Euphoria-Z (28 page)

Hours later and Tug was past anger. He was scared. He hadn’t a clue what he should do. He didn’t want to die in the house. He worried about his truck. He was sure the dude would find it and take it.

As the sun dropped, he felt like crying but didn’t. He’d spent the day pacing, checking on the dead to see if they’d left, and trying to sleep. He didn’t fully understand the dead things, so every time he clumped around the house looking for food, opening and closing doors and cabinets, he attracted their attention.

He didn’t like being in the house alone in the dark. He would have been fine in his truck or walking down a road, but the house was terrifying. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep without help. He found a bottle of pills with a moon on it and took two.

After he dug in the upstairs bathroom of a big bedroom, he was walking out when he noticed what looked like a bottle of wine sitting on a shelf full of books. He took it down and looked at it.
Probably shitty tasting
, he thought because it didn’t have a pretty label on it. It looked like homemade stuff to Tug.

Someone had just painted on the bottle. They’d put the numbers “1 7 8 7,” the words “La Fit,” and what looked like “Th. J.” None of it made sense to him. He found a pen and pushed the stopper into the bottle and took a sip.

“Fuck!” He threw the bottle on the bed.
Worst shit I ever tasted
, he thought. He went downstairs to look in the kitchen and found a decent box of wine. He chugged a good portion of it.

He lay down on a pink frilly bed in an upstairs room full of wine and sleeping pills. He slept like a log.

He slept half the next day, but it was still a long bad day for Tug. He was so frustrated. The dead were almost as far as he could see in every direction. He yelled out the upstairs window for them to “Get the fuck outta here!” but that didn’t help. If anything, they seemed more worked up.

He lay on the pink bed, sniffing a handful of silky underwear and racking his brain for an answer.

Now he wished he hadn’t pushed his cousin off the back of the truck just to watch the look on his face as the dead surrounded him. He’d never liked his skinny cousin Jim. It was always Jim this and Jim that growing up. Jim got good grades, Jim won a ribbon, Jim joined the army. He could really use his help now. Jim was always thinking up stuff Tug never could. He blamed Jim for his current predicament, of course, and didn’t have to think much beyond that to be convinced of his own victimhood. Jim was always mean to Tug and he had it coming.

Tug was so deep in thought that the rumble didn’t register at first. Then the rumble became a roar, and he snapped back to the present. He knew that sound. He ran to the window and saw an eighteen-wheeler driving down the highway. The best part was that all the dead were now flowing out of the development and toward the highway. He ran downstairs and out the back door. He made it to his truck in minutes and was on the road once again.

29.

The clubhouse of the Wild Savages Motorcycle Club was a dirty old cinderblock box squatting on a corner in Oakland, California. Its two-story hulk was buffered from the surrounding neighborhood by three empty lots. All of this was surrounded by a high chain-link fence topped with coils of barbed wire. Surveillance cameras covered every inch of the exterior. At one time, at least five vicious dogs had lived in the yard, their kennels against the rear of the building. But it was the giant sign displaying the gang’s colors above the front door that had been the real security in days past.

Now the building looked as if it had almost burned down. Above all the windows, doors, and vents were black soot triangles. Part of the roof was charred. The front door was a piece of plywood. The imposing fence had a sizable section torn from it, and a motorcycle lay twisted inside. Farther in, a corpse wearing a leather vest lay at the end of a long red smear. Two of the dogs lay dead in the yard.

The aftermath of the bacchanalian phase of the virus left Oakland a wreck, and the dead were thick on the streets. The once-powerful biker gang was ravaged, and only four members remained: Acid, Jack, Weed, and Muscle. Each member of the Savages took his name from something he personally considered a defining moment, thing, or quality, or anything that was important or meaningful to him. The primary reason for this was to reduce the use of proper names, thus making it much harder on law enforcement (theoretically) when wiretaps were used or documents seized. All club documents and correspondence featured only a member’s club name, with no reference to real names or actual identity of any kind. It was also cooler to be called Muscle because of your success as a body builder (no matter how many years or pounds ago that had been) than to be called Marvin because that was the name on your birth certificate.

