Zen woke up again but this time not in the bathtub, he was on the carpet of the living room with a blanket over him and a towel wrapped around his waist. His beard, that had been growing for the last month or so, had been shaved off, and he had some fresh stitches on his right cheek. He could feel the heat from the wound, and as he tried to stand, a searing pain shot through his side.
After a few moments of trying to get up off his back, he collapsed on his side, and white hot fire from his abdomen caused his teeth to clench. He felt he was slipping out of consciousness and then the image of his daughter’s bloody hand on what was left of the backseat of his wife’s car fueled a rage that emptied his adrenals and he actually jumped to his feet. Unsteady, he made his way to the bathroom, reached for the light switch, but it was already turned on. No power, he remembered.
He drank what seemed like ten gallons of water from the sink and afterwards, relieved himself. Where was Trista? He looked at his watch. It was the 16th. Two days?
He found his jeans and boots placed neatly in front of the bathroom door and spent the next thirty minutes trying to dress himself in a way that wouldn’t cause excruciating pain.
Staring at himself in the mirror, he barely recognized the reflection. He turned away and saw a white GMC pickup truck coming down the dusty driveway off of the highway towards the front door.
”I’m too tired to run”, he said aloud. “This is it.”
He looked up at the blue sky through the window and then at the truck rapidly approaching. There sat Trista in the passenger seat and a grey haired man with glasses and a chocolate Labrador in the back with his head sticking out the window of the crew cab. Trista saw Zen through the window and got out of the truck before it stopped. Smiling, she ran to the front door and Zen unlocked it for her.
“You’re up! How are you?”
“Who is in the truck?”
“It’s Dr. Sinclair. This is his house. You had a terrible fever last night and I walked back into town to get help. I didn’t know what to do.”
“You walked?”
“Actually, I hitchhiked.”
“Don’t ever do that again.”
“You must be the cartel, said the doctor as he sized up Zen. You really stirred up a hornet’s nest the other day.”
“They think a cartel did it?”
“That is what people are saying. Trista here tells me that you did all of this on account of your family? You took out nearly the whole damn town,” he said laughing.
“That wasn’t the plan doc.”
“Well, no loss really. Nothing was up to code anymore and most of the respectable citizens left a few years ago. But, people are asking a lot of questions. You made front-page news. I can’t believe you blew up the Icehouse all by yourself. It’s just a matter of time before the feds, the cartel, or what’s left of those Demons MC bastards find out who did what. I hope you have a plan. Trista is about the only good kid in this town. She came to get me to take a look at you, but I had half a mind to turn you in. I am doing this as a favor to her so take off your shirt so I can see where you got hit.”
“Later. First of all I am sorry to have broken in your place.”
“You didn’t break in.”
“Trista, fetch my bag and get Pepper out of the truck.”
As she ran back to the truck the Doctor turned to Zen.
“Trista told me you used the back door. Now I am going to take a look at you and then you are going to leave. I don’t want to get mixed up in this, and Trista has no business hanging around you, but she is a grown woman. She has had a hard life. Do me a favor and cut her lose.”
“Trust me doc, I will.”
“What are people saying?” Zen asked.
“Well the news wrote that a cartel from Mexico came to exact revenge but there are no suspects. There were a few gangsters arrested but they aren’t talking. The police are speculating that another LA based gang may be involved. There is an org chart and bios of all the suspects in today’s paper. Trista bought you a copy and it’s in the truck.”
“Here you go Doc.” She said, handing him the med and instruments wrapped in plastic.
The doctor checked the stitches and nodded his approval to her while administering some antibiotics and starting an IV.
“Not bad for a girl,” the doc said as he winked at Trista, “under the circumstances.”
“I’m giving you a pack of twenty gauge needles and this bottle of Winstrol. They are the only needles I had handy and they are for use with horses so I’ll give you a shot and you put 10ccs every week in each cheek until you feel better.
These are steroids for horses and are a class C felony but this vial is the least of your worries so use it and throw it away.”
