Evil Origins: A Horror & Dark Fantasy Collection (69 page)

Jana activated the chemical reaction and waited for the
magic cup to heat.

“I’m sure your family is okay.”

“I’m not… but thanks for making the effort. I don’t think I
could have continued if I found them slaughtered in my own home.”

“How did you end up at the gas station?” she asked.

“Well, I went to my neighbor’s houses. Not all of them were
as lucky as my family. Gary Wilson’s body was sprawled across his front
doorstep, and others were gunned down in bed. I decided that I needed to get
out in case they came back. So, I moved carefully down Mayfield. I thought the
food mart might have useful dry goods and other things of value in case this
thing went on for an extended period of time. By the time I got there it was
clear that the troops had as well. Glass was everywhere and bodies were under
the pump canopy. Ruth, Sally, and her son Jay were already inside. They had
huddled together behind the counter. It was just us that first night. Bill,
Andrew, and Jake showed up the next day. Since then, we’ve been hunkered down,
trying to decide what to do next. If we could get news about what was
happening, we could make decisions. But, nobody knows anything, anywhere.”

“How do you know that if you don’t ask?”

The question jolted Peter and Jana – it came from the
direction of the storeroom.

“Thought you were sleeping, Jake.” said Peter.

“Hard to do that with people moving around and yapping all
night, eh Jana?”

Jana gave Jake a nasty look and shuffled her milk crate
closer to Peter.

“We couldn’t sleep,” she said.

With Jake’s sleeves rolled up, Jana tried not to stare at
his tattoos.

“It’s the niggers’ fault. All of it. They’re demons from
hell.”

Peter stood up and placed himself squarely between Jake and
Jana.

“Back off, dickhead,” said Jake to Peter.

Peter started to step forward when Jake pulled a
nine-millimeter handgun from behind his back.

“It’s time we do things my way.”

Chapter
19

The floor rumbled underfoot. The generators in the basement
roared as electricity spread to the rest of the building. Black spray paint
covered the windows, keeping the light out. John and Alex followed the men into
the Jigsaw Saloon.

They wore black, leather biker jackets. Each one had a
stitched patch covering the back of it. In a gothic script, the words “Keepers
of the Wormwood” arched around the outer edge, and a white circle held two
lightning bolts crossing over the top of a barren tree. Underneath the tree,
“Cleveland Chapter” filled a rectangle on the bottom of the jacket.

Wallet chains swung low and rattled off the hunting knives
the men wore on their hips. One man wore a tight buzz cut while the other let a
frazzled, braided ponytail dangle in the middle of his back. Their dirty jeans
met scuffed, black riding boots.

“Where are we headed?” asked John.

“Shut up and follow us,” replied the man with the ponytail.

They passed through a dark hallway and into the main club
area of the Jigsaw. A bar ran parallel to the street, with glass blocks running
from the floor to the ceiling. Stale beer and cigarette smoke clung to every
surface. A pair of pool tables sat at the bottom of four steps that led to the
main floor. On the raised stage, monitors sat in silence by piles of tangled
cables.

The four men passed by the soundboard and headed to the
right of the stage. A door blocked their access to the backstage area. The man
with the buzz cut pulled a cache of keys from his pocket. He fumbled through
three or four before he found the one he wanted. The lock turned without
protest, but the hinges squealed in pain as the door swung open.

Beyond their two escorts, electric lamps blinded John and
Alex. Heavy rock grumbled at low volume like fog clinging to moors. Several
other men, all sporting the same leather jacket, sat around a table playing
poker. Others drank beer while women crawled on their laps. John glanced at a
stack of metal filing cabinets and an ancient desk in one corner. The
windowless room provided a buffer for the noise and light.

The biggest man in the room stood up.

“They’re all yours, Sully,” said the armed escorts.

Sully drained a mug of beer with one swig. His red beard
glistened with foam, and hair covered most of his face and chest. He stood over
six feet tall, and a jet fighter could land on his shoulders. In his other
hand, he held a roach clip. The distinct aroma of burning marijuana filled the
room. Sully put the joint to his lips and inhaled. The blunt responded. With a
fiery, red ember glowing on the end, he held the toke and released it with a
steady breath. John and Alex stood still, mouths shut and ears open.