They had been holed up in the clubhouse for many days. They were starving and demoralized. When they heard the loud rumble of a bike somewhere in the distance, they were heartened. One of their brother bikers was coming to save them. Every attempt they had made so far to escape the clubhouse surrounded by the dead had failed. The streets around the clubhouse were filled as far as the eye could see. Many of the corpses, both moving and not, were Wild Savages, their prospects, hang-arounds, and old ladies.

They heard the bike revving its loud engine, but it continued on, the roar slowly fading into the distance. One thing that did happen was that the dead began to go away. They moved as one in a massive push that lasted for over an hour. The streets were clearing out, and the bikers were considering a run for it. Suddenly there was loud banging on the door.

They looked out and saw an enemy gang member, a Satan’s Angel. They knew the gang of three and hated them. The Angels refused to come under the Savages’ colors and rode the highways of California with their rockers laying claim to the state as their territory. Some Savages laughed the three off; others hated them and the insult they represented. It made the Savages look weak to have the Satan’s Angels riding around with their statewide claim. These four were of mixed feelings currently. Some wanted the help that arrived; others suspected the rival was here to steal or deface some Savage treasure.

But the Angel had apparently led the dead away and was here at the door, knocking and holding his vest open. He was unarmed. The leader of the four was now Jack, so named for his love of the beverage. He opened the door.

“Banjo! An enemy at the door. What has this world come to?” Jack was a muscle-bound man with tattoos galore and a head of short brown hair that tended to stick straight up.

“It has come to a fucking end.” Banjo smiled.

“Wanna piss-warm beer?” It was Acid. He was creatively named for his extensive use of the drug.

“Nah, we got cold ones an hour south. I came to seek you guys out, see how many of you were left. It seems awfully silly to remain enemies, given the shit-state of the world.”

They all nodded, but not all seemed convinced. There were suspicious glances between the men.

“Look, I know we have this long history of bad blood, but we all know this bad blood shit was between Jeeter and Bud. Now, I don’t see Bud here, and Jeeter is so burnt he doesn’t care about shit. Now don’t get me wrong, I am loyal to Jeet. I’d kill for him still, but he’s going to go along with me on this. Look, what I’m saying is this MC shit doesn’t mean anything anymore. All that’s left in this world to do now is party.”

“You fuckers gonna pull the state rocker off your cuts?” It was Muscle.

Jack waved him down. “Muscle, he speaks true. Ain’t no more California to lay claim to, so fuck the cuts. Look, Banjo, I appreciate you reaching out like this. I know it must have been a hell of a ride up here. Let us have a church, and we will let you know. Sit. Anything you find is yours.”

Banjo looked around. There was obviously nothing useful here, but the invitation and the unsupervised time in the clubhouse was a sure sign he was welcome and trusted.

A half hour later, the four emerged. “It’s unanimous. We will gear up and follow you down. One thing, we decided to dissolve the MC officially. Just so we’re all clear.” Jack quickly scanned the men present as an all-inclusive gesture, so there was no mistaking that this applied to each of his three guys. “We aren’t a club no more. I would like to hear the same from the Angels. I say we dispense with all rules and regs and live as a happy group of fucking party-till-you-die bikers. If we get down there and Jeeter and Fats don’t like it, we’ll have to, each one of us, decide what we do individually. I personally will not stick around as a second-class citizen if the Angels don’t disband. Also, I say we all keep our cuts as respect and in memoriam.”

Muscle stepped up, a big bald man with thick arms and a huge belly. “I am taking off while I can. I appreciate the offer, but I got family out there I have to track down.” He grabbed Banjo in a full body hug, a sign of acceptance, loyalty, and trust among bikers.

Banjo slapped his back as he returned the hug and stepped back. “Thanks for that, brother.”

Weed, so named for the probably hundreds of pounds of the stuff he had smoked in his life, likewise hugged Banjo before he spoke. He was old for a biker, in his sixties, and rail thin. He was covered in ink and scars that told of a long tough life, some of it spent behind bars. He had a long gray beard and hair and very few teeth. “Yeah, thanks for the invite, but it don’t seem right to leave a brother to fend for himself out there. I’m a gonna go with Muss, and maybe one day we’ll ride your way.”

