The coffin hit the hard earth, split, and dumped Sam onto the ground. He
gasped for air. The bright sun seared his clamped eyelids. He was covered with
sweat and his body reeked from the confined, three-hour trek into the
mountains. Sam rolled over and pulled himself onto all fours, his lungs
drawing in the hot air. Several men and a couple of women, their faces
weathered from months in the desert, surrounded him. One raised a large,
galvanized bucket and dumped several gallons of lukewarm water on Sam's limp
torso. His longtime friend and riding partner, Red, kneeled at his side and
held him from trying to respond to the watery assault.
"Chopper, it's Red. Don't move and don't open your eyes, the sun will burn
the shit outta them."
A young woman stepped up and said, "I'm going to slip some welding glasses
over your eyes to assist you in adjusting to the sunlight." The caress of her
hand felt alien to his cheek. It had been a long time.
He tried to open his eyes, but the harsh light slammed them shut. She helped
him into a truck and they sped along the edge of a mountain.
His eyes adjusted to the light as they twisted their way through a deep gully
and into the renegade camp. Squinting through the thick welding lenses, Sam
was struck by the junkyard appearance of the sprawling, steel encampment. But
its exterior fulfilled two purposes. Thousands of vehicle shells provided both
ample shelter and excellent camouflage. Atop sandy ridges, security patrols
kept the renegade home secure. From the sky, this assemblage of gnarled metal
appeared to be an auto graveyard. No one outside would ever associate it with
the guarded image of Glitter Town. A rusted jeep led the caravan of trucks
into camp.
People emerged from burnt-out trucks, trailers, and vans to get a glimpse of
the new visitor. Sam's friend was obviously in a position of high command. As
he stepped out of the jeep, Red was greeted with respectful and congratulatory
remarks. Another successful mission. Sam was led to a small cluster of station
wagon shells stacked together to form walls and covered with corrugated sheet
metal. The area belonging to the girl was neat and tidy, and Sam was made to
feel at home. He washed up and was given some old, but clean Levi's and a
khaki shirt. As Sam was dressing, Red knocked at the entrance of the woman's
hovel. "May I come in?" he asked.
"We're decent," the woman replied, folding the tattered towel Sam had just
used.
"Chopper, we're having a meeting in an hour, so I need to brief you on the
situation here," Red explained.
"What situation?" Sam asked. "I thought I was going to ride again and be free
from all that bullshit restriction of the city."
"That's part of it, Chopper," his friend explained. "I mean, that's what our
original intentions were..."
"So what happened? And more important, why am I here?"
"That's a long story," Red began. "See, the more laws and regulations they
enacted, the worse the law enforcement became. Then those shows started and it
was open season out here. More people fled from the cities. More were gunned
down in the desert. Insane folks want the final notoriety of being split in
two on national television. It's gotten out of hand. We can't move anything in
or out without major complications, which has put a great deal of stress on
our band of freedom seekers who came out here just to get away and ride. Now
we're facing the makings of a rebellion within our own ranks. Just come to the
meeting. Then you'll understand."
"I don't want to get involved in another bureaucracy," said Sam. "That's what
I came here to escape."
The two men stared at each other. Sam looked Red over. His friend was strong,
6 feet 2 inches tall and built like a bull. He had thick, shoulder-length red
hair and a beard, was approaching his mid 40s, and had an imposing figure. But
in his eyes Sam could see a tired, disillusioned man. The air of an impending
fist fight rose between them. The feeling rekindled Sam's spirit of adventure
and he sensed the seriousness of the meeting. He slipped on his other boot and
said gruffly, "OK, dammit, I'll come to the fuckin' meeting."
Red left, vowing to return in 45 minutes. The woman gave Sam a simple meal of
rice, bread, and pinto beans. Over dinner he learned that her name was Amber.
She wasn't bad on the eyes, with her long, wavy, auburn hair and athletic
frame. Her eyes were brown and piercing. Looking at her caused Sam to reflect
on the government's hollow AIDS PR campaign, which resulted in outlawing
casual sex and relationships other than marriage. As he studied her form, he
became intensely aware of how long it had been since he'd been with a woman.
