“No, dumb ass,” Higgins said. “Harleys, man.”
Higgins rubbed his eyes, and both fell back to their complacency; a short descent.
Came the sound of the bikers gunning it, and in less than a second, they were beside the van. A couple of inmates stirred in their seats, muttering unease. Nico nodded down at his brother Rhino coming up just outside the window on the Fatboy, the only one riding solo. Rhino returned the gesture and roared far ahead.
The second bike zoomed in place next to the van’s driver’s side, while the third bike eased up parallel to Nico.
Both these machines carried huge, hair-covered passengers behind their smaller drivers. They were already rising to crouch on the seats with the confidence and agility of trapeze artists, or seasoned predators.
“Hey, what are these assho…?”
The two hirsute passengers leaped in unison, hooking into the side of the van with their claws like magnets.
Agent Higgins screamed and swerved the wheel, as his window exploded in on him, a huge hairy hand finding his throat like a guided missile—and tearing it out.
Agent Dutton had his pistol out, but he would never have a chance to use it, for the van careened off the road and into a scrabbly patch of wasteland, where it flipped onto its passenger side with a groan, the gun lost in the chaos.
Nico held onto his armrests, chuckling at the sound of steel mesh tearing away from his window. The glass broke, and a slavering snout was in his face, growling and snapping.
“Yeah, yeah.” Nico pulled at the chain that fastened him to the seat, and his liberator, Aura, bit it in two, her hairy breasts rubbing across Nico’s face. She gave him a lick, bit his eyebrow just hard enough to draw blood, then clambered in to go to work on the passengers.
Nico slid out of his seat and landed feet-first on the left side of a skinny inmate first-timer he knew as Ratso. The boy cried at Nico for help, but -just for kicks- Nico booted him in the face instead.
Blood splashed across Nico and everything else, as Aura went about wasting the other prisoners, showing off for him. The other lupine Berzerker, Pipsqueak, wrenched the front partition apart and slashed into the hoarsely-bellowing DeWitt, destroying a lot of meat as he worked his way to the man’s heart, only to spit it out on finding it blackened from cigarettes.
Aura dropped a brawny arm on the passenger side windows at Nico’s feet, but he kicked it away. Pipsqueak went after it. He and Aura briefly scuffled over it, their massive hindleg claws digging into what was left of the inmates as they clambered for traction.
“Knock it off!” Nico called. “Let’s roll.”
Pipsqueak had something to show him. He dropped to all fours to turn toward the front. Nico followed, flinging his long, blood-soaked hair out of his face.
Pipsqueak growled and bit Higgins to draw a cry of pain, then leapt out the driver window to get out of Nico’s way.
Nico looked Higgins over. “Damn boy,” he said. “You ain’t gonna make it.”
Higgins was hanging at a forty-five-degree angle, spilling blood onto the squashed corpse of Dutton. Deep claw marks had separated Higgins’ face and throat into sections. His left arm was hanging on approximately halfway; tendons and cartilage still holding where muscle and skin had given way.
Higgins was weakly feeling around for his sidearm. When he found it, Aura muscled past Nico and clamped her teeth shut on the guard’s head, squashing it like a grape.
She rolled onto her back and smiled her toothy smile at Nico, clearly expecting a rub on her fuzzy belly.
“Never gonna happen girl,” Nico said, as he unbuckled Higgins. Aura rolled away as the messy bag of meat fell where she had been. Nico stepped up on Higgins and climbed out, followed by Aura.
He and the wolves went to the three bikes waiting there. Smiling, Rhino, slid back to let Nico drive his Fatboy.
Acknowledgments
Michaela Hamilton believed in me and in this series. She took a chance, and I’m determined to make her proud.
My wife Jennifer Greene never wavers in her support and honesty.
My mother Daisy Jones tolerated me drawing monsters on the wall as a toddler and made sure my brothers and I got to trick or treat when we were old enough—and long after we were too old. She lauded my horrific artwork and remains patient with my oddball outlook. She is a saint.
April Courtney Gooding, who may well be the Supreme Beta Reader of this or any universe.
And lastly—all the Halloweeniacs, metalheads, punkers, greasers, and alt folk, whose passionate spirits I hope to touch.
About the Author
Photo by Scott Treadway
Patrick C. Greene is a lifelong horror fan who lives in the mountains of western North Carolina. He is the author of the novels Progeny and The Crimson Calling, as well as numerous short stories featured in collections and anthologies.
Visit him at www.fearwriter.wordpress.com.
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