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  This can’t be happening to me.

  He almost laughed. It would almost be funny if it weren’t so insane. Out of the frying pan into the fire. As he topped the next rise he saw the red demon eye pop over the crest eighty yards behind him. Fagan willed himself not to tense up and start shivering, consciously keeping from crushing the handgrips as he guided the heavy road bike faster than it was meant to go. He kept scraping the floorboards.

  Where was 123? Where was 38? Come on, come on. The freak gained on him. Fagan looked down. He hit sixty. The giant had to be going eighty or better. By the laws of physics he should have planted himself in the trees by now.

  Ahead through the trees Fagan caught a glimpse of desultory traffic—a pick-up truck, a bus. Had to be 123. Had to be.

  Please God don’t let this freak follow me out onto the highway.

  He could see motorists switching on their wiper blades. Rain smacked and went away like a harlot flicking a handkerchief.

  He was close to panic, like a small animal with a giant predator breathing down its neck. He glanced in the mirror. The demon’s eye almost blinded him, a mere quarter of a football field behind. They’d taught him never to ride in a panic but no one had envisioned these circumstances.

  Fagan held the throttle flat out as the big bike accelerated to ninety, crested the top of a hill and went briefly airborne, landing with a clank. The red demon eye was right behind him. Fagan heard its strange engine thrashing and humming like something at war with itself.

  Fagan rushed the highway—a T-intersection—the road didn’t go through. There would be no time to stop. He prayed that the relatively light-used state highway would be deserted.

  A faint demented scream penetrated his consciousness. Fagan realized it was the creature itself, turned his head and the fucker was right there on the backswing. Fagan slammed his head down to the right of the tank and felt a jarring shock as something struck his fiberglass helmet. He felt wind in his hair.

  Gripping the bars Fagan looked up to see the black biker hit the highway and grab two feet of air off a discarded sheet of plywood resting on a log.

  Good! Maybe he broke his neck!

  Then Fagan was out in the open sliding sideways like on a dirt track, struggling to keep the Harley on its tires. The sky was a mottled, shifting gray/purple with flashbulbs erupting behind screens and constant crosscurrents of thunder. The scabbed black highway was little wider than the country trunk he’d just left, wet as an otter. He crossed both lanes and the Harley’s rear tire slipped onto the beat-down highway grass and Fagan put a foot down to keep it upright, twisting his ankle and juddering to a stop in sixty feet. He quickly pulled to the side of the westbound lane and straddled the bike on the shoulder.

  He leaned on the bars, breath a jackhammer. He looked up and down the highway.

  The freak was gone.

  An insensate mechanical bellow erupted from a fire trail beyond the eastbound lane. Fagan stared in disbelief, spine shaking like a flag in a hurricane as the red eye reappeared, blinking in the brush waiting for a farm truck to lumber by.

  Fagan gassed his bike feeling a high-pitched animal whine in his throat.

  ***

  CHAPTER 6

  The Kongo Klub

  He thought he heard a tornado siren but he was seventeen miles out of town. It could have been the wind through the trees or the shriek in his throat. He looked ahead to where the road disappeared in mist. It was as deserted as after a nuclear disaster. What happens when lightning strikes a biker? Would the rubber tires insulate him from grounding? Not in the wet.

  That was the least of his worries.

  The trees on either side of the two-lane highway flickered red and blue from his light bars and red from the demon eye, engine roaring like an avalanche nipping at the Harley’s rear tire. Fagan hunkered low on the bike with the throttle flat out and watched the Speedo creep past a hundred. The blazing red eye remained steady in his rearview, thirty feet back.

  Some kind of intersection coming up fast—123 and 38. Fagan made the mistake of looking in the mirror and saw the upraised sword, the maniac’s front wheel adjacent with the Harley’s rear.

  The maniac swung.

  Fagan threw the bike down on its side and skidded next to it down the highway at ninety mph, his ballistic jacket, boots and helmet shredding leather and carbon fiber like cheese on a grater, the big bike kicking up sparks as it rotated and skidded. Fagan felt heat building through the carbon fiber. Slower and slower he scraped and spun until he came to a halt in the middle of the westbound lane, his bike skidding off the road to the right and striking the base of a utility pole like an eight hundred pound wrecking ball.