"I'm sorry," Sam said, staring at her youthful figure concealed within Levi's
and a loose-fitting denim shirt.
"For what?" she said, busying herself in her cubicle of scrap steel, acutely
aware of his scouring gaze.
Sam snapped out of his daydream when a couple of men entered the cubicle to
deliver his bike and belongings. Amber moved around her abode quietly, never
discussing the camp's politics or its history.
Red returned on the dot. "It's time," he said. "Let's go."
Red was quiet during their brief, dusty walk between the sharp scraps of
metal, burnt-out hulks of cars, and stacks of hubcaps and engine parts. A maze
of dark, jagged corridors led them to the camp's meeting hall. It was a dark,
vast cavern of rusted and charred steel. Both makeshift and sophisticated
weapons lined the walls, which were built from truck beds that had been
crudely split with cutting torches and welded to form a massive, secure
enclave of steel.
The room was crowded with bikers; hard-core renegades with long hair and
beards. Most were armed with long knives, bandoleers of ammunition, and side
arms or automatic weapons. A massive table fashioned from cable-spool tops and
straps of bar stock stood like a warriors' round table in the center of the
room. All types of chairs lined the perimeter, from milk crates to hubcaps
with legs. Men sat around the table with pistols in front of them. Rifles,
shotguns, and automatic weapons replaced briefcases. Their weapons were
freshly oiled and ready for action.
Sam's senses became increasingly alert as he took inventory of the number of
men in the room. Every so often he noticed a woman, her sex only
distinguishable by the lack of facial hair. The women wore the same clothes as
the men and had their own choice of weapons.
"Sit here," Red said, pointing to one of two chairs remaining at the table.
Red was obviously the group's leader. Though his friend carried himself like a
seasoned general, Sam could see his tension.
"All right, quiet down," Red began. "This is my brother, Chopper. I'd like
you to treat him like anyone who's been checked out. He's OK."
"Now what's this I hear about a run to Vegas?"
Sam watched as Deacon, a big, burly Viking of a man stepped forward. "It's
on," he said, shifting the weapon hanging over his shoulder. "We're tired of
the Manhunt killing our people in the desert and then blaming us. We're tired
of the bastards in Vegas getting everything while we rot here in the desert.
And we're going to do something about it."
"Look, we came out here to get away from the bullshit," Red said. "If we
attempt anything, they'll just mow us down."
"That's a bunch of shit," Deacon yelled. "If you don't want to fight, then
maybe it's time for a change in leadership."
Sam began to survey the room. He could see where the Viking's back-ups were.
They rustled, their weapons at the ready.
"Have you thought about..." Sam began.
"Who the fuck are you?" Deacon snapped. "You don't know shit about what's
going on around here. I say we ride in, burn the place, and take over."
Sam could sense signals. The men lining the jagged steel walls moved their
weapons into alert positions. Sam looked at Red then stood up and began to
move around the table toward the other men.
"How long have you been here?" Sam asked Deacon.
"Six months," he answered, staring down at Sam. "What's it to you?"
"Aren't you a brother?" Sam asked. "Do you care about every man in this room,
and do you understand the firepower that's waiting for us out there?"
"I know how strong we are," Deacon said. "That's all I need to know."
"Then let's hear your plan," Sam said, challenging him.
Momentarily, the burly, swaggering bear of a man stammered and lost his
ground. But the questioning of his plan put him back into the attack mode. His
arms were flailing as he explained his plan in detail. His lieutenants aided
in the description by producing maps and vivid illustrations. When he'd
finished, the Viking stood as proud as any general ready to defend his
military tactics.
"Let's take a vote," Sam said. "and see how the rest of the men feel."
"What?" Red blurted from the other end of the room. He was stunned.
"All right," Deacon said, "all in favor say 'aye'." The big man's chest grew
as the response came in his favor. He had obviously been politicking. "All
opposed say 'nay'." His eyes darted around the room as if to take note of
anyone who had the balls to oppose his plan. The room was silent, except for
Red.
