Deathbed Ch. 1

“Suit yourself,” he said. We rode in silence for a while, the sun’s glow disappearing entirely over the rim of the world, though we chased it at high speed. The night was entirely dark but for the beam of the Harley’s headlight on the road ahead and a dim glow from the stars that outlined the crest of the hills. I had dreaded spending the night alone in the dark; alone in the dark with an enormous biker named Deadman wasn’t less frightening, though so far he had at least been charitable.

“Um…” I ventured.

“Yeah?”

“Where are we going?”

“Place I know.”

“A motel? Someplace with a restaurant?”

“No,” he briefly replied.

“I…I’m really thirsty. And I haven’t had anything to eat today, except a candy bar.”

He grunted as if surprised. “Hungry?”

“Yes. I was sitting there a long time!” Why would it seem strange that I was hungry and thirsty?

For a moment Deadman twisted to look over his shoulder, though it was so dark I doubted he could see my face. He turned back again to keep his eyes on the road. “I’ll be damned,” he said softly. His body shifted in my arms as if he were testing their grip. “Say, girl. When you blew your tire…you remember getting, uh, hurt?”

“Huh? No.” Hadn’t he seen I wasn’t injured? Did he think I’d hit my head? “I stopped before I hit the ditch. I’m fine. Aside from being thirsty.”

“I’ll be damned,” he said again.

“What’s the matter?” He shook his head slowly without saying a word. “If we’re going a long way, I’d appreciate it if you could stop somewhere and let me get something to--”

“Right saddlebag,” he said with a shrug. I looked down at it hanging behind my thigh. “Don’t go spilling everything out.”

“I won’t.” I leaned over, holding him with my left arm, and unbuckled the flap. Inside I felt a few cans of beer, warm, and something that felt like a package of beef jerky. I reached a little farther and my fingers encountered something cooler, something that shifted and clanked: a length of heavy chain. I didn’t care to probe further into the belongings of a man who carried around a length of chain, so I retreated and pulled out a can of beer. I didn’t much like beer, especially not when it was warm, but I was so thirsty it didn’t matter. I would have drunk out of an oily mud puddle in the road right then.

I put the can down on the saddle in front of me, between my legs where it wouldn’t fall and buckled the saddlebag again, trying to figure out how to open the beer. Only one hand was free, and I didn’t want to let go of the rider to pop the top of the can--the bike was going at least eighty miles an hour and I didn’t feel secure.

Before I could say a word, Deadman reached back and took the can from between my legs. His knuckles brushed the inside of my left thigh; my sharp intake of breath might have been audible to him, and my breasts pressing into his back with the sudden expansion of my chest certainly was noticeable. Steering with his elbows for a moment, the rider opened the can and handed it back to me. “Th-thanks.” I gulped the warm, bitter beer and felt the thirst ease a little. At least it was wet. “How much farther is it?”

“Not too far.” We topped a rise and I saw lights down in the hollow; a small cluster of buildings by the road. We had come about twenty-five miles from where my car had broken down, so I was glad I hadn’t tried to walk it. My boots had three-inch heels and I wasn’t much of a hiker in any case. One of the buildings was a gas station, one was a bar, one was a garage. Several houses sat back from the road with lighted windows here and there; a few scraggly trees grew at the side of the gas station, silhouetted against the lights.

It took a few minutes to reach the bottom, and my spirits rose higher on the way. Civilization it wasn’t, but it was lights and other people and food and drink. I needed food--one beer on an empty stomach may not sound like much, but when you barely weigh a hundred and five soaking wet it can go to your head fast. I felt a little dizzy. The rider pulled into the bar’s parking lot; both the gas station and the garage were dark. When we rolled into the lighted area, he stopped the bike, turned and took my chin in one hand, tilting my face to the glare. My eyes went wide and I trembled; he looked at me again very carefully, brows down low with a speculative frown moving over his face.

“What?” I said faintly, head spinning.

The rider had a rueful grin. “Damnation. You didn’t run off the road after all.”

Part Three

“Huh?”

“I thought you just hadn’t realized it yet.”

“Realized what?”

“You smell of death, girl. Strong. Like no soul who ever rode on this bike. But you aren’t dead. Not when you’re wanting to eat and drink, and not when you’ve still got sweat on your skin.” He drew a finger across my forehead. “Alive. I’ll be damned.” He laughed softly and spoke almost to himself. “Not that I ain’t already most of the way there...”

