by Dusty Sharp
It took everything he had to tilt the big Harley back upright. He almost passed out from the pain and exertion. It was wrecked but he was damned if he was just going to leave his dad’s bike out here in the road. He made a quick appraisal of the damage. Most of the tin was junk. The front tire was ground flat on one side and hanging off the rim. The back tire was intact, thanks to the saddlebags, which were shredded. The handlebars were bent, one footpeg was broken off, and there was a bullet hole in the seat. It was a cream puff.
He found that it still rolled surprisingly well, with some effort. So he pushed it to the side of the road opposite the Cable Guy’s corpse, and hid it behind a clump of creosote bushes. Then he set off toward the cable, pausing to pick up his 9mm. He looked at it briefly, checked that it was still operable despite some road rash, and replaced it into his concealed holster.
Austin saw how the cable was rigged as he approached it. It had been tied to a large tamarisk tree on the south side of the road, and stretched across to another tree on the north side. It passed through a crotch in the tree trunk then down to the tail frame of the Cable Guy’s bike. Austin figured he had left it loose, laying on the asphalt for cars to pass over, and pulled it tight when he saw the single headlight of Austin’s bike coming from the direction of Amboy. It would have been a good bet to assume that only Austin would be out here in the middle of nowhere, on a motorcycle, after midnight.
Austin untied the cable from the tamarisk tree on the south side, then hobbled across the road and unslung it from the other tree and the Cable Guy’s bike. He coiled it up and threw it into the bushes. The bike was kind of shitty, just an old 883 Sportster from the 90’s with dinged up tin and chipped paint. Maybe it was a throw-away bike for jobs like this. But the smaller, lighter bike seemed like a blessing to Austin as he wrestled it back up onto the pavement. He somehow managed to throw his mangled leg over it, started it up, and rode the couple of miles back toward Amboy.
Patched Up
He found Gene standing in front of the open door of his travel trailer, holding a 12-gauge Remington 870 in his hands. He and Doris lived in the trailer while staying at Amboy, as none of the buildings were habitable yet. The trailer was parked behind the old gas station and café.
“You look like shit. And that’s not your bike.”
Austin killed the engine and stepped off of the Sportster with a painful groan. He eyed Gene standing in his night robe, gray hair a frazzled mess, clutching the shotgun like it was Excalibur. “Got waylaid just up the road,”
“I heard the shots. I was just getting ready for bed. Looks like they worked you over pretty good.”
“Not they. Just one of them, and he’s out of the picture now. But I don’t think this is over yet.” Austin gave the Cliffs Notes version of what had happened out on the road after he’d left Amboy, only a half hour earlier.
“You and Doris should split, head into town for the night.” Austin looked behind Gene and saw Doris standing at the top of the entry steps, inside the trailer. The tough old gal was pressing a well-worn Bible to her chest with one hand, and held a snub-nosed .38 revolver in the other. “There’s three more out there, and they’ll be back. It won’t be safe in Amboy tonight.”
“I ain’t goin’ anywhere,” Gene said. He turned and nodded at Doris. “Grab your overnight bag, sweetie. I’ll bring the Honda around. You high-tail it over to Mike and Della’s in Ludlow. Quick now.” There wasn’t much more to Ludlow than there was here at Amboy, but since it was along the Interstate it still had a few functioning enterprises. Mike and Della lived there and managed one of the restaurants. Doris turned and disappeared deeper into the trailer.
Five minutes later, Austin and Gene watched as the taillights of the little Honda Civic shrank toward the west on Route 66. When they had disappeared, Gene turned to Austin and said “now, let’s get you patched up. Off with them britches.” Austin sat on a milk crate and took off his boots, then gingerly peeled off his bloody, tattered Levi’s.
Behind where Gene and Doris’s trailer was parked, there was a pallet-sized plastic tote sitting up on a metal frame, high enough to create a little bit of water pressure by gravity. With the wells here only producing salt water, they had to haul in fresh water on a truck. Gene un-coiled a garden hose from a bracket that hung on the side of the tote and started spraying down the road-rash wounds on Austin’s leg and arm.