Then he told Zen that he and his bike had to be gone tomorrow morning and ordered Trista to clean up the house and not leave a trace that would indicate anyone was ever there. He was planning on showing it later the next day and doubted a prospective buyer would be pleased with two fugitive types holed up in a potential dream home.
As he was leaving, Doctor Sinclair said, “I looked in your ear and you have a perforated eardrum. You need to see a doctor that doesn’t make his living tending to animals. And if you notice redness around your abdominal wound or persistent fever, that would indicate a septic condition. I’m sorry but it is what it is. You are lucky to be alive.”
“Am I?”
The next morning before daybreak, Zen took the tarp off his bike and assessed the damage. Two small caliber holes in the seat; one all the way through and one stuck in the leather like a bean sewn into a jacket. One spoke was shot in half and the brake-light cover was shattered but still functional. With Trista’s help, he lifted the bike upright. He paused and looked at the sky. Pink sunbeams were peeking through the clouds facing east. He sighed and pressed the starter button. The 96-cubic-inch v twin roared to life. The aftermarket pipes sounded a lot louder on a country morning before sunrise than they ever did in the valley.
The night before, Trista jammed home with the intention of telling her grandmother she was leaving for college and the older woman could keep her last paycheck, if it ever came but when she arrived home and saw the insurance agent showing her grandmother where to sign and the look of disappointment on the old woman’s face and the agent’s surprise as Trista walked in the kitchen, she just turned around and left. Old bitch probably had a life insurance policy out on me and was hoping to collect.
“Don’t tell me where we are going Zen, let’s just go.” She closed her eyes and being careful not to hold on to his wounded side, put her hand on his thigh and buried her head against his jacket as she snuggled against him.
“We’re going to finish this.” was all he said, heading west out of the mountains away from the town.
Zen spent the next hour riding the back roads and heading west with only the sun at his back before realizing that neither he nor Trista had helmets.
“This isn’t good.”
“What?”
Trista couldn’t hear him over the pipes as they echoed within the canyon.
“We have to get off the road.”
“Okay. I have been holding it for a while.”
Up ahead was a strip mall and the familiar bar and shield logo on a tall black pole. There was tent out front and the scent of barbeque filled the air.
“Don’t talk to anyone when we get in, he shouted over the pipes. Meet me in the back of the dealership.”
He stopped the Dyna and noticed he was almost out of gas. He let Trista get off before dropping the kickstand and surveyed the parking lot before dismounting. There was a HOG poker run going on and a charity raffle. His intention was to get in and get out with two overpriced full-faced helmets and maybe a real jacket for Trista and some gloves. He hated helmets but the wind was pulling at his stitches. There was no telling what kind of weather we could run into and the last thing we need is for one of them to catch a nasty cold on the road.
As they were leaving with their two over priced helmets and a jacket for Trista, that was more form than function and a pair of chaps that didn’t quite fit Zen, two riders on Sportsters with straight pipes nearly ran into a couple as they dismounted their chromed-out Electraglide in the parking lot. They were filthy and didn’t even try to hide their guns that were in shoulder holsters under their loose fitting vests.
Zen told Trista to stay put and followed the two while looking for cartoonish demon patches but only saw an image of a pitchfork. The rest of the patches were too soiled to make out. He watched as they nearly bowled over three HOG members lined up at the service counter and the tallest guy flung open the service bay door so hard the metal handle stuck in the drywall. A minute later a mechanic with sleeve tattoos threw his tools down and ran to his own bike at the back of the shop. All he heard was, “They think it’s us!”
Making a mental note of their faces and bikes, Zen asked the service manager, who was obviously pissed off about the whole scene, “What was all that about?”
“Brother shit. Sorry you had to see that. I am firing that guy. My apologies gentlemen,” he said to the other customers who got checked by the two.
“How about ten percent off service today?”
“Who does that guy ride with?” Zen asked innocently.
“Just a puppet club trying to make the major leagues. Guy will probably be dead in a year.”
Sooner than that if I find out he had a hand in my family’s death.
Walking back to Trista, he finally noticed the stabbing pain in his abdomen was replaced by a dull ache. But nothing compared to the righteous anger he felt burning in his stomach.