“I hope that’s the case, brother,” Banjo said.

Weed pulled a large joint from his cut and a butane fire-starter. He’d stopped using regular lighters years ago when he discovered the fire sticks. He was still talking as he lit up. “I’ve been around a long time, seen a lot of shit. I always thought war between the 1 percent was a stupid thing. Thanks for reachin’ out, brother Banjo.” He took a deep hit to get the glowing going at the end of the blunt and held it out to Banjo.

Banjo was reaching for the joint when Jack raised his hand slightly to halt the gesture. “Banano.” He was telling Banjo the joint was laced with cocaine.

Weed exhaled as little as possible as he spoke. “Sorry, man. Forgot.” And he kept holding his breath in an attempt to save the hit. Banjo took a big hit anyway.

“No problem, I need this, thanks.” Banjo sucked on the joint. The tip glowed red and the blunt visibly shortened by a quarter-inch. Weed smiled and gave him a thumbs up.

Weed spoke of the 1 percent, referring to the 1 percent of all bikers who were outlaws. Some would call them criminals; others would say they were a rare breed, a brotherhood of dedicated riders who put their club before anyone or anything.

After a long moment Banjo exhaled, smoke coming out his mouth and nostrils as he spoke. “I’m glad you guys are coming along. There’s strength in numbers, and there’s still a lot of assholes out there. Wait till you see what we have going. You’ll understand why I want to share it and protect it.”

§

Banjo had hot-wired a truck when he dumped the noisy bike so he could backtrack to the Savages’ clubhouse. He offered to help his new brothers get up and running before he hit the road. They were ready to go in under an hour. Muscle and Weed left first, heading north.

“Where’s your bike, Banjo?” Jack asked as he came out of the clubhouse with a black duffel and tossed it in the truck bed.

“There’s a million bikes out there now. Let’s ride down together in the truck, and we’ll all get new bikes after we visit the fort.”

Acid didn’t want to leave his bike behind, and Banjo could see why. It was a vintage Indian in perfect condition from the ’50s. They rolled it into the bed of the truck and started to lash it down.

“This looks like it’s never been ridden.” Banjo was cranking the ratchet on a heavy-duty nylon strap to hold the bike in place.

“It hasn’t been much. I inherited it from my uncle, and he never rode it. He says he won it in a card game, but he more likely stole it. I never had the heart to ride it much. I’ve been through I don’t know how many bikes in my time, but I could never get on this one. Too pretty, I guess.”

“We’ll make a shrine for it at the fort,” Banjo offered. Acid smiled; he liked the idea. “OK, let’s hit it.” Banjo looked around the lot and saw several of the dead coming from down the street. “I hope that’s everything. Their bikes attracted the eaters, so we have to get going.”

“Eaters?” Acid grinned. “Creative.”

“What do you guys call ’em?” Banjo asked.

“Assholes, man, fucking assholes.”

Banjo headed back to the fort with two new brothers, two new death dealers for anyone who crossed their path. His first order of business: get the ghetto monkey who trashed their bikes. That was unforgivable, even if he had been white. Banjo started by telling the story to his new bothers and fanning the flames of hate. He knew the suggestion of revenge would come up within seconds, probably before he finished the story, and he was right. Their hate was glowing so red-hot, you would have thought it was their bikes that got wrecked.

30.

At sunup, Mary asked Ron and Sal to get rid of Bill’s body. She didn’t care how. They wanted to be respectful and didn’t want to just dump the body on the street, but they weren’t too concerned with the disposal of his body. Ron felt betrayed by Bill, and Sal didn’t like him. They ended up taking him in the van a few miles away to an industrial section that was clear of the dead. They found a giant pile of wooden pallets, made a large stack of them, and placed Bill on it. They lit the wood and let his body burn. They watched the fire for over an hour as it grew in intensity and then diminished. They hung around to make sure the fire didn’t get out of control. Then they returned to the garage and got to work.