Ever Onward (14 page)

He turned and slapped Rings’ bare
buttocks. “Get the fuck off me!”

The girl crawled to her feet, looking
for her clothes. From the back she looked like something out of
Biafra, all skin and bone. Snake got up and relieved himself in one
corner of the Gazebo, all the while thinking of the blonde haired
girl with the big eyes and bigger tits. Some of it splashed on
Bull’s sleeping form. By the time he was finished he’d made up his
mind. Walking over to where Runt lay, he kicked him
awake.

“Move your ass, Dick-Head!”

The bundle in the sleeping bag
squirmed around then was still. Snake kicked again, this time
harder. The bundle groaned.

“Get the fuck up and wake the others!
I got a score to settle with these country hicks!” Snake hadn’t
liked the way the two of them had told him to move on. The old
bastard had done most of the talking, but the other one had stood
there right by his side. Snake probably could have wasted them
both, but something had held him back. Today however would be
different. He’d take them out one at a time. Either the old farmer
or the quiet guy, whoever came first. The little faggot with the
red hair would be no trouble. That would leave the older woman, the
kid and the girl. He smiled to himself, watching Rings squeeze into
her jeans. He’d give the skinny bitch to Runt. The older woman
could ride with Bull. That left the boy. Shit, who knows? The kid
might even want to tag along. Snake sure as hell could use someone
to watch his back, especially with all the heavy shit that had gone
down in the last week!

Snake didn’t like to think too much
about that. Someone or something had caused a major fuck-up. The
mother of all fuck-ups! Pigs, civvies, brothers; everyone wasted.
Last week he’d been at a Bikers Rally up at St. Johnsbury, Vermont.
Over five hundred brothers. When he woke up they were all fucking
dead. All except Rings, and Bull. They’d come across Blade and that
mean bitch Flame a day later. They’d all gotten stoned and stayed
stoned for several days, then headed south on I-93. He’d picked up
Runt in a shit-horse town called Littleton, then took the 302
through Crawford’s Notch and ended up in this little burg. He
planned to continue on down to the Big Apple, picking up any other
brothers he found along the way. Then head south to Florida, maybe
even LA. Big plans.

But first he had a few things to do
around here. He pulled out his heavy Ruger Super Redhawk. He’d had
the .44 Magnum for a couple of years now. Used it for two hits. It
had a 9.5 inch barrel that kicked like a bastard and made one
fucking big hole on the way out, as the Farmer and the Quiet Man
were about to discover first hand. Shoving the gun back in his
belt, he made a mental note to pick something up for Runt. The
others were already armed. The hardware at the edge of town might
have a shotgun or something. Snake doubted Runt could use a
widow-maker like his, but a scattergun should do the trick. Maybe
he’d get himself one as well. Saw off the stock and barrel. You
never could tell about these fucking hayseeds.

The others were moving now. Rings was
up and digging in a packsack for something to eat. It amazed him
how such a skinny bitch could always be so fucking hungry. He
yelled at Runt to go round them up some food, then called Rings
over to him. Undoing his buckle, he waved his swelling member at
her.

“Here you go, Babe. Chow down on
this.”

Sighing heavily, Rings
moved slowly towards the heavy biker. Life for her had always been
a bitch and the end of the fucking world certainly hadn’t helped
any.

By nine o’clock all six survivors were
gathered in the large kitchen of the Regis Inn. On the table were
four guns; Brad’s single shot 16 gage, a double barreled 12 gage
and a .303 deer rifle Earl had brought from his farm. In a wooden
cigar box lay a five shot .22 pistol Wilma’s husband had kept
around for protection. Four guns against a possible six. Brad tried
to tell himself that they were really only after one man, but it
didn’t help.

All six stood there in silence, each
one lost in their own thoughts. Kenneth kept glancing at his
father. Brad had explained earlier that they intended to force
Snake and the others to leave.

“But what if they don’t leave?”, the
boy had asked.

Brad had sighed, placing a hand on his
son’s shoulders. “Then we make them.”

Kenneth had remained
silent.

Now, standing around the table, Earl
picked up the .303 and began sliding long copper bullets into a
slot. After three he worked the bolt, checked that the safety was
on, then slid in one more. “I’ll use this. It pulls a might to the
left.” His eyes when he looked up were like blue chips of
ice.