I pulled my chin out of his grasp, flabbergasted. He was insane! Or something else? Drunk? I didn’t smell alcohol on him, so maybe it was drugs. But his eyes were clear and his voice was firm, a dark sort of humor curling the corners of his mouth. “What the hell; I got you, so we’ll make the best of it. Fifteen minutes,” he said, turning off the ignition and dismounting. “Don’t go wandering off. Ain’t safe.”

“What? Isn’t this where we’re stopping?” I hadn’t seen this settlement on the map; a battered handpainted sign by the road said ‘Camino del Muerte’. I didn’t like the look of the place, but it might be preferable to going any further with Deadman.

“Nope. Another ways to go--place called Hanging Crick. This here’s just a pit stop.” He was heading towards the bar, coat swinging. I followed, having to jog to keep up with his mile-long strides. The parking lot was half full of old Camaros and pickups and motorcycles, and when Deadman opened the door the noise of the bar spilled out into the night. The peeling paint on the concrete-block wall read ‘Last Chance Saloon.’

The noise quieted a little when the patrons turned to see who the newcomer was, and went dead still for a few heartbeats when he walked in. I came in behind him. The door slammed and I stood alone as Deadman headed to the bar and sat down, tapping the counter with one index finger. The bartender, after staring at both of us for a minute, especially at me, slung a towel over her shoulder and drew him a beer.

The conversations slowly resumed, the patrons stealing looks at the huge black-coated figure at the bar. Probably most of the inhabitants for miles around were here--it was Thursday night, eight o'clock, and I could see that this joint was the only entertainment to be had for a long, long way. About fourteen or fifteen people sat at tables, lounged at the bar, or danced slowly to the jukebox. When I didn’t move from the doorway, the bartender looked at me again as she switched on the television that hung from the ceiling.

“Coming in, sister?” She was tall and well-built, her ample hair dyed jet black, and her voice had a tone both sarcastic and humorous.

“Smackdown’s on, man,” said someone. “Channel six. Dish working?”

“Yes, I’m coming in,” I said, attempting a smile while a dozen pairs of eyes riveted on me. I went to the bar and sat one stool away from Deadman, putting my purse on the bar and folding my hands over it. A stocky man with a mane of curly brown hair meandered up to me, his bushy beard slightly wet with beer suds.

“Hey there, lady,” he slurred at me, leaning on the bar. “You wanna dance?”

“No, thank you,” I said. “Could I have a cola, please?”

“A *what?”* said the bartender, sounding just as surprised as Deadman had. She shot a glance at him; he said nothing. “’Taker?”

“Give it to her,” he said impatiently.

“OK; whatever you say.” Shaking her head, the bartender put a can of Coke on the bar with a glass of ice.

“Aww, why not dance with me? I’m a nice guy,” coaxed the drunk. He did sound like a friendly man under the cloud of alcohol, and I turned to look at him. Two upper front teeth were missing from his broad, guileless grin. “This ain’t such a nasty joint as it might look to a city lady like yourself. I know how to treat a lady real nice.”

“How do you know I want to be treated ‘nice’? Or that I fall under any definition of a lady, for that matter?” The words fell into another dead silence and the man looked comically hurt. “Look, I don’t want to dance. Sorry.”

“Cactus,” said the bartender, leaning over and speaking in a stage whisper, “Didn’t you see? She came in with ‘Taker.”

“Oh my God.” He looked much less drunk all of a sudden, backing off and going pale. “Sorry. No offense.”

“Uh…no offense.” He didn’t seem to be afraid that the rider would be angry with him--Deadman, or ‘Taker as the bartender called him, ignored the whole exchange, tilting his head back and draining his beer. Cactus seemed to be afraid of *me.*

I couldn’t make out why, since the gun was hidden in my purse and I was tiny and slim and one of the least intimidating-looking people I knew. That was why no one that morning had expected resistance; that was why I was still alive. Considering the result, perhaps he did have reason to be afraid. Could people tell what I had done just from looking at me, or…did this have something to do with the odd conversation I’d had with Deadman?

I poured my Coke and drank it as fast as I could and ordered another, eating peanuts in between gulps while the rider drank his second beer. He’d thought I was dead until I’d asked for something to eat? How on earth could he think that a dead person could move and speak and see? Did he believe in the supernatural? Certainly the people in this bar behaved as if they thought he had something to do with ghosts. Perhaps by association, they thought I did too. They thought they knew something about me that I didn’t know myself.

