Euphoria-Z (15 page)

“Looks like we caught us a jungle bunny, a fucking nig…”

“Hey! Hey! Hey now, bro. You can’t use that word. It’s racist.” Both men were laughing.

“Hey, Jeeter, are you telling me I can’t say nig…” This time the word was cut off by a punch to the mouth.

Jeeter was laughing hysterically. He was tall and wore mirrored aviator shades even in the dark building. He surprisingly had short hair and was clean-shaven. “Banjo, you asshole, why don’t you ever listen to me, man?” He winked at Ron. “I got your back, brother man.” Jeeter slurred his speech and stumbled when he walked.

Banjo was a very big man. He spat blood to the floor and then pulled a tooth from its socket. He gave Jeeter a venomous glare but remained silent. Jeeter was his leader and friend, and just because Jeeter had fried his brain on drugs and alcohol didn’t mean he should be any less loyal to the man. Banjo effectively ran the gang. Jeeter was nothing but a figurehead anymore, but Banjo had no intention of dethroning his friend. He was happy to call Jeeter leader.

They both wore the same leather vest, emblazoned with the same large patch on the back. They often called their vests “cuts” because they were made by cutting the sleeves off a leather jacket. The words “Satan’s Angels” were embroidered on a large arched patch, or rocker, above a skull, and the word California was likewise embroidered on a large rocker below. The three separate patches indicated they were outlaw bikers, and the California rocker was a claim that the state was their territory. Banjo’s hair and beard were longish. He wore a black German helmet from World War II with the Nazi insignia on the sides. He claimed it was his grandfather’s, and everyone thought he was lying and of course would never say it to his face, but it really was a family heirloom. His grandfather had been a guard at a death camp during World War II, and Banjo had grown up hearing stories of how much fun that job had been.

“Come on, let it go, man.” Jeeter started pulling on the rope, forcing Ron to his tiptoes. “We need to tie this one off and go get Fats. He should be here for this.”

“Yeah, we need his fat ass to haul this nig—bastard up in the air.” Banjo was aggravated he had to change his words or get punched, but it was for Jeeter. The leader had been taking issue with random things for a few years now, only to completely forget about it moments later. Banjo had learned to just roll with it. He knew Jeeter had more than one screw loose and needed to be protected, not punished. Banjo was loyal to Fats too. He was a member of the gang and got no less loyalty than Jeeter, despite that fact that he was a fat retard. He was more of a pet than a friend, but he was a patched-in member.

The two bikers tied the rope to a heavy metal support beam and walked off. Ron started struggling. He felt someone grab his wrists.

“Hold still,” Sal whispered. “I don’t want to cut you.”

There was a loud snap as the zip ties were cut. Ron pulled the noose from over his head and threw it down violently. He wiped his face with his sleeve. He had been so sure he was going to die. He was happy to be alive, but his anger surprised him. He wanted to kill those bastards.

“Come on. We have to get out of here.” Sal was walking away but checking to make sure Ron was following.

They made it to the back of the giant store, and all was still quiet. Fortunately, the giant noisy roll-up door had been closed already and hid the fully packed van outside. They had been ready to go and used the small door to reenter the store. Ron pulled Sal back by the sleeve.

“We can’t leave. The only way out of here is to drive past the front of the store. I don’t know where they are now or how many of them there are. They went to get another guy, Fats they called him. Maybe there’s more of them out there.”

“We can’t stay here.”

“We can hide until they leave,” Ron offered.

Sal thought for a moment. “Let’s jump the fence then circle all the way around across the street and watch them. When they leave, we’ll come back and get the van.”

“Good idea.”

§

It took the two almost an hour to work through the streets in a large circle, making sure they didn’t run into any of the dead or the bikers. They found a spot on the roof of a restaurant to watch. There were four lanes, a large median, and a parking lot between them and the bikers. They could see them clearly but felt safe. The three bikers and their motorcycles were in front of the home improvement store’s front doors.

