The Damned Summer (The Ruin Trilogy) (11 page)

"Why
don't you come on back and have a seat," the lead biker said, sitting back
down at the table in the dark corner of the room.

Frank took
the offer, sitting down across from the biker.

"So?"
the biker said.

"So,"
Frank mimicked. "How's it going?"

The biker
chuckled lightly. "Not bad, so far," he answered, looking around the
near empty bar. "We're having a good enough time, at least until the
barkeep pulls that shotgun out from behind the bar he's been fingering ever
since we got here."

Frank looked
back at the bar. "Mike's a good guy, you guys are just kind of
intimidating, so he's a little on edge. He's a vet too, from WW2."

"Good
for him," the biker replied. "But that's not our war, now is
it?" He kept looking at Frank, his eyes hadn't left Frank since he had sat
down.

"No,"
Frank agreed. "Sure as hell ain't."

"So, why
did you come over here, Semper Fi?"
 
     

"I don't
know," Frank replied. "When you looked over at me, it just seemed
like the thing to do."

The biker
tipped his beer at him. "Good answer," he took a long drink.

"So,
what's your plans for the rest of the night?" Frank asked.

The biker
finished his drink. "We've been using the word 'so' entirely too much
since we sat down, we need to  cut that shit out."

Frank
chuckled this time. "Okay, so anyway..."

They looked
at one another in silence for a moment and then both let out some genuine
laughter.

The biker
pulled a wad of cash out of his front pocket. "We're gonna finish up our
drinks and then head out of here, you should come with."

"Sounds
good," Frank replied, finishing off his beer with a large swig.

"Gather
round brothers," the lead biker called out to the others. "Come meet
our new buddy."

The other
four shambled up to the table, surrounding them like the living dead in some
cheap ass horror flick.

The leader
pointed to the tunnel rat. "This here is Beans, our ambassador of kindness
and polite etiquette."

Everyone got
a laugh out of that, including Beans.

"Our two
airborne are Paint," the leader pointed to the one that had a perfectly
trimmed devil's go-tee. "He gets the name from being so damn good at doing
the artwork for the colors on our jackets and one of these days he's going to
paint our bikes. He's a god damn artist."

Paint gave a
nod to Frank, which he returned.

"The
other one is Pogo," the leader pointed to the other airborne, whose beard
and hair were almost as wild as the big marine's. "He gets his name from
the fact that he is hung so low he could ride his cock like a pogo stick."

"Hey,"
Pogo said, lighting up a cigarette. Frank responded in kind.

"The big
man here is known as Fizz, you can probably guess why."

"Semper
Fi," Frank said with a nod.

"Back at
ya," the big man replied.

The leader
held out his hand "This is my crew, and my name is Spider."

"Frank,"
he replied, grabbing Spider's hand, thinking how well the name fit him, cause
his arms and legs were long and skinny, just like a spider's.

"Good to
meet ya, Franky."

"Likewise."

Spider pulled
two twenties out of the wad of cash, throwing them down in front of Frank.
"How about you do us a favor?"

Something was
quickly binding Frank to Spider, as if they were long lost brothers. "Name
it."

"Take
this cash up to you buddy, the barkeep, and tell him we need three cases of his
best selling beer, and he can keep the change."

Frank looked
down at the cash, knowing full well that in 1970, twenty bucks would more than
pay for three cases of beer and that another twenty would be one hell of a tip.

"Are you
sure you gave me the right bills---" Frank started to say.

Spider winked
at Frank. "We take care of the barkeep that treats us fair, you just make
sure you pass that on."

"Okay,"
Frank sputtered in reply.

"We'll
meet you outside," Spider said standing up but then stopping. "If I
remember right, I heard you pull up on a bike right?"

"Yeah."

"A real
bike, not some fifty cc Honda puss bike, right?

"Hell
no, it's an Indian 841 from World War Two."

"An
Indian?" Beans asked.

Spider's eyes
shot toward Beans like a bullet. "An Indian is just as good as a Harley,
you got it?"

Beans
shrugged in response. "Whatever you say, boss."

Spider
slapped Frank on the shoulder. "See you out in the parking lot,
friend."

"You got
it," Frank replied as the bikers moved off in a group towards the door.

Mike watched
them leave, then turned to Frank. "How did you manage that?"

Frank threw
down the two twenty dollar bills. "They want three cases of beer and said
you could keep the change."

Mike looked
down at the money and then at Frank. "Do you know what you are getting
into, son?"

"What do
you care?" Frank asked back. "I'm getting them out of your bar,
aren't I?"

Mike nodded
his head, looking at the cash as he took it. "What brand do they
want?"

"Whatever
you sell the most of."

Mike wandered
off into the back, never making eye contact with him again.

Bob and John
were still sitting at the bar, but neither would look his way either.

"Is
this the way the outcast feels?"
Frank asked himself.
"Or is this the way the outlaw feels?"
He
blinked several times, letting things sink in.
"It isn't disgust that
makes them act this way, it's fear. They fear the bikers, and because I'm now
with them, they fear me."
It was a powerful thing that surged through
Frank's veins, as he watched the two men before him, refusing to look his way,
almost cowering before him.

Mike brought
out the three cases of beer and set them down on the bar, quickly moving away
from him. Frank picked up the beer and walked out without another word, already
drunk, even though he had only had one beer. Power was what was intoxicating
him at the moment.

Frank walked
up to the bikers, who already had their hogs running.

"Fizz,"
Spider called out over the roaring motorcycles. "Help Franky break up the
beers into sixers and put them in our saddle bags.