Trista had a worried look on her face but it faded when Zen smiled as he escorted her back to the bike.
“Girl, this is gonna get messy.” He said under his breath as he swung his leg over the saddle.
Zen couldn’t see Trista’s smile as they pulled away from the dealership, and he didn’t hear her laughing over the sound of the pipes.
Chapter 4
The June gloom mixed with light rain that made the orange sodium lights on the road take on an eerie glow. He pulled into pump 5 and went inside to pay in cash. Trista saw a beaten and dusty, faded red Chevy S10 pull up in the pump across from bike that had seen better days; probably in the nineties. Inside sat a Mexican laborer and his family in the front seat. The kids were awake and it was just after 4 A.M. so something wasn’t right.
The man went in to pay as Zen was coming out. Trista watched through the window as the Mexican went through his pockets looking for all the change he had to give to the cashier after he had already given her a few bills. When the man put his head in his hands, Trista walked inside and put down a twenty on the counter and said it was for him and walked out without even looking at the man.
“What was that all about?”
“That man is broke and trying to get somewhere to find work. I saw his hands. His family and everything he has is in that truck. I wanted to help.”
Just as Zen was filling the tank the man came up and spoke in rapid Spanish but the only words Zen could catch was “corazon” and “gracias.”
“You ready?” he asked, noticing how tired Trista looked without makeup. If this experience doesn’t kill her, it will age her ten years, he said to himself, wondering for the hundredth time if he should just leave her someplace safe with enough money to get a bus back home.
“I’m ready to get off this bike and into a bed if that is what you are asking.”
“I’m going to ask you one last time Trista.”
“No, you’re not.” She quipped.
He pleaded with his face so grim and pained, “Don’t go down this road with me.”
“I saved your life Zen.”Don’t’ forget that.”
“Don’t try and hang that over my head like the fucking sword of Damocles, kid. I am trying to save your life by getting you to go home.”
“Just start the fucking bike please man. I’m tired, I wanna sleep and this isn’t all about you or your family.” She raised her voice while putting her face close to his. “I am doing this for me too, you know? If I can right this wrong by helping you kill Thumper and maybe the ones who helped him bring meth into my town, I can stop some little kids from growing up with strung out monsters for parents. I would die for that.”
“Would you spend the rest of your life in jail though? That is worse than death.”
“Something tells me we aren’t going to worry about retirement and old age.”
“Yeah, I feel it too.”
Thunder rang out across the sky and the lightning appeared as strobe lights behind the clouds from the east. To the south a dust cloud appeared to choke out what lights were previously visible.
“Let’s go Zen, storms are coming.” She whispered
“Yes they are.”
The bike growled to life in concert with the thunder and they rode north.
Laura Wiley (pronounced Willy), thought for the thousandth time how she hated that name that Robert gave her. She thought it was so silly and clenched her teeth at the pun she inadvertently made. Laura had just about everything she ever wanted in life except contentment. Her husband was bucking for colonel and when he got those damn birds on his collar, she was going to leave him and that was for certain.
Things were fine with their first kid graduating from high school soon but the new baby had been the straw that was slowly and painfully breaking this forty-six-year-old camel’s back she reasoned. She didn’t want another child and he promised. He promised!
“And now look at me! On the wrong side of forty with a sick kid and a husband who is always gone!” she said to herself. Little Ian was a mistake and she regretted it ever since he was born. But Robert did that thing to her in bed, that turned her normally dominant personality into a passive Hindu cow. Robert knew the risks of unprotected sex after his deployment but his unexpected promotion when he came back Stateside turned a bottle of shared champagne into three pints of beer and four shots of Jack.
Safe sex was the last thing on his mind as touched his wife in that way that made her drool every time. Five weeks later he was worried and on the seventh week he was sweating. The positive tests sent chills down his back and when Ian was born and couldn’t stop crying or grow hair, he knew that the lies the base doctors were telling him and his wife were to protect national security. What his wife could never know was that he and his team were experimenting on contaminants that had to be tested for potential weapon use and he had been warned officially and unofficially of potential birth defects until the contagions ran their course in his body.