Ron wondered if they had discovered that he had escaped. Did they search the store and give up? Ron noticed they had left several of the front doors wide open. He couldn’t tell what their plans or intentions might be. They were sitting in the parking lot on folding chairs, drinking what appeared to be beer. They had a large fire burning right on the ground. Their bikes were lined up together, backed in so they faced out, right by the front doors. They seemed to be settling in as if this might be their new home for a while. During all this time, Jeeter and Banjo sat and drank, and every once in a while a third man—he had to be Fats by process of elimination and the fact that he was very fat—jumped up and clubbed a few slow walkers. He bashed their heads in, dragged their bodies away, and threw more wood on the fire.

After a couple of hours, Ron whispered to Sal, “It’s dark, and I don’t think these guys are going anywhere. Maybe we should get the van and make a run for it.”

“No, they would just chase us down. We could never lose them in the van even if it were empty.”

Ron was quiet for a moment then. “Hey, what if they didn’t have their bikes? They’re sitting far enough away that I think we can do something to their bikes so they can’t use them.”

Sal was thinking, trying to come up with an idea, but it was Ron who started up again.

“I got it. We’re going to circle back around. I will go in the store and find what I need, and you wait with the van. When I come out of the back of the store, you start the van and we drive off.”

“What are you going to do to their bikes?” Sal was whispering, nervous they could hear him, even though it was a physical impossibility.

“Trust me, you are going to love it, but I am going to really love it.”

They started the trip back in the dark, moving slower and even more cautiously. An hour later, they were at the back of the store. Sal took the wheel of the van as Ron cautiously opened the back door and entered. After what had happened before, Sal was nervous about letting Ron enter the store alone. He knew the next time they got a noose around Ron’s neck he wouldn’t get away. But Ron had insisted, the desire for revenge burning bright in his eyes. He was smiling, not showing a shred of the fear he should be feeling in this situation. Sal reluctantly agreed that he would give Ron ten minutes and then he would come in after him.

After the ten longest minutes of his life, Sal stepped out of the van. He was petrified at the thought of entering the large dark store with the bikers around, but he was much more afraid of what he might find inside swinging from the rafters. He waited an additional, excruciating ninety seconds because the store was so quiet. There were no signs of a struggle. As he stepped into the darkened doorway, Ron appeared, finger to his lips. Sal was so uptight that he almost wet himself. His heart raced painfully in his chest. They closed the door carefully and left.

Ron couldn’t believe he had pulled it off; he had never been so scared in his life. But the burning skin on his neck and his bruised and tender throat were a constant reminder that the bastards deserved what they had coming to them. “Gonna fucking love it, man,” he chuckled to himself.

Sal had no idea what was coming and was more than a little bit nervous.

13.

Cooper froze. He froze for exactly two seconds, which was how long it took for him to realize the man holding a gun in the dimly lit room was printed on a paper target pinned to the wall opposite the door.

The room appeared to have been a bathroom at one time; the door would have opened into the main room. But now the room was a workshop. There was a rough door-size hole cut into the wall to his left. This led to another bathroom, which seemed to still function as a bathroom as well as a kitchen and storage area. The original door to this bathroom was closed and had a small refrigerator in front of it. He recognized a stack of boxes labeled MRE (meals ready to eat). He opened one and started to eat as he continued looking around. Never had something tasted so good as he spooned the goop from a plastic pouch into his mouth with a plastic fork. He remembered outside this door, in the shop, was a large glass case that would completely block this door from use.

He stepped back through the crude door-hole and examined the workshop. Shelves of manuals for various guns lined the walls, boxes and bins of gun parts were stacked high, and there were crates of ammunition. A half-finished project was spread out on the bench, and the plans were taped above the work area. It looked like someone was making a silencer for a handgun much like his.

He closed the door and found a set of wooden handles attached to wires that ran under the door. After the door was shut, the handles could pull the shelf back in front of the door from inside the room. He pulled the shelf back and relaxed. He ate and started reading over the plans for making a silencer.