  The utility pole, one in a series carrying power and phones to the hinterlands, cracked like a breadstick and trembled, momentarily held up by the power lines stretching in three directions. The third direction was to the one-story log cabin roadhouse with the neon signs advertising Schlitz and Dixie. “Kongo Klub” flickered in neon orange above the door.

  Fagan lay on his back for a moment, staring at the roiling sky. He recognized the signs of shock. Carefully he tested his limbs and concluded nothing had broken although he’d look like an eggplant for several days. Ever so slowly he raised his head and looked around. He sat up.

  His arm buckled. Still no traffic.

  The maniac was gone. Fagan tried to listen but his ears rang like a school fire alarm. He had to get out of the middle of the road. A crack of pure white light struck the top of the utility pole. The thunderclap was instantaneous. Momentarily blinded, unable to hear, Fagan realized he was sitting in a pool of cold water and the utility pole was coming down.

  Every joint a roundabout of pain, Fagan scurried backwards on his ass like a spider until he was out of the pool. He struggled to his feet and hobbled out of the middle of the road seconds before the pole touched down with a horrendous crackle and a cloud of angel fire that followed the downed line to the next pole. Fagan stopped at the parking lot, put his hands on his knees and searched for breath. He fell on his ass. He slapped around. He still had his pistol and radio.

  He thumbed it. Of course it was dead. He went through his little rituals, feeling his arms and legs. The back of his head felt cool. He unstrapped his helmet. The sword had cut a perfect circle at an angle on the side of the crown, a monk’s helmet. It looked like half a jawbreaker. He scratched his scalp.

  The Harley was down but it weighed a ton and had highway bars so it still might be rideable. Not that Fagan had any intention of trying. He could barely walk. He had to talk to HQ and was pretty certain the KK had a landline, if it hadn’t just been knocked down by the storm.

  Fagan looked up. The clouds seemed darker and angrier like a mob working itself up to a confrontation. He scanned the road east/west once more but there wasn’t a sign of traffic. They must have warnings out on all broadcast media.

  On hands and knees Fagan turned toward the roadhouse. A series of faces regarded him through the steam-misted window, in and around the neon beer signs. He staggered to his feet. Five rat choppers out front, three with apes. One had a Stihl chainsaw bungeed to a cargo rack. The bikes dripped with skulls, grim reapers, Grateful Dead symbols, tiny bells, packets and ephemera. Bikers were more superstitious than gypsy wives. Three of the bikes appeared to be Harley-based. The other two were of unknown provenance.

  He looked up. Smoke curled from the old brick chimney as from the College of Cardinals. As he watched the lights went out. Shouts and curses from inside.

  The Kongo Klub was made of brown logs, possibly telephone poles, held together with white mortar. A railed porch ran the length of the club, about forty feet. There were a half dozen white plastic chairs and two round white plastic tables, the kind you buy at Wal-Mart. Fagan went up two steps to the stout brown door with a scratched square window smack in the center. Seconds later the sound of a generator starting up reached him and seconds after that the lights flickered back on.

  Fagan
heard scuffling and scraping furniture as he approached the door. He pulled it open and stepped inside. Pain radiated like a high red whine from his arms and legs. Five hairy bikers—three at a circular table decorated with empty bottles and two more at a square table in the back flipping cards. The card players were old. They would be Doc and Curtis. What was that like, to be an old biker with no health insurance, three teeth in your jaw and a stinking trailer somewhere?

  The room smelled of beer, tobacco, marijuana and testosterone.

  Two behind the bar—a grizzled homunculus and a fresh-faced blond who looked as out of place as a chrysanthemum in a coal bin. Eyelashes like crow’s wings. Had to be fake. She wore a man’s white shirt tied around her taut midriff and hip-hugger jeans. There was a tat of Gaiman’s Death on her bicep. They all looked up. It would have been unnatural if they hadn’t. But there was nothing natural about the forced bonhomie of the bikers doing their best to appear nonchalant.

  That lasted three seconds.

  The biggest biker, a slab of beef with a full beard, gold earrings and a gold tooth slammed a Bowie knife the size of a PT Cruiser into the scarred wood table causing the bottles to dance.

