Hell Released (Hell Happened Book 3) (8 page)

Chuck pulled into the parking lot and looked through the glass of the motorcycle shop. “Now that’s what I need to be driving,” he said to the window. “Not some piece of shit prison van, but a Harley-Davidson.”

Chuck pulled on the doors. As he suspected they were locked. He walked around the building pulling on all the doors. The place was locked up tight. He’d almost finished a complete circuit of the building when he heard an explosion in the distance. It came from the city center, maybe a mile or two away, but Chuck wasn’t waiting to find out what caused it.

Chuck jogged over to the rock pile under sign in front of the dealership. He picked up three rocks with enough heft. He threw them one at the time at the front display window hoping one would break the glass.

Each one of them bounced off.

“Shit.”

He started walking back to get more rocks when he heard gun fire coming from the same direction as the explosion. He didn’t want to stay here any longer but he wanted a motorcycle. He ran to the van, started it and drove around a planter in front of the store and into the far right display window. He slammed on the brakes before hitting the bikes, but parts of the building frame and window knocked over two of the new Harleys.

Chuck jumped out of the truck and started looking at the bikes on the display floor. None of them had keys, but some with quick searching he found them hanging on one of the salesman’s wall. He didn’t need a helmet, but he picked up a pair of sunglasses left on a desk and put them on.

The bike he chose was a used bike, but it looked new to him. It was a 2011 Harley-Davidson FLSTN sitting at the end of the row of bikes. It sported a pair a black leather saddle bags accenting its deep flat Burgundy tin paint job. Chuck climbed on the bike and tried the keys. He found the right one on his third try and tossed the other keys over his shoulder.

The battery had enough charge to start the bike after four tries and the deep-throated roar of the bike’s 96 cubic inch twin cam motor and dual exhausts made Chuck smile. The long-piston travel gave the Harley a unique feel to motorcycle enthusiasts when driving and it was the reason Chuck wanted the bike.

The fuel gauge showed full, which gave him at least 175 miles before he had to find fuel for his bike. The van he drove through the front window left enough room for Chuck to maneuver the big bike out of the building.

He pulled onto the side street, checking the sound and the smoothness with which he could shift the six-speed transmission. He might have liked the looks of the bike, but making sure it ran well before getting on the open road was more important.

“Like butter,” he said to himself as he turned the bike around to head back to Folsom Boulevard and away from the city. He pulled back onto the main highway out of the Folsom area, glad to have left the van behind him.

He felt freer than at any time in his adult life.

On the highway he worked his way up through the gears until he was smoothly driving at 60 miles per hour out of town. He hadn’t given much thought to where he was going, but now that he had a bike and his freedom, he thought about heading to San Diego’s naval base. He didn’t think his brother was still alive, but the least he could do would be to go look. He had no place else to go.

Chuck didn’t know how to get to San Diego, but for now he felt good just riding. It was a little chilly and he’d have to stop for some different clothes to replace his prison garb, but putting miles between himself and the explosion and gun shots was his biggest priority.

Highway 50 which headed west crossed over the highway he was on so he pulled into the mall along the highway before getting on the interstate. He cruised through the parking lots for the various stores until he found one with the kind of clothes he was looking for. He also found some packaged food to eat and he put some extra in his saddlebags for later. There was an auto repair shop so he picked up a siphon in case he needed some gas for his bike.

He sat on his bike and listened to the silence. He could hear birds and dogs, but couldn’t see any of them. Gone were sounds of traffic and people and construction. The city was dead and Chuck didn’t really care. A day ago he was in prison and he would have died there if it hadn’t been for that ungodly beast.

All his life, Chuck felt he’d been unlucky but today, for the first time, he felt lucky.

Chuck tossed the wrappers from his breakfast to the wind and put on the black cap he’d found. It would keep his head warm during the ride. He’d made a habit of shaving his head in prison and his hair was still too short to keep his head warm.

Where he was parked he could see the interstate and he was looking forward to getting the bike up to speed. He found a map in the service station and Highway 50 would take him to I-5 and from there he’d drive south. If he made decent time, he could be in San Diego by the next day.

Finishing with the map, he tucked it into his saddle bag and straddled his bike. The sun was warm on his face and Chuck smiled when the bike turned over with a touch of the starter. He looked at his odometer and it read 1701.1 miles. He figured he’d drive for two hours before stopping and finding some gas. He guided the bike out of the parking lot and back onto Highway 50. He was suddenly excited about looking forward to going someplace just because he could. It took just minutes to get on to the ramp for I- 5. Cars and trucks were few and far between so Chuck accelerated up to 80 mile per hour until a close call with some debris had him dial it back down. He leaned back and set the cruise to a leisurely 65, putting his feet on a pair of front pegs so he could stretch his legs. It was more comfortable to him than his bed in prison.

His first stop was 90-minutes into his ride. He figured he’d made good time so far, so stopping and stretching after driving through Stockton seemed like a good idea to him. He also wanted to check his fuel and get something to drink. The sun was much warmer now, even though it was still early spring.

He climbed off the bike after leaving the interstate at a fuel storage area and truck stop. He’d passed through the city of Stockton without seeing any other traffic and it was rather exciting to him. He did a lot of thinking about being one of the last people on earth.

Everything in his past was gone. If he did find anyone else, he could create any fictitious past he wanted. No one would have to know he was an escaped convict with a life sentence.

His slate was clean.

Chuck found a parked Dodge Dakota and siphoned gas out of it. The bike was only half empty so he figured he’d guessed correctly on the mileage. The truck stop was easily broken into and he found some drinks and snack foods to eat while he stretched his muscles.