“Which one of you is the Sleep fan?” Sully inquired.

John dropped his shoulders and unballed white-knuckled
fists.

“I am. Seen Wino with the Obsessed back in ’90.”

Sully nodded and the mass of hair kicked back and forth in
unison with his head.

“How about you, brother?” he asked Alex.

“Sleep is cool, but I’m still holding out for the Kyuss
reunion.”

“Right on, man, right on. Come over here and have a beer.”

The two burly men set their assault rifles against a chair. John
sat on Sully’s left and Alex sat on his right with a cooler of beer in the
middle of the circle. He spied the ice cubes inside the cooler and raised an
eyebrow toward John.

“I know. The ice and coolers are in indulgence. How did you find us?” Sully asked.

“We heard the radio message,” replied John.

Alex’s lips met the edge of the bottle. The cold beer hit
him like an invigorating electric jolt.

“You’re the only two that have figured it out and responded.
We shot the other assholes that showed up because they were here to pillage.”

“We came all the way from the east side,” said Alex.

“We saw you once you got off of 480. You almost got served
Molotov cocktails driving around in that Humvee. Are you fucking stupid or
something?”

Sully put an emphasis on “stupid” in a brotherly, joking
way.

“That vehicle is what got us here. If we had been in anything
else, we’d be dead. Sorry to give you a scare with the Humvee and camo.”

Sully laughed and the whole building shook.

“Scare us? You didn’t scare us, little man. We didn’t want
to waste precious ammo on you. That was my main concern.”

“Where did you guys come from?” John asked.

“From our mama’s pussy,” said Sully.

The other bikers around the cooler chuckled and nudged each
other with their elbows. The card game paused, and the slithering women turned
to face the conversation.

“Yeah, I would hope.”

John’s voice cracked and stuck in his throat.

“Just fuckin’ wit’ ya my man. We’re the ‘Keepers of the
Wormwood’, or ‘The Keepers’ as we like to call ourselves. We ride out of
Cleveland, mainly Parma. Most biker gangs get into selling whores or drugs, but
not us. We usually end up buying them from other gangs.”

Another round of robust laughter filled the smoky room. “We
do our best to uphold the outlaw lifestyle of the Old West. We steal from banks
and businesses and then party our asses off until the money runs out. Then we
do it again. Simple as that, my friends, simple as that.”

“How many Keepers are there?” asked Alex.

“In Cleveland, a hundred or so. The dozen you see here are
the only ones we know are still alive. There are other chapters nationwide, but…”

Sully let his words trail off while waving his hand in the
air.

“But you have no idea what’s happened to them,” said Alex,
finishing his thought.

“Does anyone? We haven’t fired up our bikes in days. Been
holding out here, drinkin’, smokin’ and fuckin’. Ain’t much else to be done.”

The women smiled and resumed the lustful dance. Bleach-blonde
hair cascaded over thin bodies, tanned dark from many years on the road.

“Have you checked out the neighborhood yet?” John asked.

“I think I’ve answered enough of your questions for now. We
still have no idea who the fuck you two are. Believe me, there are dudes here
that would like to slice your neck. Get on with your bad selves.”

John and Alex took turns telling their respective stories,
starting with their introduction to the First Cleansing. The bikers listened
and nodded, occasionally asking questions for clarification. Sully interjected,
repeating names and jargon mentioned only once in the story. By the end of the
retelling, John would have sworn Sully had stood beside him at St. Michael’s.

“The Holy fucking Covenant. Doesn’t surprise me at all. Those
churchgoers have been plotting for years. We claim separation of church and
state, but those motherfuckers outsmarted us all.”

John looked at Alex and the realization smacked them hard.

“Why do you say that, Sully?” Alex asked.

“If this shit has gone down the way you say it has, who else
could’ve organized it? Listen. You got soldiers breaking into homes and fucking
shooting people on their sofas. Humvees, APCs, and tanks rolling down the
streets. You think they randomly coordinated all of this on their own?”

