.

  “Not more than fifteen minutes,” the chief replied. “Apart from a couple of rough bars, the lake front is muerto at night…dead, so be careful as you ride in. Best place to stay is at one of the hotels or boardinghouses on the Vegas Drag. It’s the first big street behind the lakefront. You can’t miss it—it’s where all the action is. The Quiver is a good place to stay. It’ll cost you a little extra, but you can park your bike out back and your gear won’t go missing either.”

  The chief gave Brogan a serious look. “It’s a rough town. You’ll need to be careful.” He glanced over at Earl and Derschel. “At least there’ll be three of you.”

  “These two are staying south of the city at a farm,” Brogan told him. “Earl, which side of the lake is your sister’s place on?”

  “East side,” Earl said, pointing to the left.

  “Maybe they can ride with you a little farther?” Brogan asked the chief.

  Bear frowned, then glanced over at Roja, who had crept up to the front of the pack and was watching intently. “Why don’t you camp with us tonight? We’ll be staying at a farm not far from here, right by the lake shore. You can ride into Two Jacks first thing in the morning. Safer to check it out in daylight.”

  Brogan shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, Chief, but I’ll be fine.” He grinned. “If I get into any trouble, I know where to find you.”

  “If you’re still in one piece. Anyhow, your decision.” The chief stuck out his hand. “Ride out and see me in the next couple of days.”

  “Thanks. I’ll do that,” Brogan said, shaking his hand firmly. “Appreciate you being square with us back there. Not everyone would act that way.”

  Stalking Bear shrugged. “We got certain rules in this tribe. You didn’t break any of them.” The hint of a smile came over his face. “Don’t forget to drop by. I think Roja wants to show you a few more tricks.”

  Brogan grinned sheepishly. “I already told her I’d do that.”

  Stalking Bear started his engine, and Brogan said his goodbyes to his two companions. He got the directions to Earl’s sister’s farm, and made an arrangement to call out in the next few days. Maybe the three would ride back together to Winter’s Edge.

  “We appreciate how you handled things back there, Frank,” Derschel said as the two shook hands. “For a new guy, you sure know how to take care of yourself.”

  Earl stuck out his hand next. “That’s for damned sure. It’ll be good to catch up with you again.” He tilted his head to where Roja sat on her motorcycle behind them. “If you can make the time, that is.”


  The two started their engines and pulled out onto the road, then followed the chief and the rest of the Black Eagles single file onto the east shore road. One by one, the tail lights of their machines disappeared as the pack drove around the bend.

  A moment later, Roja pulled up alongside him. She lifted the visor of her helmet. “I’ll be waiting for you,” she said softly. “Don’t forget.”

  She gunned her engine hard and took off with a loud screech of her back tire, leaving Brogan standing there with the smell of burning rubber coming up off the road, the blem from her engine ringing in his ears.

  She roared up to the fork, braked hard at the turn, dipping her shoulder as she took the bend before straightening out again. Brogan shook his head. When she disappeared from view, he started up his machine.

  Chapter 25

  Following the chief’s directions, Brogan took the west shore road, driving down it a few miles until he spotted the entrance to the sawmill, its huge gates closed over for the night. He slowed. Opposite the gates, he turned onto a gloomy tree-lined road and headed east, paying careful attention as he drove. This seemed the perfect place to set up an ambush for a lone traveler.

  It felt strange being on his own. It occurred to him that, since the morning he’d left Metro New Haven, he’d always had company. For the first time, he was completely alone, heading into a dangerous city he had never been to before, and he had to remind himself once more why he had come to such a godforsaken place.

  After a few miles, he veered around a long bend, the trees thinned out, and he found himself riding alongside the lake, a cool breeze coming in off the water and washing over him. The road soon turned into an unlit city street. To Brogan’s left, the silhouettes of buildings loomed eerily in the shadows, and to his right the dark, glistening waters of the lake were replaced by a long stretch of wharves where the smell of piss and rotting wood hung in the damp night air. Opposite the wharves were a series of warehouses, their windows boarded up, doors padlocked.

  He rode on, passing the occasional night watchman dressed in long winter coats and swinging kerosene lamps by their sides. Between the buildings he spotted other men too. Most looked like hobos, huddled around small fires, brewing tea or coffee in steel kettles or perhaps even something a little stronger.

  He drove by a low building with a tin roof that looked to be a stable. Inside he heard the sound of a horse or a mule whinnying. Farther along, his headlamp picked out a sign over the doorway to a narrow two-story house that advertised it as a men’s dormitory. Above it, lamps shone dimly through grubby curtains in the top rooms.

  Other than that, the area was dead. Muerto, just like the chief had said.

  Behind him, Brogan heard the sound of engines. He glanced back to see the lights of two motorbikes a few hundred yards back, heading in his direction. Time to shift it. He pulled back on the throttle and at the next junction turned left and swung away from the wharf area.

  He found himself on a narrow street. To either side were rickety shotgun shacks interspersed with the occasional trailer up on blocks. It was a desolate stretch, and Brogan was thankful when he finally reached the top of the street and rode into the glow of lights ahead.

  Turning right, he knew straight away he was on the Vegas Drag. The dramatic change of scenery catching him by surprise. He had ridden out onto a broad, well-lit avenue flanked by wide boardwalks that bustled with street life. The buildings were mainly two- and three-stories high, with either clapboard or stucco facades. Some of the fancier ones had large second-floor windows with elaborate wrought iron balconies, no doubt hauled out from some forgotten bombed-out city, and Brogan supposed these were the rooms where the high rollers stayed when they came to town.