The barber, Bert Laxtrom, his red hair
once again brushed and neat, looked from Brad to Wilma. “You know
this is wrong. Someone’s going to get seriously hurt.”

Wilma took the small pistol out of the
box. “I never liked guns. I told my husband to get rid of it. Now
I’m glad he didn’t.” She looked at Earl. “How do you work this damn
thing?”

Bert let out a little moan.

After Earl had showed Wilma, he turned
to Brad. “You want to use your own or mine?”

Brad picked up the double barrel.
“Yours. I might need two shots.” He broke open the heavy gun, put
two shells in and closed it with a snap. Checking that the safety
was on, he cradled the weapon in his arm and shoved more shells in
his pocket.

Earl held out the single shot to Bert.
“You want this or should I give it to the boy?”

Slowly, like he was handling a live
cobra, Bert took the weapon. His voice was little more than a
whisper. “I’ve never shot a gun before. You’ll have to
---”

“Christ!”, Earl grumbled. “What the
hell am I, North Conway’s Militia Instructor? Give me that bloody
thing!”

Ten minutes later they heard the sound
of approaching motorcycles.

“Remember,” Earl said. “Don’t bunch
up. Snake’s the one we want, and if we stay far apart we’ll be
smaller targets. Wilma, you stay here with the young’ns. Us three
will step out and tell him to get his ugly ass out of
town.”

Brad nodded to his son, who stood
close to Tina. Both had found rather large kitchen knives. The
three men went out into the street.

As planned, Brad crossed over to the
far side, Bert stayed close to the inn and Earl waited in the
middle of the two lanes. The five cycles had stopped about two
hundred yards up the street, their angry motors roaring out a
warning. Suddenly North Conway had turned into Dodge City, with
Earl looking like a balding Marshal Dillon come out of retirement
for one last showdown.

Shoot out at the O.K. Corral and all
that shit! Brad half expected to see Wyatt Earp swagger out,
tossing the tail of his black frock coat clear of his Buntline
Special. Westerns had been very big back when he was a kid.
Gunsmoke, Maverick, Have Gun Will Travel. Right now, however, he
himself felt about a hundred years old. Thumbing off the safety,
Brad glanced over at the inn. Bert was fidgeting around looking for
a place to hide, while Earl stood like an unmovable mountain in the
center of main street. A curtain moved in one of the inn’s front
windows. Then the roaring reached his ears. Looking up Brad saw the
motorcycles racing towards Earl. Time seemed to slow down as the
bikes sped up. All five riders seemed to have their weapons drawn.
Apparently Snake wasn’t in a very talkative mood, for he began
firing from way over a hundred yards away. Too far for even his
large pistol, but then Snake didn’t really seem like the patient
type.

Out of the corner of his eye Brad saw
Earl raise his .303 and fire back. The bikes raced on. One or two
of the other riders were shooting as well. The air seemed alive
with the gunfire. Suddenly Bull’s chopper swerved out of control.
Clearing the sidewalk, Bull and his bike smashed through the large
plate glass of The Gap’s display window. Blade and Flame continued
to returned fire. Fifty yards now and closing. As Earl calmly
worked the bolt on his rifle, Brad saw him suddenly spin around and
go down on one knee.

It was then that Brad
raised his own gun. Less than thirty yards separated him from the
speeding bikes. The sight between the double barrels centered on
Snake. Runt’s cycle was almost alongside. Sweat trickled into
Brad’s eye. He willed it away and squeezed both triggers. The
double explosion rocked him back. He caught himself in time to see
Runt knocked off his bike. The bleeding body rolled on the pavement
as the motorcycle tore off to the right and slammed into a parked
car. A spark must have touched off the gastank, for first the bike,
then the car, exploded. Twin fireballs erupted, sending jagged
pieces of hot metal flying through the air. One of them nicked
Brad’s thigh, but he hardly noticed it. Fumbling shells into his
gun, he watched as Snake and the other two bore down on
Earl.

