Pursuit of the Apocalypse (7 page)

“Right.” Mike looked at his companions and back to the man in white. “You see the problem we have with that is that, just like this girl, we’re running away from somewhere, too.”

“I have no warrant for you so you have nothing to fear from me.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t worried about that. But, you see, we know that not everyone who’s running is necessarily guilty.”

Jillian stepped back over to her rifle and picked it up. She leveled it at the man and stared.

“I can assure you, this woman is guilty. And I assure you I am who I say I am.”

Mike snorted. “Your word’s not good enough, pal.”

“Then I’ll show you my badge.” Mr. Christopher reached into his jacket.

Erica screamed again for them to shoot.

Six shots were fired.

Jillian hit the ground first. The rifle bounced out of Erica’s reach.

Mike fell next and the other man hit the ground a second later.

Mr. Christopher held his gun on each of them to make sure they weren’t getting up. Satisfied, he held his free hand out to Erica. She refused to take it so he grabbed her under the arm and dragged her to her feet.

“They seemed like such nice people, too,” Mr. Christopher said. “So willing to help. You just don’t see that much anymore. The world could use more good people like that. It’s a shame you got them killed.”

Erica held back a sob and forced her lip into a sneer. “At least they put a hole in that ugly suit of yours.”

The bounty hunter hadn’t seen it. Perhaps he hadn’t even felt it, but now he looked down at the bullet hole in his jacket and the blood seeping out of the wound.

“Just perfect,” he said. “Now we’ll have to make another stop.” He shoved her forward and led her back to the Jeep.

SEVEN

They called him Hawk, and he was an outlaw.

For as long as he could remember the law had always been against him. Even as a lawyer, he was always on the defense. But he had always fought with the ferociousness of a falcon and had an eagle eye for details that others often missed, so he adopted the professional name of Hawk and practiced law like a vicious bird of prey with Talons of Justice, Feathers of Freedom, and Bill of Surprising Amounts.

He had always skirted the law, flitting around its edges to ensure that his clients found justice and the freedom to cover his fee. He danced on the edge of contempt more than once, and that’s not even counting the time he appeared in court drunk and tried to make a pass at the judge.

In his defense, she was hot. She’d had a refined look, wore a black dress, and there was a touch of Judge Judy in her voice that he was surprised to find alluring.

He had bent the law, strained the law, and annoyed it a great deal. But he had never broken the law until the Crappening.

Overnight, even decent people turned to their baser instincts to survive. Everywhere he looked he saw looters, murderers, robbers, the worst humanity had to offer and many other potential clients. He hit the streets with a box of business cards and a pitch that blamed their strife on a system that had failed them and their families, and their pets if they happened to have pets.

But then the system failed him as well. Approaching what he could only identify as a “gang” to offer a lenient jury and a big potential harassment settlement should they be caught, he soon found himself surrounded by the less than appreciative group. He panicked and drew his concealed carry. Moments later two of the men were dead and the others had run off. In a court of law he would swear that he was in danger and that the men meant to do him harm. But, the truth was they might have just been looking for food. Or directions. He couldn’t be sure; the one guy kind of mumbled.

So Hawk ran.

He couldn’t report the incident or turn himself in to authorities. There were no longer authorities. He had become what he had always despised. He had become a criminal. He had become an outlaw. And, worse, he liked it.

Behind his degree, he had always been a force to be reckoned with. But, behind a barrel, he was unstoppable. He made arguments that no one would counter and all objections were overturned with the bark of a gun. His reputation spread and within a year he had rallied others beneath him to form the most feared motorcycle gang in the south—the Iron Eagles. He had the debate many times that Iron Hawks would make more sense, but his fondness for the film always prevailed.

The Iron Eagles rode the remnants of the highways taking what they wanted from whoever was foolish enough to travel through their sphere of influence. They were fierce and many more soon rallied to join.

He required only two things of the men and women beneath him. First, they had to swear ultimate loyalty to Hawk, as well as sign a contract before two witnesses and initial several other pages of the document. In triplicate. And, two, they had to have their own Harley.

