The wind whipped up around the old rusting ?59 Cadillac rotting on a half-acre of sand, outside Indio, near the Coachella Valley. Bandit remembered back in the ?70s when outlaws were at war after the Indio run in the desert. Sheila dried out sequestered in the adjacent sand blasted mobile home. A crew of old club members, who dealt coke in San Bernardino, and knew what to do with an addict, took on the rehab duties. Sheila lucked into one final chance to straighten out her feeble existence. Most, fucked up and were buried in shallow graves between LA and Vegas. Sheila was given another shot, by the delicate flesh holding those massive tits against her chest. Her black boss seriously considered making lampshades outta her tattooed knockers and throwing the rest of her useless carcass in the Pacific.
For over a month she was chained to a bed, where she whimpered and offered blowjobs for a line or a rusty needle. She didn?t give a fuck She wasn?t much to look after a couple of weeks. Restricted from showers, she was even monitored as she used the head. The brothers set up 24-hour surveillance in the sand-bound mobile home, teetering in the desert wind. There was nowhere to run or hide. If she escaped, which she attempted desperately, she?d perish in the desert long before reaching a chain link fence or public roads. Rattlesnakes woulda slowed her progress; brown recluse spiders destroyed her soft skin and tarantulas, desert scorpions, rats and coyotes woulda picked her bones clean.
She sat on the edge of the steel, angle-iron bed drenched in sweat and soiled clothes and wondered what the fuck was happening to her. The bikers roamed through like clockwork, every four hours. Most never spoke to her. Some brought her magazines and Mexican food. Although there were no clocks in the dank rattletrap, she knew immediately when another guard was headed for duty. She heard the rumble of a chopper in the distance, like her freedom train flying through a canyon. Only it replaced her current sentry and another freedom machine sped away. For weeks she babbled to her captures.
At first, her angry tone made threats on deaf ears through reddening eyes. She said she was connected, she could pay and she could fuck. Then she gave in to begging and pleading throughout the night. She tormented herself and her captors. She scratched herself and tried to cut her wrists on the edge of the bed.
After a month the drug?s hold on her brain and nervous system diminished. The compulsion slipped and her appetite returned. She sat on the edge of the bed and finished a carne asada burrito and looked outside for the first time in six weeks. She could see bare desert mountains in the distance and a bright blue sky. Then she heard another chopper, but couldn?t see it coming. ?How far is the highway,? she asked the biker in the corner of the tin home with his boots propped against the wall, while he read a HORSE magazine and drank a beer from the rattling icebox.
He turned toward her, surprised. They were the first civil words out of her mouth in two months. ??Bout 25 miles,? He said pulling on his long goatee. ?Why??
?Are you going to make me walk outta here??
?No, Bandit will come and get you,? He said. ?You?ve still got a job at the Cantina. And you better respect that. He paid for your recovery.?
?What woulda happened,? she asked tentatively?
A loud locomotive of a scooter pulled up out front. The crisp exhaust note interrupted their conversation and the brother in the tattered brown vest and cowboy boots got to his feet. ?It?s Rip,? he said heading toward the door.
She noted the respect in his tone as he pulled his long sandy blonde hair into a ponytail and dusted off his shirt. He looked around the sun-bleached interior, put his magazine away and threw the empty beer can in the trash.
The door burst open and a big man marched inside.
?Hey Rip,? The young rider said.
?Hey what,? Rip snapped? ?You can go. I?ll take care of this bitch.?
The young rider didn?t hesitate, but nodded, picked up his leather and headed toward the squeaky front door. ?She didn?t gimme no grief,? He said.
?Who the fuck cares,? Rip said. ?She?s a piece of shit. Shut the door behind you.? He threw his black leather jacket and club vest on the couch and headed toward the kitchen. He yanked open the fridge, looked around and slammed it. ?Fuck, no beer.?
He grabbed his vest, jerked a stainless flask out of an inside pocket and took a swig. He slammed the flask on the coffee table and kicked back. ?This is bullshit,? he muttered under his breath.
?What is,? Sheila said and immediately knew the statement was a big mistake.
Rip sneered at her, as if his gaze would sear right through her recuperating brain. ?Fuckin? drug addict, chick. You?re not worth the powder to blow you to hell.? He took another long swig on his flask and slammed it so hard on the coffee table, the short wooden legs gave and the top bowed. ?You know your boss wanted you killed,? he said and stood up?