Snake had two more rounds in his
Magnum. At a distance of twenty feet he pumped both of them into
the kneeling farmer. Earl’s body was punched backwards.
Spread-eagle on the center line, Snake’s Harley passed over him.
There was a crunching sound as first the front wheel, then the
back, pulverized the farmer’s head. Snake continued on another
fifty yards before bringing his bike to a screeching halt. Blade
and Flame followed. In the middle of the road Snake slowly began to
reload his Magnum, a triumphant smile on his cruel face.

Brad felt as tough he was caught up in
a dream, some terrible nightmare that just wouldn’t give up. Dodge
City had turned into Little Big Horn, and the Indians were still
coming over the bloody hill!

“Dad!”, a far way voice called. “Run
Dad! Run!!”

Looking up Brad saw Kenneth on the
front porch of the inn. Wilma and Tina stood beside him. The older
woman was yelling something at Bert, who stood trembling like a
poplar in the wind. Then Tina ran out into the street. Kneeling by
Earl’s shattered body, she picked up his rifle and, after fumbling
with the bolt, fired at Snake’s distant form. The bullet went wide,
but the sound of heavy gun was enough to get Brad moving. Racing
across the street, he pulled Tina with him and they both ran for
the inn. Behind them they heard the roar of Snake’s motor. A bullet
smashed the glass of the inn door. Another splintered the railing
as they climbed the porch steps.

Then Wilma was beside him. Her .22
coughed several times. Brad pushed Kenneth through the open
doorway, then shoved Tina after him. Snake roared by, his Magnum
spitting out death. The other two were right behind. Bert, trying
to crowd through, shoved Wilma towards the street. A bullet struck
her in the forehead, spraying blood and brains all over the
frightened barber. Both fell through the open doorway, Wilma’s dead
weight pinning Bert to the floor. Brad fired from the bottom step
just as Snake swerved behind a parked Toyota. One blast shattered
the side window, the other blew out the Toyota’s rear tire. The
three cycles continued on out of sight.

“Bastards!”, Brad hissed as he fumbled
two more shells into the 12 gage.. Tina came up beside him. Brad
saw blood trickling down from a graze on her cheek. “You’re shot!”,
he heard himself say.

Tina looked surprised, then pressed a
trembling hand to the side of her head. It came away red. “That’s
funny. I don’t feel a thing.” Then she saw blood on Brad’s thigh.
“Your leg!”

“What? Oh, it’s nothing.” He motioned
towards the inn. They had to step over Wilma’s body to get in the
door. Bert was nowhere to be seen. Kenneth met them holding Brad’s
old shotgun.

“Have --- have they gone, Dad?”,
Kenneth asked, his voice trembling as much as his hands.

“It looks that way, son,” Brad said.
“For now at least.”

“Maybe… maybe their gone for good…”,
Kenneth whispered.

“They’ll be back,” Tina added quietly,
still holding the dead farmer’s rifle. “Scum like that always comes
back.”

She was right of course.

Chapter 13
: IN THE NICK OF
TIME

LincolnNew Hampshire

June 28(Day
7)

The sun was setting when the strange
little caravan pulled into the town of Lincoln, New Hampshire. It
had taken them nearly two days to cover the two hundred miles from
Mount Hawthorn. Under normal conditions it could have been done in
less than four hours. Conditions, however, were anything but
normal.

The biggest problem was the highways.
Traffic jams and car crashes made the larger roads all but
impassable. Forced to take the back roads, they had wound their way
across Vermont’s Green Mountains and into New Hampshire’s White’s.
Even on these little used roads they had been forced several times
to either turn around or use the tow-truck to haul wrecks out of
the way.

Then there had been the road block.
South of Montpelier, near the little village of Trow Hill, they had
come across what looked like another jumble of wrecks. A Winnebago
was angled in between two smashed cars. Leaving the two dogs in the
van, Josh and Jessie had gotten out to look things over. As they
approached, two men with rifles had stepped out from behind the
wrecks. One seemed no older than Jessie.

“Freeze, assholes!”, the younger man
had yelled. He wore a leather jacket over a pink neon T-shirt that
hurt the eyes. Tight jeans, fancy cowboy boots and slicked back
hair completed the picture. An image of his teen-age hero, the
‘Fonz’, flashed through Josh’s mind, though Arthur Fonzerelli had
never had to resort to using semi-automatic weapons.