Knowing the power of branding, Hawk insisted on American iron only. They were the modern outlaws and they had an image to protect. No Hondas, no Yamahas, no BMWs were allowed. And if you showed up on a CanAm, you were sure to be humiliated before you were shot. Due to this stipulation, the gang was comprised almost entirely of former middle-aged dentists. This group of sadists struck fear into the hearts and gums of people everywhere.

Hawk Johnson embraced his role as a feared leader. He shed his tailored suits in favor of road leathers. He let his beard grow and acquired a pet hawk. Naming the hawk Falcor, he designed a perch that allowed the bird to sit on his shoulder. It wasn’t long after that he took to wearing an eye patch because stupid Falcor had pecked out his left eye. But even the patch added to his mystique, and once he had Falcor killed and stuffed, the hawk remained on his shoulder as an ever-present reminder of the gang leader’s vicious nature.

That fact that law and order was no more was only a technicality. Hawk was the wasteland’s greatest outlaw. One of the greatest to ever live.

Now he sat astride his bike watching his road from the interior of a strip mall insurance company. Falcor sat patiently on his shoulder, dead, with his keen hawk vision directed at the freeway.

Hawk heard the engine long before he saw the vehicle. The truck was really moving. Most travelers moved slowly along the roads for fear of running into debris, damaged surfaces, or traps, but the Dodge Ram in the distance was moving without caution. The driver was obviously reckless. He’d been informed that the man was dangerous. Hawk smiled and started his bike. He twisted the throttle three times. He let the revs die down and screeched at the top of his lungs like the predator he had become.

Thunder rolled throughout the shopping center as the Iron Eagles started their bikes. The sound of fifty motors bouncing off the walls of the abandoned complex made the building shake, and Hawk smiled. The men and women under his command tore from their ambush location and turned to follow the truck.

Hawk let them go ahead of him. A proud smile crossed his lips and he puffed his chest with a deep breath that turned out to be more engine exhaust than air. He coughed and put his own ride in gear before leaving a thick tire mark on the insurance office floor.

The gang was fifty members strong and every engine roared as the Iron Eagles cycled through their gears gaining speed and gaining ground on the Dodge ahead. Hawk fell in behind the convoy and screamed with delight. “We are unstoppable, Falcor!”

He hit fifth gear and the hawk’s taxidermy wing came unpegged. It flapped in the wind as if Falcor was trying to take flight and join in the pursuit. Then it shifted and the wing began to beat against Hawk’s face.

“Dammit, Falcor!” Hawk screamed as he tried to stop the wing’s relentless slapping. His bike swerved and took him perilously close to the road’s crumbling shoulder. He finally managed to knock the bird free of its perch. It took flight for moment before spiraling to the ground with a wooden thunk.

Hawk turned back to the pursuit and watched as the Iron Eagles closed in on their prey.

Dr. Pullman pulled up along the passenger side of the vehicle and drew his gun.

The Dodge jerked to the right, engulfing Dr. Pullman’s arm in the open window. When the truck drifted back to the left, Dr. Pullman’s gun was gone and his arm was bleeding. He pulled away to the side of the road.

Dr. Rensch had pulled up to the driver’s window. The Dodge pulled hard left and knocked the former dentist from his bike and onto his face. The bike tumbled after him into a mess of limbs and chrome that sparked and bled as it ground itself into the asphalt.

Several Eagles surrounded the truck. Two rode close behind and drew their weapons to fire. The truck’s rear end bounced. Its brake lights disabled, the sudden bucking was the only indication the vehicle was slowing. Payne and Spits collided with the truck, flew over the handlebars and struck the D and the G painted across the rear gate.

The Ram sped up and began targeting the riders with its grill and fenders. Two more Eagles fell before the rest of the gang decided to give the truck space.

Hawk passed the fallen Dr. Rensch and decided that the man wouldn’t be getting up. And if he did, no one would ever be able to hold a face-to-face conversation with him again.

The gunfire began and the Iron Eagles aimed for the tires. Dead or alive didn’t matter, but the body had to be identifiable. That’s what the two hillbillies had said, “Just make sure you don’t kill him in the face.”