“Shit that stings!” Austin roared as Gene tightened his thumb over the end of the hose to create a high-pressure stream. Blood, grime, and bits of gravel were sloughing off Austin’s leg onto the ground.
“Shut up ya baby, or I’ll warsh it with salt water from the well tap. That’d probably be better for your wounds. But if you’re pissin’ and moanin’ already, you’re like to pass out from the salt water.”
Once his leg and arm were reasonably flushed, Austin held up his boot so Gene could rinse the Cable Guy’s blood and guts from it. Gene disappeared back inside the trailer, leaving Austin sitting on the crate in his skivvies.
A few moments later Gene reappeared with a first aid kit, several rolls of gauze and a frayed old pair of Wranglers. He pulled up a second milk crate, sat down and went to work.
“So how long do you think we’ve got?” Gene asked as he squeezed a large dollop of Neosporin from a tube. Austin flinched as he began to slather the anti-bacterial cream onto the wound on his thigh.
“Hard to say,” Austin said through clenched teeth. “Who knows where the other three got off to. My best guess is the guy with the cable was the main trap. He must have been watching and saw me ride into town before heading out there to stretch that cable across the road. I’d wager the other three are covering the various routes out of here, as insurance. There’s probably one up Kelbaker Road, another off toward Essex.” Austin turned on is seat with a pained grunt, and looked to the west where Doris had headed in her Honda. “The other one’s probably covering Route 66 west, toward Ludlow.”
Gene looked up from his work, his eyes following Austin’s worried gaze. “She’ll be fine. Just a little old lady in a Honda. They won’t trouble her.”
“If they do, she’s got that .38.”
“Ayup, and she knows how to use it,” Gene said as he unrolled a large gauze pad. He had Austin hold it over the doctored wound as he started winding a bandage around the leg.
“Well we might have an early warning system on those guys.” Austin dug the Cable Guy’s phone out of his vest pocket and tried to activate it, but was prompted for a PIN number. “Dammit, its asking for a code.” He punched in a few obvious default PINs, 1-2-3-4 and 0-0-0-0, and a few others, none of which worked.
“Hold still.” Gene said has he started working on Austin’s arm, giving it the same treatment as his now-bandaged leg.
“At some point they’ll be trying to call him. We’ll at least see the screen light up when that happens. This is probably a burner with a number only known by the others on his crew, so I doubt he’ll be getting calls from his ol’ lady on it. That should give us a few minutes before they decide something’s up and come looking for him. Then probably another ten minutes or so for them to get back here. Figure ten to fifteen minutes of advance notice before the big party.”
“And when that time comes we’ll have the home field advantage,” Gene said as he finished dressing the wound on Austin’s arm. “I know these old buildings better than anybody.”
Austin stood up and tested his bandages, bending his legs and flexing his arm to see if everything would stay put. Once he was satisfied, he fixed Gene with a stare of his faded blue eyes. “You need to leave this fight to me, Gene.”
Gene held his gaze for a moment. “Sit back down, we need to look at your fake bullet wound.” Austin lowered himself back onto the milk crate while Gene started cleaning the rock chip wound on his temple. “I stuck around to help out, son, and that's what I intend to do. You’re outnumbered. You’re my friend and I don't have a hell of a lot of those left. Not to mention I may still
have some old unpaid debts in your father’s ledger. We’ll take on these thugs together.”
Austin was moved, but he remained resolute. “No! It’s my fight, Gene! I don’t want you doing something you’ll regret!”
“What would you have me do? Sit on my ass when the bad guys roll into town? Welcome them with a frosty root beer?”
“No, Gene, I’ve got a job for you,” Austin looked up at him. “You’re gonna be my guardian angel.”