Emotionally and intellectually spent, Alex and John leaned
back until their shoulders brushed the wall. Wordless, they each downed the
rest of their beer, then accepted another.

“How in the hell are we supposed to fight off the whole US
Army?” Alex asked.

“I have no plans on fighting the entire army. I plan on
maintaining my lifestyle for me and my buds. If we can forage enough beer,
dope, and women to keep us happy, the fuck with everything else. Like always.”

John sat up straight and searched into Sully’s eyes.

“Are you telling me you don’t care what happens?”

“Why should I? Nobody gives a fuck about us. We’ve lived as
outsiders our entire lives. We’ve stood against the standards of ‘moral
citizens’. I say, fuck ’em all. As long as they don’t raid the ‘Saw, they can
have this godforsaken place. Their religion fucked it all up, and it’s about to
kill ’em too.”

“John and me, we have family we need to find,” said Alex.

“My family is in this room. You’re more than welcome to
party with us for as long as you like, but don’t go lookin’ for us to join your
fuckin’ renegade brigade.” Sully stood up and shouted, “Someone roll me another
joint!”

“Then why bother with the radio broadcast at all?” asked
John, his face reddening with rising frustration.

“That was a call to our brothers, nothing else,” replied
Sully.

The other bikers got up, grabbed beers, and went their ways.
Two men shuffled over to a Marshall JCM, marred by gashes and cigarette burns. A
ragged instrument cable ran from it to a black Les Paul leaning against
overflowing cardboard boxes. The men hit the standby switch on the head, and
jammed with the tunes on the boombox.

Alex looked at John with hopeful eyes.

“What should we do?”

“For now, I think we hang here and regroup. Let’s give the
Covenant time to forget about us. Once they do, we won’t have such a hard time
getting around the city.”

“Then what?”

“I have no clue. Hand me another beer, would ya?”

The Keepers fed John and Alex beer, but kept their distance.
Conversations between the bikers materialized out of grunted whispers and hand
gestures.

The Cleveland Chapter of the Keepers of the Wormwood
consisted of over a hundred outlaws. They came from various neighborhoods,
backgrounds, and ethnicities, which was unusual for most biker gangs in the
Midwest. True to Scully’s description, the Keepers avoided many of the illicit
activities that other criminals loved. They did not organize prostitution rings,
run guns, operate underground casinos, or sell drugs. Every so often they would
make the local news, though, as the Keepers were notorious for finding ways to
steal ATM machines outfitted with internal security cameras. The ATM’s grainy,
drop-frame video often showed longhairs on bikes, middle fingers in the air as
a tow truck ripped the machine from the wall of a bank. Months would go by
without a mention of the theft or gang, until the next surprise strike.

Most members of the Keepers lived in a ratty duplex a block
down the street from the Jigsaw. The owner welcomed the patches every night as
they helped to keep the peace. The heavy metal bands that graced the stage of
the Jigsaw respected the Keepers of the Wormwood. The bikers in turn loved the
music and ran unofficial security for the shows. Troublemakers or hecklers
invariably found themselves bloodied and dazed underneath the dumpster in the
back alley.

The rocker and biker chicks of Parma adored the Keepers. Keepers
loved to party, and spent their money like it was nothing but paper. Girls
could get whiskey, dope, or crank that would last days. The bikers never
claimed an Old Lady, preferring to share the women as they did the alcohol and
drugs.     

Scully inherited leadership of the Keepers after his uncle
died in a motorcycle accident. A soccer mom talking on her cell phone swerved
right into the bike, sending it and its rider for a fifty-foot asphalt burn. By
the time the paramedics got him to the hospital, he was dead. Sully took the
President patch without opposition. The gang mourned his uncle with a weeklong
party and then it was business as usual, but with a new leader.

The Keepers, along with their new acquaintances, partied
through most of the night. When they smoked enough dope and drank enough beer,
Sully approached John and Alex. They found a table in the corner by the bar,
sitting at an angle as if the room slid into a sinkhole. Sully wore two ladies
over his vest and was not ready to call it a night.

“Boys! We’ve got cardboard boxes and moving blankets over
there behind the bar. It ain’t the fucking Hilton, but you’ll be able to get
some sleep.”