Fizz walked
over to Frank, taking two of the cases, breaking them up and stuffing them in
his saddle bags as well as the others.

"Bring
that one over here, Franky." Spider said, motioning him forward.

Franky did as
he was told, holding the beer as Spider stuffed them into his bags. Spider kept
one beer for himself and then handed a six pack back to Frank.

"I'm
guessing you're from around here, since you were buddies with the
bartender," Spider yelled over the bikes. "So you know all the back
roads and such."

"No,"
Frank yelled back, not sure why he was lying. It just seemed better the less
Spider knew about his roots, the better. "I've been here for a couple of
weeks, but I'm just passing through."

"Good,"
Spider replied. "That works even better, cause here's the deal,
Franky" Spider said with a smile. "We're going out into the middle of
nowhere, about four miles from here. If you can keep up with us and finish off
your six pack by the time we get there, you are one of us, how's that
sound?"

"Sounds
like fun," Frank replied, popping open one of the beers. "You didn't
say anything about when I got to start drinking.

"Smart
boy, Franky," Spider yelled out to him as he made his way back to his
bike. "Now try not to lose sight of us," and with that they roared
out of the parking lot, all except for Beans.

Franky jogged
the rest of the way to his Indian, letting the last of the beer in the can flow
down his throat and chin to his shirt. Dropping the empty can, he primed his
bike and started kicking her.
"If she doesn't start soon---"
he was thinking to himself when she turned over after the fifth kick.

"Hot
damn!" he said, putting her into gear, squeezing the five pack between his
legs as he weaved onto the road and revved her up, switching her into second
gear. He could see them up ahead, about a half a mile, making a turn left. He
saw Beans behind him, knowing he would be checking the beers, making sure they
were empty cans on the road and not half full ones he chucked, trying to cheat.

"Got
to get a beer down before that turn,"
he thought to himself, pulling a can free with his left hand
and pulling the tab open with his teeth. Foam flowed across his face as he
started chugging the beer, shifting into third gear, then almost immediately
downshifting as he got close to the turn. Needing his left hand to make the turn,
he clamped his teeth down on the outside of the can, hoping it stayed in place
while he made the curve.

His jaw
started to ache, as he pressed down on the outside of the can during the turn.
The can was still half full, so beer splashed into his mouth, nearly making him
choke, as well as outside of his mouth and onto the pavement.

"Too
dark for Beans to notice that,"
Frank thought to himself as the road straightened out, allowing him to take the
can out of his mouth, which was followed by a coughing fit from the unprepared
beer that had flowed down his mouth.

Slowing down
the bike, he forced the coughing to stop, seeing that they had already made
another turn and were getting dangerously close to being impossible to follow
if he didn't get closer. Speeding the bike back up, he finished off the second
beer right as he hit the next turn. Locking the brakes up, he let the empty can
fly, grabbing the handlebars with both hands and skidding her to a stop.
Putting her back in first gear, he pointed to the road and gunned it, grabbing
the third beer and tearing it open with his teeth as he went into second gear.

Chugging on
the third beer and well into third gear he shot past the road that he needed to
turn on. He released the throttle grip as he finished up the beer. Once it was
empty, he clamped onto the rim of the can with his teeth and locked up the
brakes. Sliding to a stop, he quickly turned back to the right path. He held
the empty till he got back on the right trail before dropping it from his mouth
for Beans to see.

Opening the
fourth beer, Frank felt pretty good, thinking he was catching up, until he
noticed he was now driving parallel to the biker gang. He had taken the wrong
turn on that old dark country road. He had caught up with them, he just wasn't on
the right road.

"Shit!"
he thought to himself.
"I've got to
get on that road!"
He  wrapped his teeth around the outside of the can
and went off the road and right into the ditch, ramping it into the field and
then shooting through the empty dirt like he was on a dirt bike. "
Thank
God the corn isn't growing yet,"
he thought to himself. It would be
hard enough to ride his bike through the dirt with the damn beer.

He had
learned from choking on the last can to not let the beer flow down his throat,
so he slammed his tongue to the top of his mouth, forcing the beer to bounce
back from his mouth and into the sky, where it hit the black dirt of the
Illinoisan field as well as his shirt. As soon as his wheels came down on the
dirt, the jolt nearly made him lose his weak grip on the can.

"
Damn!"
He cursed, clamping down harder on the can, making his teeth feel like they
were about to break as beer splashed on his face and into one eye.
"This
would be the stupidest fucking death."
He imaged hitting something in
the field, flying off the bike and landing face first into the soil. The cops
wouldn't find his body until the next day, with a beer can somehow stuck
halfway down his throat. He was sure that would be a real head scratcher for
the local police. He flew past a gnarled crabapple tree to his right and the
lights came on at a nearby house as his loud bike roared through the field.
"If
the farmer could see me from his window, even his grumpy ass would laugh,"
he thought to himself as his beer can slipped a little more out of the grip of
his teeth.

As luck would
have it, he made it through the field, still on his bike and even more
amazingly, with the can still in his teeth. He grabbed the can out of his
mouth, scraping his tongue across his teeth, which came across a jagged chip on
one of his front teeth. He didn't know for sure, but his guess was the rim of
the can had got jammed into that new nick which helped keep it from flying out
of his mouth.

Finishing the
last sip of the fourth can, he let it fall to the ground and shot into third
gear, about to catch the gang. He popped the fifth beer, taking a big chug, and
feeling good, thinking he was in good shape.
"Must have brought home
some of that luck that kept me alive in Nam."