Later, when the sun was going down, he rummaged through the store and found some candles and some clothes that fit. The homeless guy was right—he dressed like a piñata. He grabbed some dry socks, black pants, an olive-green T-shirt, and a black hoodie. The hoodie was way too big for him. He couldn’t find a black hoodie that fit, so he settled for a dark gray one.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the glass and thought the wide hood made him look like the shrouded figure of death. Underneath all this was death. He had two guns, along with ammo belts and pouches, as well as a long sharp knife strapped to one leg and a collapsible baton up his right sleeve with the cord around his wrist. He could slide it out, extend it with a flip of his wrist, and be armed in seconds.

He still had more work to do in the shop and went back in, closing the door behind him. He worked for a few more hours before going to sleep.

In the morning, Cooper was ready to go when the sun rose. He grabbed another MRE and opened it. This time he looked through the package and found something called a flameless ration heater. He followed the instructions and was surprised at how hot the food got. He looked around the shop and found nothing more of use. He was ready to go.

He went outside, climbed to the roof of the building, and looked around—nothing. He’d been thinking about what to do with the secret room. He couldn’t take it with him, but he didn’t want to leave it exposed. He might want to come back to it one day. He considered burying some of the MREs but thought that the secret room in the gun shop might go undiscovered if he closed it back up. So that’s what he did. He still had a long way to go and wasn’t making great time.

Under his hoodie were two silenced .22 pistols. He tested them, and all that could be heard was the faint click of the hammer going down. He felt better having them available. He hung them from tethers that looped around his shoulders so he could pull them up and put them away easily. He barely noticed them as he walked.

§

He managed a few more miles across the vast stretch of farmland. Here, many dirt roads cut across and between the fields, so the walking was much easier.

Occasionally he would see a house or large structure and avoid it. Once he saw the dust cloud of a vehicle and crouched down to keep an eye on it until it was long gone. He hiked across the fields to avoid the city of Salinas and the other major roads and highways in the area. He didn’t walk too fast, didn’t push himself, as he realized that energy was best saved for when he really needed it.

In the afternoon, he came to where a two-lane road, the 156, connected the coastal highway to the 101. He needed to cross the road and head over to Prunedale. He had to try to stick close to the 101 going north. A true northern route would take him into rough and hilly terrain with lots of towns and subdivisions; then soon after the land would get wild and mountainous. He would make better time going the longer way around the Santa Cruz Mountains. The mountains could take him weeks to cross, and he could easily get lost or hurt in them. His best option was to stick to the valley and the highway that ran down its center.

At the 156 and 101, he stopped to cautiously survey the area. There seemed to be no one about, dead or alive. He thought how unbelievable it was that in a car he would have made it here in about twenty minutes, depending on traffic. Having to avoid the dead, it took him days to pick his way this far on foot. He crossed the 156 cautiously and walked through some light woods to a parking lot. Through the trees, he saw a strip mall across the 101. He had decided to avoid it.

His eye caught movement, but he couldn't tell what he was seeing. He was still too far away. People, living or dead he couldn’t yet tell, were milling about. He was about one hundred yards away and used the scope to see what was happening.

He saw a man and woman kneeling on the ground. Two men, each holding a shotgun, stood behind them. The guns boomed loudly in the quiet, and the heads of each person disappeared in a cloud of red mist, their bodies dropping lifeless to the ground. Several men stood around laughing. One held a young girl by the arms. She was sobbing.

He pulled the scope away, not sure of what to do. He couldn’t believe what he’d just witnessed. Even as he stood frozen, his rational mind a blank, his subconscious was already making a few quick connections for him.
You know you can’t leave this girl, so what are your options?
His body was moving as he was thinking this. The rational part of his mind was screaming.
Stop! Think about this! Go back! You’re going to die!
But he knew he only had one choice, one choice he could live with anyway.