I stole a look at the rider. Did he think he knew something about me? Did he have any idea what kind of woman I was? A sudden thought chilled me--did he want to take me to this place he had mentioned in order to have his way with me? He hadn’t shown much sign of sexual interest in me, though, something I thought I would easily recognize; I had probably shown more in him, to my regret.

“Excuse me,” I said to the bartender. “Do you have a phone I could use?” She stared at me and pointed to a pay phone in the passageway to the toilet. I got up, dug for change and placed a call to Papa. No one answered except the machine, and I left a message telling him I was all right and to expect me later tomorrow. I gave him the names of Camino del Muerte and Hanging Crick, then hung up. Papa was probably out inquiring after my welfare or even driving my usual route back towards my house, so there was no help for it; I hoped he would think to check the machine.

The bartender came around the end of the bar to kick the jukebox, which had stuck on ‘Highway to Hell’, and as she returned I put out a hand to get her attention. To my surprise, she flinched at my touch.

“Jesus! What do you want?”

“Sorry. Did I startle you?”

She folded her arms, her expression closing down. “Look, I know you got a right to be here. He’s got a right too. But pardon me if I’m not real eager to associate with you!” I opened my eyes wide; I must have looked stricken, because the bartender’s scowl relaxed slightly. “It’s nothing personal, lady. But this is the first time he ever brought one of his--” She cast a look at Deadman and broke off the phrase. “Did you want to ask me something?”

“Yes, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Sorry. Go ahead.”

“I had a flat tire twenty or thirty miles east of here. I’m going to need a tow in the morning. How can I leave a message with the garage?”

“A…message?”

“Yes, a message. Could I leave a note with you or something? That you could give them when the place opens up?”

“Uh…I guess so.” She took a bar napkin and wrote down my license plate number and the approximate spot I had left the car.

“There’s something else I’d like to find out.” I indicated Deadman with my eyes. “Do you know…*him?* He gave me a lift, and he says he wants to take me to a place he knows--is it safe to go with him?”

Her face slackened into incredulity. “Is it *safe?* Don’t you know where you’re going?”

“Why would I know that? I’m not from around here.”

“I can see that, but…geez.” For a moment she examined me from top to toe. “Look, if you don’t know yet, I don’t think I can explain it. I’m not going to touch that one.” I could see her shrinking away from me; she was intensely uncomfortable in proximity to me, though she didn’t like to show it. What on earth was her problem--*everyone’s* problem? What was the mystery?

“I don’t understand,” I said with some pique.

She rolled her eyes. “OK, let me put it like this; I don’t think you have any choice but to go with him. If he picked you up…”

“Yes, I’d been waiting by the car for hours. He was the only person to come along.”

“Yeah, he would be.” She let out a breath. “OK, to answer your question. If he wants to take you somewhere, then that’s probably the place you should go. As for *safety,* I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I mean…is he likely to…” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “You know. Do something to me.”

“Oh…like, molest you?” The bartender pulled a strange grimace, part rueful, part repelled. “Uh…I’ve never heard of anything like that happening, no. That’s not what he does.”

“What he does? What does he do? Patrol the road or something?”

“Yeah, something. ‘Scuse me, OK?” She backed off and went behind the bar again.

A man banged open the door and stalked into the bar with a snarl, a shaven-headed and bearded bruiser in a black leather vest and jeans with no shirt. He took the beer the bartender handed him and sat down on the other side of Deadman, glaring at both of us.

‘What the hell are you doin’ here, ‘Taker?” he bellowed. “Fucking bad luck stormcrow! Fucking Grim Reaper! Who’s going on the ride this time around?” I saw Deadman’s head move slightly, but his narrowed eyes expressed most of his opinion of the hothead. “You are fucking pathetic, you know that? You make me fucking sick!”

“You under the delusion I give a shit about your damn opinions?” replied Deadman.

“I know who’s taking the ride!” The belligerent man bared his teeth at me as I sat down again. “I saw you haul this fancy city tart in on yer bike! I warned ya about mixing with decent people, and now you go bringing THEM in here! Where do you get the fucking balls? Fucking pathetic! I wanna heave!”

“Where’s this go,* mamacita?”* asked a trim, mustachioed Mexican man, coming in from the back room with a crate of bottled beer. “I can’t fit it in the--” He caught sight of me and whistled, rotating his hips with a waggle of his mobile eyebrows.* “Ay caramba, chiquita!* The nights are cold out here…you need some Latino heat to warm you up?”

“No,” I said wearily, wondering when I could leave the bar. “Thanks for the offer, but no thanks.”