  “MACY! WHERE THE FUCK’S MY BURGER!”

  With a frightened expression the blond angel disappeared behind the bar.

  All for Fagan’s benefit.

  The youngest, a wiry hillbilly with a Dennis the Menace cowlick and a wide grin, said in an adolescent twang, “Well look what the cat dragged in.”

  ***

  CHAPTER 7

  The Road Dogs

  Fagan let his cop’s gaze stop at each. The two in back were salt and pepper, looked like they were in their sixties although they could be anywhere from forty to eighty. The biker lifestyle put the miles on your face. They never looked up from their card game.

  The three around the circular table glowed with malice. The man mountain with the knife was obviously the prez followed by a human fist with a shaved skull and inked neck and biceps in his late thirties. Cowlick was a gangly nineteen, pale face a constellation of zits.

  Fagan dismissed them and walked to the bar, setting his bifurcated helmet down with a thump. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind the bar. He looked like a child’s toy that had been dragged through broken glass and a coal mine.

  “Bullard County Deputy Sheriff,” he croaked. “Do you have a land line?”

  The middle-aged bartender was short with bright, inquisitive woodchuck eyes and hedgerow brows. He leaned down and plopped a black plastic rotary on the scarred wood bar. Someone had carved “Road Dogs” into the surface in elegant Gothic script. The wall above the bar was decorated with old license plates and tin signs: The Wild One. Wild Angels. Easy Rider.

  Fagan picked up the receiver. All he heard was the rushing in his ears. He turned to the room. “Anybody got a working cell phone?”

  His legs gave way and he collapsed to the barroom floor, brushing his helmet off the counter. His helmet rolled a couple feet and stopped.

  The Road Hogs roared. Cowlick clapped his hands.

  “What’s the matter, Ossifer,” Cowlick sneered getting to his feet. The leader put out an arm and Cowlick resumed his seat. The bartender scurried out from behind the bar with a glass of water. He walked with a limp, right leg with an odd kink.

  Fagan felt weak as a baby bird. He half-struggled to a sitting position, leaned against the front of the bar and waited for the world to stop spinning. His luge ride down the highway had scrambled his brains. He might have a concussion. He looked around. There were cig butts on the floor and a quarter inch roach.

  “Just relax,” the bartender said softly with a southern accent, handing him the glass. “You had a wipeout.”

  Fagan drank thirstily. He nodded.

  “We saw your bike slam into that pole. You nearly got your ass fried.”

  Fagan tried to say something but couldn’t find the wind. He drained the glass. The bartender helped him to his feet and deposited him on a barstool. “I’m Fred,” he said softly. “You must be the new deputy. You know the Road Dogs?” Just a hint of anxiety.

  Fagan nodded. “Officer Fagan,” he said.

  “What’s that?” the kid said standing. “Did you say Officer Faggot?!” He doubled up cackling. The others barked. A real knee slapper. Fagan thought Cowlick seemed a little manic. They all did—they all had that artificial stillness speed freaks get when law walks in the room.

  By thy long gray beard and glittering eye.…

  Not that Fagan gave a shit, but they probably had to scrape goods and works off the tables in a hurry when he slid by. He thought he sniffed a telltale chemical tang. Fred went behind the bar and nervously wiped with a white cloth. Fagan pointed to the bottle of Jack Daniels behind Fred and held up two fingers.

  “Please,” he croaked.

  “Hey Ossifer Faggot!” the kid sang. “Ain’t it against the law to drink while you’re on duty?”

  The bikers watched Fagan with barely concealed mirth. This was better than a pole dance. Cowlick scooted forward and scooped up Fagan’s helmet, turning to display it to his comrades like a belt he’d just won. He saw the hole in the helmet and stuck a finger through.

  “What the fuck?”

  The slab held his hand out. “Hand it over.”

  The kid flipped the helmet to the leader. “Here you go, Wild Bill.”

  Wild Bill examined the helmet and looked up. “What the fuck happened to you?”

  The bartender leaned in. “You need something stronger than Jack, officer.” He dipped below the bar and retrieved an earthenware jug with a cork stopper. Someone had doodled a skull and crossbones on the side with a black felt marker.