He thought about Folsom and the gunfire. Chuck had never been a gun owner, but thinking about it, it might not be a bad idea to be armed in this new world. There was nothing in the truck from which he’d siphoned gas and he spent a half hour breaking into other vehicles parked at the truck stop.

In an older Peterbilt rig, Chuck opened the driver’s door and a body fell out. He hadn’t seen the body when he pulled on the door and it made him jump back. The body was already decomposing and smelled bad, but since the truck was open Chuck looked inside.

Beside the seat was a holstered 9mm Beretta with a clip still in it. Chuck grabbed the holstered weapon and a box of ammunition he found sitting on the bed in the sleeper.

Whoever this driver was, he had been ready for violence.

Getting out of the truck, Chuck checked the weapon. He made sure a round was chambered and aimed at a sign about 30 feet from where he was standing. The pistol kicked straight up, but Chuck hit the sign he’d aimed at. He clicked the safety on and pulled the clip out. It had 12 rounds left in the 15-round clip, but Chuck decided to not fill the clip all the way for fear of damaging the spring.

Chuck took off his jacket and adjusted the holster so it fit comfortably. The gun felt good under his left arm.

Getting back on his bike, his next stop was an hour north of Bakersfield. During the two hours he rode, he watched the sun reach its zenith and begin its downward fall into the mountains. The drive had been beautiful with the mountains on his right and plains to the left.

He pulled off the highway at the Kettlemen City ramp. There were burger joints and gas stations and it felt good to be off the bike again. He took care of some personal business and decided on a short nap before driving to Bakersfield where he planned to spend the night. There was a hotel across the highway from the Shell food mart so he parked his bike in front of the first room on the ground floor. He kicked the door hard and it flew open. The room was empty and the bed looked comfortable, a lot more comfortable than what he’d been sleeping in for the past few years. He unhooked the pistol and holster and dropped it on the table.

The bed felt as good as he suspected and Chuck was asleep in minutes.

He was awakened by the sounds of motorcycles. He looked at his watch and saw he’d been asleep for almost two hours. The motorcycles were on the other side of the building from where Chuck had parked.

He strapped the holster on and put one of the spare clips in his pants pocket before he went to see who the owners of the other bikes were. He wanted to be prepared so he made sure a round was chambered and the safety off.

Stepping around the side of the building, he saw three other motorcycles at the station where he had fueled up. They were doing the same thing he’d done two hours earlier. He didn’t see any guns.

The leader of the group was a heavily bearded man wearing standard biker gear of leather and a red bandana. He was smoking a cigarette and drinking a bottle of water.

The second man in the group was taller than the first, but leaner. He too had a beard, leather jacket and jeans. He also had a chain hooked to his belt and probably to his wallet. There were two others in the group, a younger, smaller version of the second biker and an effeminate looking kid of about 17 years old who was still sitting on the bitch seat of the third biker.

Chuck listened to them talking and heard something about Bakersfield.

Chuck had learned a lot of things in prison and this small gang didn’t scare him. In fact, they were a lot like the people he would usually associate with, living on the fringe side of society, living free and avoiding the trappings of civilization.

The four started eating and drinking the stuff they’d taken from the store and sitting on their bikes. Chuck decided he could do two things, ignore them and wait for them to leave or hook up with them because he suspected they were people like him -- men who were outlaws in the former world and just surviving in the new one.

He watched for a few more minutes. He didn’t see any guns, but he’d bet they had some. When they were stretching and looked like they were getting ready to leave again, he saw the effeminate boy get off the third bike to take a leak beside the store.

“Hey there,” called impulsively, staying near the building in case he had to take cover.

Two of the three riders went for their saddlebags.

“Whoa, whoa, you don’t need no guns,” Chuck told them. “I’m coming out.”

The two who had gone for guns pulled them out anyhow but Chuck didn’t think they’d use them. There were only four of them and Chuck knew with his five-day beard and sun glasses, denim jeans, long-sleeved shirt and black cap, he looked like one of them.

It took some convincing but eventually Chuck went back to get his bike. He could have taken them or left them, but for now he would ride with them because they were going his way.

Chuck joined his first motorcycle gang.

The leader of the group called himself Dog, the other two were Slick and Taffee. They didn’t tell him the name of the 17-year-old and Chuck figured he was a play toy for Taffee.

Dog said they had come from Santa Rosa and were headed to LA. He didn’t give a reason and Chuck didn’t ask. They talked about the plague and the deaths but none of them knew any more than he did.

Dog asserted the plague was caused by the Mexicans and he was making it his goal in life to kill every one he could find. Chuck didn’t think there were many Mexicans any more, but said he’d keep an eye out. Chuck didn’t care one way or another how racist Dog was; he’d learned to not care about personal feelings in prison. He also thought the man liked to talk shit so dismissed his ranting about the Mexicans.

Chuck’s bike kept up easily and he fell abreast of the others as they entered onto I-5.

He felt safer with a few buddies by his side, riding free on the open road.

The only time he felt concern was when Dog pulled out his large caliber hand gun and shot at a billboard for a Hispanic Lawyer as they passed it. No one could tell if he hit the billboard, but Dog laughed anyhow and hollered over the sound of the Harley motors. “Got another one!”

“God, what an asshole,” Chuck said to himself and for the next mile, wondered why he’d used just that phrase.

The group pulled into Bakersfield in the late afternoon. They had originally planned on staying near the highway, but Dog wanted to drive through the city to see if there was anyone left while the sun giving them plenty of light.

The city made famous by the country singer Buck Owen was as dead as everywhere else. They cruised through the streets of Bakersfield seeing wrecked cars and trucks, bodies littering streets and wild animals were everywhere in the city.