The Mother Road
Gene disappeared back into the trailer while Austin gingerly slid the old pair of Wranglers up over the bandages on his thigh. They were a little loose in the waist but the length was fine. Austin was taller, but he wore his pants cinched low, below the gut, whereas Gene tended to pull them up over his belly like Boss Hogg. So the length came out just about right. He transfered his folding knife, belt, wallet and chain from his old pants, slid his boots back on, and laced them up. He re-strapped the chute knife to his boot and slipped the 9mm into its concealed holster.
After a few minutes Gene emerged from the trailer, back in his day clothes. He had his Remington in one hand and a hunting rifle in the other. As he held them up he said triumphantly, “I’ve got a shotgun, a rifle,” he nodded over toward his Dodge pickup, “and a four wheel drive—”
“—and a country boy can survive,” Austin finished for him. He pointed at the rifle, “but that thing looks like a goddamn antique.” It was a long barrel, single-shot hunting rifle with a well-worn walnut stock and a huge scope mounted to it. It looked well used.
Gene looked down at the old rifle, a slightly hurt look on his face. “This is a Ruger Number One, chambered in .300 Win-Mag,” Gene said proudly as he handed it to Austin.
Austin turned it over in his hands, handling it gingerly as if he might break it. He was fiddling with the odd-shaped, curved lever that ran underneath the trigger guard, and clumsily opened the breach. “Seriously?” he asked.
Gene shrugged. “Well, the Number One was never considered extremely accurate. But this one has helped keep the Arizona elk population in check for nigh on twenty years. I can put a bullet where I want it to go.”
The look on Austin’s face said he wasn’t too sure about this. “How quickly can you cycle rounds through it?”
“It’s no machine gun, that’s for sure. But I reckon I wouldn’t be up there to lay down suppressive fire. A well placed shot, one at a time, is what you’ll need, if’n you need my help at all.”
Austin thought a moment, then handed the rifle back as he rose to his feet. “Well, I know that round packs a decent punch, and with that Hubble telescope hanging off there you should be able to reach out and touch someone. Let’s get set up, they’ll be wondering what happened to their compadre pretty soon.”
Five minutes later Austin stood on the highway, in the center of the Route 66 logo that had been painted on the asphalt, and looked around. The Mother Road stretched away from him to the east and west, silver-gray in the moonlight. Across the street, the lonely little post office sat by itself, the train tracks running behind it in the distance. Austin turned back toward the main part of the abandoned town on the north side of the road.
The iconic “Roy’s Motel” sign rose like a beacon in front of the funky-shaped motel office, as it had since the late 50’s. It was one of the most-photographed historical road signs still standing along Old Route 66. But its neon tubes were now dark, it's paint faded and flaked by the desert sun and wind.
Six small, free-standing bungalows extended to the right from the motel office building, in a line running parallel to the highway. Beyond them, an old chain link fence encircled the ruins of the Amboy Schoolhouse.
To the left of the motel stood the old gas station and café building, with its pump islands and awning. Between the motel and the café, and set back a bit was the old operations building, filled with abandoned machinery.
Behind it all rose the water tower. It was about 40 feet high, with a platform on which sat two old water tanks, their sides completely rusted through in places from the salt water they had once held. The huge holes in their sides were black against the pale metal of the tank walls in the moonlight. Austin squinted and focused on one of these black holes, until he could barely make out a small orange glow.
“I see you,” Austin spoke into the small FRS radio Gene had given him. He had fished them out of the glovebox of his pickup truck, explaining that he and Doris used them when backing up and parking the travel trailer.
“You caught me,” came Gene’s voice through the radio static. “Having a cigarette to calm my nerves. Don’t tell Doris.”
Austin turned around, scanning Route 66 in both directions. “No lights yet. They could be running dark. But we’ll hear those Harley’s coming.”
He had sent Gene up into the water tower as insurance, but with strict instructions not to engage unless things went haywire. Austin had explained that he didn’t need or want to kill any more Rattlers, and that he’d need them alive in order to send a message back to Tillman.
“Any calls to that phone yet?”
“Not yet. I’m getting into position.”
“10-4.”