  “This here’s the real thing—genuine corn liquor. One eighty proof.” He poured two inches of brown liquor into a tumbler. Wild Bill stared in fury and consternation.

  Fagan held it up to the light, tossed it back and swiveled to face the room. The liquor hit his gut like a depth bomb. Heat flared in all directions. He waited a second for it to get into his blood. The room tilted and whirled.

  We all need it one time or another.

  Three pairs of eyes regarded him with undisguised hostility. Salt and Pepper never looked up from their game.

  “What kind of pig starts drinking at four in the afternoon?” the skull snarled.

  “What happened, officer?” the leader said with exaggerated unction.

  “Anyone know a Lawrence Rodell?”

  The kid’s jaw dropped and his face twisted in shock and disbelief. Salt and Pepper looked up. They did not radiate hostility. Rather a world-weary cynicism.

  “What about him?” Wild Bill said.

  “He was decapitated.”

  Cowlick turned to the skull. “What’s that mean?” he said softly.

  “Means his head was cut off, numb nutz.”

  The bartender mouthed something behind the bar.

  “Bullshit!” the leader exclaimed.

  “Man on a bike,” Fagan said. “Possibly seven feet tall dressed all in black leather. Full face helmet carrying a samurai sword.”

  “BULLSHIT!” Wild Bill declared pounding the table. “BULLSHIT! MACY! WHERE THE FUCK’S MY BURGER?!”

  The graceful girl/woman sashayed out from behind the bar carrying a platter on which rested the burger, condiments and three shot glasses filled with Jack. She set the shot glasses neatly before Wild Bill, Cowlick and the skull and then slammed the burger down in front of Wild Bill hard enough to make it airborne.

  Wild Bill backhanded her with his right hand, the sound of flesh on flesh like a rifle shot. Macy staggered.

  Fagan got off the stool with blood in his eye.

  ***

  CHAPTER 8

  Helmet Head

  Before Fagan could reach the table the skull popped up and shoved him back hard with pile driver arms. Fagan stumbled and grabbed the barstool for support taking it down with him. Fred hurried out from behind the bar and got in the sku
ll’s face as Fagan regained his feet.

  “Come on, Chainsaw. I thought you guys weren’t gonna cause me any grief.”

  “That was before this pig walked in,” Chainsaw said. “How do we know he didn’t off Larry himself?”

  “You heard the man,” Fred wheedled. Fagan felt sorry for the bartender, forced to grovel before this pack of jackals.

  “He didn’t do it. He’s a cop for Chrissake!”

  “Cops are crooked as your right leg,” Wild Bill said, picking up his burger and chomping a coaster-sized hole.

  “Yeah, ya fuckin’ gimp,” Chainsaw said. “Weren’t for us you’da closed this pit long ago.”

  Fagan could have arrested Wild Bill for assault right there. But one did not provoke a pack of jackals. He could always charge him later.

  Cowlick whipped out a bindle and a balisong and divided some lines on the tabletop. The name “Mad Dog” was stitched over one breast. His blade made a chopping sound against the wood. “You need a bump, Saw.” Mad Dog bent and hoovered a line, sat back and spread his arms bodaciously with a grin of satisfaction, taunting Fagan.

  Fagan swallowed. His throat felt like a diesel exhaust. He couldn’t find any spit. Maybe he was having a panic attack. He was at their mercy. He dare not show the slightest sign of fear or they’d crush him. Without the stool to support him he’d collapse. His knees felt like Jell-O. He brushed the pistol at his hip hoping no one noticed.

  Chainsaw slowly turned, sat at the table and rotated it on its axis until the meth lines were before him. This rotated Wild Bill’s burger two feet to his left and in irritation Wild Bill grabbed the table like a big steering wheel and twisted it back just as Chainsaw’s straw came down.

  Wild Bill picked up his burger and lopped off another quarter. He set it down.

  “You done?” Chainsaw said.

  “For the moment.”

  Chainsaw rotated the line back and snorted. He rotated the hamburger back into place. He got up, scooping the police helmet, strode to the bar and slammed it down on top of Fagan’s tumbler shattering glass everywhere. Quick as a cobra he grabbed Fagan’s leather lapels and jerked him close.