The driver began to fire back, and Hawk had to admit that whoever was behind the wheel was a much better shot than his own men. Hawk swerved around another downed Eagle. He’d lost track of who’d fallen at this point. He was more focused on how his men were pulling back.

Hawk zoomed to the front of the pack and motioned for the lead rider to attack again. The man named Drewel shook his head. Hawk insisted and the former dentist replied with the finger. Hawk smiled, drew his revolver, and put a bullet through the man’s front teeth.

He signaled again for the others to take the truck, and this time there was no hesitation. Ten bikers accelerated and started gaining on the Dodge as it approached an underpass.

Hawk holstered his revolver and was about to join them when an explosion drowned out the sound of his motorcycle gang.

Everything happened in seconds, but his eagle eye saw it all play out in detail. The sound drew his eye up. Concrete turned to dust at the ends of the overpass as it blew out in all directions. The Ram passed under the bridge as the structure fell toward the road. The Iron Eagles passed under the bridge as the structure hit the road. Only two of the ten men avoided being crushed by the rubble. They, instead, were impaled on the jagged concrete and rebar.

Hawk slid to a stop in front of the debris and dismounted his Harley.

One man hung still in the air suspended by the iron bars piercing his body. The other twitched.

Hawk didn’t care if the man was alive or dying. He rushed to the rubble of the bridge screaming, “What the hell was that?!”

EIGHT

“What the hell was that?!” Willie screamed over the ringing in his ears. The blast had gone off before he could cover them, and they hadn’t rung this bad since the last time he and Coy got to see Nickelback.

Coy stood up and dusted himself off. The explosion had knocked him off his feet and several feet back. The detonator was still locked in his hand. “What?”

“He got away!” Willie pointed toward the Dodge truck as it continued down the road without a single piece of bridge on it. “I told you to do it sooner.”

“You told me to do it not at all!” Coy shot back.

Willie nodded and shook his head at the same time turning the gesture into more of a circular motion that hopefully conveyed disbelief and how stupid he thought Coy was. “And when you didn’t listen I told you to do it sooner. Now the library guy got away and our guys are stuck on the other side of the damn bridge.”

“Sure, you act like this is so easy, Willie. You can’t just light the fuse and hope it works. I’ll have you know that explosives is a science.”

“And you suck at science, Coy. Which is why I didn’t want you to do it.”

“I was good at science. I only barely failed it.”

“Do you remember we had to dissect that frog?” Willie asked.

“Yeah.”

“You ate the frog, moron! You suck at science.”

“Oh and you don’t, Willie? You watched like half an episode of
Cosmos
once and that makes you some kind of expert?”

“It makes me fifteen minutes smarter than you, Coy.” Willie walked up and pulled the detonator from his friend’s hand. “You should have let me do it.”

“It was my turn! You did it last time!”

He watched the Dodge disappear in the distance. “And last time it worked, now, didn’t it?”

“You really do think you’re better than me, don’t you, Willie?”

“Better. Smarter. Better looking. People like me more. And, people say, I generally smell better.”

“You know I have a condition!”

“Well that condition stinks.”

“That’s the condition!”

Willie threw the detonator on the ground and walked over to the western side of the overpass and looked down below. “No, your condition is called stupid.”

“Shut up, Willie.”

Hawk pointed up from the road below and shouted, “You!”

“Oh,” Willie shouted back down. “Hey, Hawk! Um ... how’s it going?”

The biker screamed, “You two morons are dead!”

Coy rushed to Willie’s side. “Oh, man. He looks pissed.”

“Of course he’s pissed. You promised them a cut and their cut just drove away.”

“Shut up, Willie.”

“You were trying to sound all businesslike, throwing out percentages and stuff. You got them all excited and then you took that excitement and dropped a bridge on it.”

Coy was pleading now. “Shut up, Willie.”

“You two aren’t going to get away with this. We’re going to catch you. Prepare yourselves because you will face my talons of justice.” Hawk held up his hand in the shape of some deformed claw and screeched.

“Oh, God,” Coy found it hard to keep his voice steady. “Not his talons. They say he uses them to rip out people’s eyes.”