  As well as hotels, both sides of the muddy street were lined with casinos, bars, strip clubs, eateries, and boardinghouses. A steady stream of people was coming in or out of the buildings, while others leaned against doorways, smoking and chatting. He also spotted a general store, as well as a barbershop and a gunsmith, all closed for the night.

  Halfway up the next block, Brogan approached a long three-story building. He could make out a faded sign at the front: HOTEL QUIVER. Slowing down, he saw a banner hanging below a second floor window that said: SALOON. A little farther, another banner said: GAMBLING. Yet a third one near the end declared: ROOMS & SECURE PARKING.

  He pulled over and stopped by a doorway underneath the last sign, and killed the engine. Dismounting his bike, he took off his helmet, stepped up onto the boardwalk, and entered the building.

  Inside was a surprisingly large lobby. Along the back wall was a long desk, and to his right a wide set of curved wooden stairs swept up to the second floor.

  Sitting behind the desk, a chubby bald-headed man in his forties inspected him carefully as he made his way over across a checkered tiled floor.

  “Evening,” Brogan said. “I’m looking for a room. I got a bike outside I’ll need parking for too.”

  “Well, mister, you came to the right place,” the clerk responded briskly. “We got both. Three dollars for the room, a quarter for the parking.”

  Brogan took out a five-dollar silver piece from his pocket and paid for one night, keeping an eye on his motorbike outside while the clerk wrote him out a receipt. A moment later, the clerk handed it to Brogan and told him to drive up to the side gate, where he would send out the porter to let him in.

  Outside the hotel, Brogan got back on the Yamaha and drove ten yards up to a set of thick iron gates secured by a heavy duty chain and padlock. While he waited, it started to rain. Soon big, heavy droplets splashed onto the ground around him, bouncing noisily off his helmet. There was no sign of any porter.

  “Hey!” he yelled out. “Anybody there?”

  Brogan waited a little longer. Still no one came. He reached out a hand and rattled the gate hard. “I said, anybody there?” he shouted irritably.

  There was the sound of a door opening somewhere out the back, and a moment later a man appeared from around a corner. He hobbled toward the gates, a flashlight in one hand. When he got closer, Brogan could make out his features and saw he was a small man with a full head of thick white hair. He had a crinkled weathered face, and looked to be in his seventies.

  “Easy, fellah…I’m coming,” the porter called out, jangling a set of keys in front of him.

  “Sorry, amigo. Didn’t mean to shout. Just it’s cold out here. Starting to rain too.”

  “Damned sure it’s cold,” the old man replied, reaching the gate. With an unsteady hand he selected a key and attempted to insert it into the padlock. “And even warm, my fingers don’t operate the way they used to, neither.”

  Finally the old man managed to get the lock open. Pulling off the chain, he flung open the gates and let Brogan in.

  After parking his motorbike under a tin-roofed lean-to built against a high cement wall at the back of the yard, Brogan unstrapped his pack from the tank, then followed the porter inside, where he was brought through a series of poorly lit corridors until they reached a narrow door. As he stepped through it, Brogan realized he had arrived at the back of the hotel lobby.

  At the desk, where the clerk handed the old man the key to his room, Brogan learned the porter’s name was Harold.

  “So what’s your pleasure here?” Harold asked him as Brogan followed him up the stairs. “You here for the gambling or the women—or a little bit of both?”

  “A little bit of both sounds good to me,” Brogan replied. “Perhaps a little more than a little bit too.”

  The old porter chuckled. “A man after my own heart,” he said. “If only I was ten years younger. Darn, tomorrow crept up on me so fast, it became yesterday before I even knew it.”

  When they reached the second-floor landing, a pretty young woman descended from the floor above. Brogan caught sight of her as she turned the corner. She was petite and busty, with pale skin and blonde hair, wearing tight blue jeans, heels, and a short waist length jacket which she wore open.
Underneath the jacket, she wore a pink blouse with enough buttons undone to leave Brogan in no doubt as to how perfect her figure was.

  She approached him, smiling and fluttering her eyelashes. “Ooh…handsome stranger in town,” she purred. “Who’ll be the lucky lady tonight?”

  Passing him by, she trailed a set of long, slender fingers with brightly-painted crimson nails down the length of his forearm. It had been over three months since Brogan had been with a woman, and that had been his wife. Despite the grief he still felt, something stirred within him. He couldn’t help it. It was just human nature.

  “Friendly girl…” Brogan said to Harold as they reached the top of the stairs. “Is she…uh…?”

  “Available? Sure is. Upstairs is the whore floor. Runs on an hourly rate. Someone just had his early evening fun with Marlee.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “’Course, seeing as you got your own room, you won’t need to go up there,” Harold said. “Just so you know, there’s a way to get from the bar to the lobby without stepping outside the premises. The ladies prefer that, seeing as they tend to dress a little light for this weather,” he added with a smile.

  “I can see that. Thanks for the tip.”

  “The girls here all know the way. Just be careful with your belongings in the room. Most of them are honest, but you never know.”

  The porter pushed through a door at the far side of the landing, then turned down a narrow corridor, stopping outside room 211 at the end. Opening it, he ushered Brogan inside.

  The room was surprisingly large and well furnished. A double bed faced a bay window overlooking the street, and alongside one wall was a large closet. Positioned in the far corner was a desk and chair. The only thing absent was a TV. Apparently there were no television stations in this part of the Outzone, or maybe management just wanted to encourage clients out of the rooms and into the bar and casino.

  “The rooms this side of the building are bigger than the ones at the back. Those are kinda cramped.” Harold switched on a lamp fixed to the wall by the side of the bed. “It can get a little noisy outside, especially if you’re a light sleeper, but most folk still prefer this side. And there’s an easy remedy for the noise…just drink more whiskey.”