"I don't think we're ready," Red said.
"I need a couple of days to train and learn the terrain," Sam cut in before
the two men clashed again.
"Who cares?" the Viking said. "I say we go tomorrow, and we voted."
Sam's mind whirled. "We need a holiday weekend when The Man will be lax and
celebrating something."
Deacon piped up, "Memorial Day is a whole month away. I want to go now." His
crew was pumped and some raised their weapons in support, others listened to
the newcomer's suggestion.
Sam moved to Deacon's side. "I say we wait for Memorial Day, and see if half
the force isn't gone on the long weekend. All in favor...?" Sam shouted,
slamming his fist against the thick table. The crew agreed. With the decision
made, Sam and Red left the room with the others. The troops were pumped.
"What the hell do you think you were doing?" Red asked Sam once they were
alone in a dark corridor. "We don't have a chance in hell of a full-on
attack." Red was furious. "Dammit, Chopper, I thought..."
"Wait just a fuckin' minute," Sam interrupted. The two men stopped and stood
eyeball-to-eyeball in the center of a steel hallway with a floor of sand. They
were similar heights, close to 6 feet 2 inches. Red was six years older than
Sam. His mane was coarse and his eyes were a deep-set green. He sported a full
beard, but his face was freckled and soft. Sam had graying, thick, sandy blond
hair and brilliant blue eyes. His face was naturally tough, however softened
by the years spent indoors in the city. His demeanor was one of thought rather
than violence. With Red, it was the other way around.
Suddenly, Red grabbed Sam and threw him against the wall. "This is bullshit,"
he said. "I've got enough trouble without my own brother sidin' with that
shit-stirrin' sonuvabitch."
He took a fighting stance and moved to swing. Sam was still weary from the
trip, and weakened from the anti-physical society he had just escaped. One
hour of forced daily exercise doesn't make a man ready for the rigors of
rugged living and bare-fisted brawling. Sam moved to the side, blocking Red's
punch. The two men slammed to the ground. Sam struggled to his feet. Red was
alert and powerful. He spun and sidekicked Sam, launching him toward the sandy
floor again.
Sam hit hard and rolled for the momentum he needed to get back on his feet
and out of the way of more abuse. His side burned with pain. Why? he asked
himself. He pulled himself to his knees just in time to catch an engineer boot
in the ribs. He gasped for air and collapsed to the sand. Squinting, he could
see Red about to strike again. He grabbed the bumper of an old Chevy for
support and kicked out, catching Red in the knee.
Red stumbled long enough for Sam to get to his feet. But Red was still in
much better shape than Sam. He back-handed Sam with a callused hand, drawing
blood from Sam's nose. Sam was losing the fight but gaining in anger. He
ducked the next punch, then nailed Red with two shots in the solar plexus. His
knee felt the bridge of Red's nose, but Red responded with a ferocious head
butt and a left jab that immediately blackened Sam's right eye. Sam slammed
against the hood of an old Studebaker, and the ornament stung his back. "I
came out to get away from this shit, you bastard."
Sam pushed himself off the hood. The ornament was covered with blood. "You're
supposed to be my brother," said Red. "I don't take back-stabbing from
anyone," he continued, spitting blood at the cloud of dust at his feet. They
clashed again, both going for the other's throat.
"You stubborn sonuvabitch, I got us six weeks," Sam gasped.
Red wrapped his hands around Sam's windpipe. Sam's face was turning red and
his eyes were beginning to bug out. Suddenly, Red relaxed his grip and stared
intently into Sam's eyes. "Maybe you're right," he sighed. Red breathed hard
and slapped Sam like a brother. "I've been going crazy. For months I've been
trying to protect this band of renegades from the outside, and now Deacon
wants to get us all annihilated in one night."
Sam looked hard at Red and understood the frustration that had been building
inside him.
"OK, hotshot, what the fuck am I gonna accomplish in six weeks?" Red asked as
they walked together down the dark, steel hallway into the blistering desert
heat.
Sam looked at him through a swollen eye and chuckled, "That's your problem,
bro. I'm sure you'll figure something out."
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