?No,? She said and looked around the room as if someone might come to her aid. ?He wouldn?t do that??
Rip stepped across the room quickly with heavy footsteps, and slapped her so hard it blackened her right eye and bloodied her nose. ?Fuck he wouldn?t, bitch,? Rip said. ?Why not, because you have a tight pussy and give good blowjobs??
?Well,? Sheila nearly agreed when Rip hit her again. For the first time terror struck her core. She had always got away with murder, because of her looks and sexual prowess. A couple of guys pushed her around some, but she was always owned by the big guy and protected. Suddenly that security was fleeting.
?This whole deal is bullshit,? Rip said. ?We don?t need you, or your kind around here.? He yanked a heavy set of keys off his belt loop and unlocked the chains to her bed. Yanking her to her feet, he ripped open her blouse and tore it off her body, slicing her arms.
?What are you doing,? she whimpered? For brief seconds, she thought he might fuck her and she was relieved. Then it struck her that sex wasn?t his intention.
?We should done this the first week you were here,? Rip said and tore away her dress and punched her in the stomach. She buckled and puked on the floor.
?Clean it up with your clothes,? Rip barked, and she moved quickly.
Rip yanked the chains and drug her towards the door. She couldn?t crawl. The chains were shackled to her wrists. ?Please,? she pleaded. She sensed that she was in treacherous trouble.
Rip ignored her tears and drug her out the front door, down the steps into the gravel. She screamed, rolling to her side, but no one heard. The gravel tore at her flesh as he drug her across the walk into the desert beyond. At first the sand felt soft, but it burned and thorns from tumbleweed stung her flesh. She jolted as a scorpion, disturbed by Rip kicking a chunk of wood, scrambled across the sand looking for a new shelter. It?s poisonous tail snapped at the unknown intruder.
?That fuckin? Bandit,? Rip muttered pulling her chains toward the back of the mobile home, past abandoned car hulks and junk red with rust fading into the sand. He kicked her in the ribs and yanked on the chain until her wrists reached up his waistband. ?He doesn?t need you. You?ll jump on the drug wagon again, lose your looks and probably be a lousy waitress. Get the fuck out.? Rip unlocked the chains and tossed them in the sand. ?You?re free to go.?
?But clothes,? she said quivering? Night descended on the desert and blistering heat turned to bitter cold. She stood up completely naked in the sand, her harms wrapped around her torso in some effort to conceal and protect.
?Why,? Rip snapped? ?You don?t care about yourself, why should we??
She stood up and looked around. The little San Bernardino Mountains were 20 miles in the distance. She knew she had no skills at survival. A tear crept down the side of her face.
?There?s a running Sportster in that shed,? Rip said. ?It?s a kicker but you can take it.?
She limped to the shed, pulled open the doors and started in. It was covered in nasty cobwebs and suddenly she recognized her inabilities. She could no-more start it than she could make clothes to survive in.
?Can you cook,? Rip asked? ?Could you kill a squirrel and eat it? Can you dress your wounds??
Sheila?s desperate state began to engulf her. She never felt so lost, uncertain and unskillful. She collapsed in the sand and Rip lifted her to her feet and walked her back into the mobile home. She scrambled to wrap herself in a blanket.
?Are you ready to learn??
?If I don?t I won?t survive,? Sheila said. She flopped on her bed exhausted.
?Shut the fuck up. I?m going home,? Rip said. ?You?re alone now, in the desert. We?re done with you. You?re free to leave.? Rip pulled on his black beard and pointed north. ?Las Vegas is about 250 miles due north of here. The first town is 25 miles south.?
?But what about Bandit,? Sheila whimpered?
?The bastard will come for you,? Rip said, ?but I don?t know when.? He pulled on his heavy jacket. ?I don?t know what gets into that guy.? He opened a cupboard and tossed a book at her.
She sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the book, The Diary of Ann Frank. She thought she knew of the title, but it didn?t ring a bell.
Rip stormed out the front door and slammed it. He mounted his black Evo, fired it to life, rattling the cheap mobile homes windows with his sharp exhaust. He dropped it in gear and spewed sand and gravel all over the front of the aluminum siding, then blasted down the drive. Suddenly the night was as quiet as a tomb. She opened the book and began to read.