“Shut up, Eddie,” said the bartender with a swat to his wiggling backside. “Put it under the counter for now. And keep it in your pants!” Eddie noticed the rider and seemed to make the connection between him and me. Putting down the crate of beer, he quickly crossed himself and disappeared into the back room again.

“You goddamn carrion-eating vulture,” continued the belligerent man as if he had not been interrupted, pointing with his middle finger. “Where’d you find this fucking stuck-up cunt? Huntin’ road kill again? You make me* puke!”*

“Yeah, huntin’ road kill,” said Deadman, his jaw working as if he were chewing bones. “Just found me a squashed rattlesnake.” He finished his second beer, slammed the mug down on the bar and stood up, cracking his knuckles. “Got his head beat in somehow.” The hothead glared at him with an ugly snarl. “Yeah, looks like boot prints on ol’ Rattlesnake’s face,” said the rider, pretending to consider the question. “But it might be road burns from somebody draggin’ him behind a bike.” He smiled, far less pleasantly than the first time I had seen him do so.

“You sick, pathetic fucker!” yelled Rattlesnake, stabbing both middle fingers in the air. “Everybody wants me to kick his ass, gimme a Hell Y--”

“Outside, boys,” said the bartender, flexing one well-conditioned arm and tossing her black mane. “You bust up the place and I will knock your fool heads together, and I mean you too, ‘Taker!”

Part Four

I was entirely ready to leave by now, so I paid my tab, walked out and watched Rattlesnake slam the door open again and go through. The rider followed, but before he could step outside, Rattlesnake swung the door and tried to bounce it off his skull. WHUNK! I gasped, but the rider only blocked the door with one forearm, narrowed his eyes again and headed for his bike.

He reached into the saddlebag and took out the length of chain, wrapping it twice around his right hand and once around his forearm. “Here’s the tow chain,” he said. “So let’s get you hitched up!” Rattlesnake leaped for him and got inside his guard, connecting with a punch to the head, but Deadman moved back with the impact and swung the loose end of the chain. SNAK! It scored an ugly hit across Rattlesnake’s face, lacerating his nose and forehead.

“Auggh!” he yelled, hand to his wound. “I’m gonna open up a can of whoop ass on ya!”

“I don’t see yer can opener,” replied Deadman, grinning nastily. He swung the chain again and missed as Rattlesnake ducked under the vicious lash. A stream of people began to spill out of the bar, deploying in a semicircle to watch the action. Rattlesnake did a shoulder ram and a trip attempt without effect; the rider landed a punch with his chain-wrapped fist and opened another cut on Rattlesnake’s jaw.

Taking advantage of the man’s brief disorientation, the rider grabbed him by the throat and hurled him to the ground, whipped the chain in a circle around his head to gain velocity and struck. Rattlesnake scrambled and got between two cars; the end of the chain hit the hard ground and gouged a gash, sending up a puff of dust.

“Hey, this is better than Smackdown, man,” chuckled one man to another. The rider was stalking Rattlesnake between the cars, swinging the chain. KRASSH! One near shot hit and broke the side window of a Ford pickup. “Fuck! He busted my truck!”

“Think I’ll stick to TV,” said his neighbor. Rattlesnake dove into the bed of the pickup. The rider put a boot up on the running board to follow, but Rattlesnake jumped to the top of the cab and hurtled down on him, knocking him prone, then sat on his back, grabbed at the chain and pulled a section of it taut between his fists. The rider still had one end wrapped around his hand and would not let go, but Rattlesnake used the section of chain to pin him by the back of the neck, scraped the chain between the rider’s face and the dirt to make a loop around his throat and yanked hard to wrap it as tightly as he could.

I could see the links biting into flesh, Deadman’s face straining as his back arched in the effort to throw Rattlesnake off. Higher and higher he rose as he gasped with the chain nearly strangling him. Horrified at the no-holds-barred violence of the fight, I stood with hands clamped over my mouth, barely able to watch.

“Who’s road kill now?” Rattlesnake was yelling. “Who’s road kill, asshole?”

The rider put forth a tremendous effort, lashing his entire body, and flipped over with Rattlesnake on the bottom. In an instant he was up, one hand to his throat and the other whipping the chain around in an arc.

SNAK! Rattlesnake yelled again, the skin opening up along his right shoulder, and then the chain hit him in the throat and wrapped twice around his neck. Deadman caught the flying end, yanked it hard, and Rattlesnake fell to his knees. The rider kicked him in the chest and stomped hard on his face; he went limp, moaning in pain.