Austin walked back to the cluster of buildings on the north side of the road. He took one last look at the Cable Guy’s Sportster, which he had parked on its kickstand in the open space between the motel office and the café. It was directly in front of the water tower, in Gene’s line of sight. He went to the opposite end of the café and took up position at its far corner. Austin was crouching behind a stack of pallets when the Cable Guy’s cell phone lit up and began vibrating in his hand. “Here we go,” he said into the radio.
“The phone?” came the reply through the radio’s speaker.
“Affirmative.” Austin watched as the phone “rang” silently for about thirty seconds, then went still. A minute later it lit up again, a different number showing on its display.
“They know something’s up because this douchebag isn’t answering,” Austin said into the radio. “The other guy’s trying the number now. That should set things in motion.”
After a few minutes, Austin heard his radio crackle. “Lights from the west,” Gene said through the static.
Austin turned around to see the far-off glow of approaching headlights. From this side of the building he was exposed to that direction, just the slats of the pallets hiding him from view. He peeked over them as a pair of headlights rounded the bend from the railroad crossing a quarter mile away. “Car,” he said into the radio.
Austin watched as the vehicle came into view. It slowed as it passed in front of the darkened buildings of Amboy. As the glare of the headlights passed, he could make out a 90’s American sedan, possibly a Crown Victoria. A single silhouette was visible behind the wheel. Then the car sped up and hurried down Route 66 toward the east, its taillights diminishing rapidly.
“Civilian,” Austin said into the mic. “Probably scared off by your gas prices.” Austin glanced over at the fuel sign standing by itself, out beyond the pumps. He could just make out $5.89/gallon in the moonlight.
He heard Gene chuckle as the transmission came back to him. “It’s a seller’s market out here for fuel. If you need gas this far from town, six bucks is a bargain.”
“Copy that.”
Just then a low rumble started rising from the west, the same direction the car had come from. “Talk to me, Gene,” Austin prompted.
“Hang on, I was sighting down the other direction…” After a few moments Gene said “single headlight. I think its a bike.”
Austin was already sure by then, from the rumble of the V-Twin engine that was growing louder. As the single headlight rounded the corner from the railroad crossing, he keyed his mic once more. “That’s one of them. Radio silence until clear. And remember what I said about engaging them.”
Babyface
Austin watched as the rider approached, the rumble of his motorcycle growing louder. Without thinking about it, his h
ands reached down to conduct a silent inventory of his weapons as he peeked through the pallets. The Loveless chute knife strapped to the side of his boot. The comforting bulge of the Tanto blade tactical folder in his pocket. The 9mm throw-down piece concealed in his belt holster. His fingers slid absently down the stainless steel links of his wallet chain. He’d given the Cable Guy’s .45 to Gene as a backup weapon, though the old fart was more likely to charge with his shotgun if it came to that.
He silently drew the Loveless blade from his boot sheath, gripping it by its Micarta handle. Five and a half inches of highly polished carbon steel gleamed reassuringly in the moonlight.
The bike slowed to an idle as it passed in front of the Amboy gas station, and Austin got his first good look at the rider. He was huge, even seated on the bike he could tell the guy was every bit his equal in size, though not as portly around the middle. Instead he had broad shoulders and python-sized arms hanging out the sides of his Rattlers MC vest. Austin didn’t recognize him any more than he had the Cable Guy, but as he drew near he could see he had a pudgy, round, clean-shaven baby face.
As he rode past, Austin crept silently out from behind the pallets to the corner of the building to watch. The bike slowed as the rider saw the parked motorcycle of his comrade. He rolled past it cautiously, his head swiveling left and right. Austin watched as the rider continued onward, along the line of motel bungalows, obviously wary.
Slipping from cover, Austin rounded the front of the café, passing between it and the gas pumps, to the open space where the parked bike sat. He kept his eyes on the rider in the distance, who was approaching the end of the bungalows and the chain link fence that marked the old Amboy School grounds. He hurried across to the motel office before the rider swung around to head back toward the center of town.