But Laura didn’t know that. What she did know was that she was pissed off and burdened with a kid who cried all the time and she was out of Xanax and heading for the base to get her script filled when her oil light went on and she pulled into the rest area. Ian was screaming and Laura looked down and realized she forgot her ID and that meant turning around and driving twenty minutes back the other way because no one got on the base without an ID anymore.
She slapped the dash and then slapped Ian which made the four-year-old cry even more, which made Laura even more unstable and she slapped him again.
Trista was coming out of the bathroom hearing the screaming in between the first and second slap and as Laura reared back to hit Ian again, Trista put her fist through the glass and punched Laura right in the left side of her mouth. Then she hit her again breaking her nose and feeling the crunch against her knuckles.
“Trista!” Yelled Zen running as fast as he could out of the men’s room. Laura had never been in a fight in her whole life and Robert had never hit her and she was in panic mode. Yelling “help!” at the top of her lungs only it came out sounding like “hell!” because her bleached white teeth were loose and broken and her mouth was filling up with blood. Zen thought the best way to stop this was to slam the woman’s head into the steering wheel and knock her out, but just then Trista hit him square in the nose as he tried to pull her off the abusive woman.
“Damn it girl!” He spat as he tried to push Trista away. His eyes were tearing up from being punched and he grabbed the back of Laura’s hair. Laura looked like she was doing her best to make snow angels in the seat of her car and blood and glass flew everywhere. Zen slammed her head against the steering wheel but instead to knocking her out, Laura’s forehead opened up and blood flowed down her face.
“Oh shit!”
“I’m brind! Brind! Hell! Summa un hell!” Laura tried to scream through broken teeth, blood, and mucous in her mouth and nose.
Zen grabbed Trista and shoved her so hard towards the bike that she fell down. He picked her up and looked in her eyes but didn’t recognize her face. It was blank. Shock.
“Oh shit.” He put her on the bike and kissed her. That seemed to snap her back to reality, and they pulled away in a dust cloud with Laura and Ian’s screams in the air.
They rode down a frontage road and Zen was just making lefts and rights without thinking. He thought he heard sirens and was pushing the bike up and down the hills as fast as it would go and dragging pipes and grinding pegs like the Devil himself was chasing them. Up ahead, he saw a gas station and Indian trading post. He drove behind it and there was an old Indian in feathers and deer skin smoking a cigarette near the dumpster.
He jumped as Zen skidded to a halt and turned off the bike. He was breathing hard from concentrating on not dumping the bike. He looked at a shed and saw it was partly open with only a rusty chain holding the door somewhat shut. Zen glanced down and saw a bent piece of pole and put it between the chains and twisted it until the chain broke. He pushed Trista off the bike and walked the bike into the shed.
“You’re not supposed to do that.” Said the tired Indian. He was 10 minutes into his 30 minute lunch break before posing for pictures with kids for a “five-dollar donation.”
“You’re not supposed to do a lot of things.” Zen countered. “Listen man, we are in trouble okay?” he said, holding up his bloody hands. As if on cue Trista held up her hands too.
“We are being chased by the law, a drug gang, a cartel and twenty minutes ago we got into some shit….I don’t even know what happened.” He pleaded. “Can you help us by giving me a moment here?”
The old Indian looked at the sky as if talking to The Great Sprit and shook his head as he put his bonnet that was made in China back on his head.
“Fucking white people.”
Zen breathed a sigh of relief, walked into the shed, then turned to Trista, grabbing by her epaulets snapping one of them off. “What the fuck was all that back there about?”
“That bitch.”
“Go on!”
“That bitch was beating that kid when I got out of the bathroom. I thought some kid fell and scrapped his knee or something, but since we were the only ones here I got worried, and then I saw this lady slapping the shit out of this kid, who was strapped in his car seat and I just saw red. I didn’t mean to hurt that lady. I just wanted her to stop hitting that kid!”
“You almost killed that lady.”
“Yeah, well I bet she thinks twice before beating her kid. My mother used to beat me all the fucking time. It got to where I started liking it.”
