The Mountain

Prologue

PrologueThe Predators Motorcycle Club rode to the Sturgis Rally in a convoy of two hundred motorcycles drawn from twenty chapters nationwide. Ten days later, only three machines and five members survived.

They’d abandoned two other Harley Lowriders after raiding a pharmacy three days previously. They rode in procession with Mitch riding point, Jeb and Billy-Bob following with Cydney and Spice riding pillion. They kept a steady but sedate pace designed to eat up miles not gas. The three male members of the club were all big, bearded and dirty after days on the road. The girls were not much better.

Mitch’s bike slowed and he pulled to the side of the empty road, stopped, knocked the kickstand down with his booted foot and dismounted. The others stopped but stayed astride their machines. Mitch unstrapped the gas can attached to his bike’s backrest, gave it a shake and shook his head. He spat onto the road and looked at the others.

‘Damn thing’s almost empty. You guys got any left?’ They shook their heads. They were subdued and grim. The further north they’d traveled, the fewer gas stations they’d found. They sat and watched as Mitch drained the last half-gallon of fuel into his Harley’s tank and carelessly threw the empty can into the roadside brush. He replaced the gas cap, pulled a battered map from his vest pocket, squatted down and unfolded the map on the black tarmac. He ran his oil-stained finger along a spidery line that marked their route on the map. His hand stopped, he looked up and stared down the road into the distance.

‘There’s a small town about ten miles from here. It’ll be our last stop. We’ll get our supplies there. You all strapped and loaded?’

They nodded as Mitch stood and folded the map. He pulled a pistol from the back of his waistband, checked the clip and tucked it back in his pants. He lifted his leg over the bike, settled himself into the seat and pressed the electric starter, which turned the big motor with a slow rumble. It caught, sputtered then caught again. Mitch twisted the throttle until he was satisfied the machine wouldn’t stall and eased off to conserve gas. He put the Hog in gear, dropped the clutch and took off with a growl from the exhaust. The others fell in line and followed.

The bikes thundered along in procession, consuming the road with an insatiable appetite. The road twisted and turned as each ascending mile took them further into mountain country. The trees lining the road grew taller and closer together as the altitude increased. They were over two days ride from the nearest city and snowy peaks loomed ever closer.

They passed a Ranger Station and found the town less than a minute later – a scant collection of buildings scattered along one side of the road made up the entire community. It would have been easy to blink and miss it. The settlement had grown up around the gas station and truck stop that serviced the old logging companies. The companies had long since closed following years of bitter litigation with conservation groups. The town struggled on long after it should have died.

A passing glance at the derelict gas station confirmed their worst fears. Neglected hoses dangled from pumps that hadn’t seen gas for some time. They slowed, pulled to the side of the road and parked their bikes alongside each other in precise formation. The maneuver demonstrated the familiarity they had with each other. It wasn’t all they had in common; each one held a weapon as they marched in silence to a general convenience and supply store only yards from their bikes.

Cydney reached the shop’s door first, turned the handle, pushed the door open and walked right in. The others followed. A bell attached to the doorframe signaled their arrival with a hollow ring. They stood inside the doorway and surveyed the shelves. It wasn’t Wal-Mart, but it would do.

A woman entered the shop through a door behind the counter and approached them with an uncertain smile on her lips and a wary look in her eyes. It had been a long time since anyone had greeted the Predators with anything but fear and caution. The shopkeeper’s eyes dropped to the gun in Mitch’s hand and she drew in a sharp breath. She glanced over her shoulder but no one was there to support her. Stone-faced, she tried to ignore the weapons.

‘Good day, folks. What can I get you?’ Her voice was surprisingly deep. She attempted a smile but it froze on her face like a clown’s mask.

Cydney shot her in the middle of her face; the back of the woman’s head blew across the counter and blood splattered the wall. The blast reverberated in the small store and rattled the windows. She stayed on her feet for a few seconds, as if suspended by invisible puppeteer strings, and then just crumpled into an untidy heap on the floor.

‘I didn’t like her attitude,’ Cydney said. There was no emotion in the brunette’s voice.

No one replied. Jeb moved to the window anticipating a response to the gunshot. The rest inspected the merchandize in a familiar scenario that had played out in many establishments in many towns.

‘Grab a backpack each, and load up with basics for a camping trip. Billy-Bob – you’re in charge of weapons and ammunition so make sure we’re “loaded for bear”.’ The authority in Mitch’s voice hinted at military discipline. The others worked quickly and efficiently to strip the store. It had been a while since they had paid for anything.

‘Someone’s coming,’ Jeb sounded the warning from the window. He’d watched the Ranger emerge from his station, climb into his vehicle and start for the store only to pull up after a few yards. He now walked towards the store casually holding a shotgun.

‘It’s a cop of some sort. But, he don’t look too dangerous. He’s holding a shotgun in one hand, sort of relaxed. He’s got a pistol in a holster but the flap’s shut. The moron’s just strolling down the middle of the road like he’s out for a breath of air. Stupid bastard.’

Mitch looked up from behind the counter where he’d found a brand-new hunting rifle.

‘Take care of him. Go with him, Billy-Bob.’

‘Hey, don’t kill him. We could use him to carry some of this stuff,’ Spice said. There was silence as they stared at her. Spice held her breath, waiting for the inevitable backlash from Mitch at her suggestion. He surprised her.

‘Ha! Junior’s had a good idea, at last. We can use the pig as a mule.’ The gang laughed at the clumsy metaphor and the two bikers left the store, to apprehend the Ranger, suppressing grins behind their beards.

The door behind the counter slammed open and a young boy burst into the store. He held a shotgun and struggled to lift it above the counter to point at Mitch who now stood in the middle of the shop cradling the hunting rifle like a newborn. The Remington was too heavy for the boy and the barrel wavered with his effort. Tears streaked his reddened cheeks.

‘Leave my mom alone!’ he shouted. With a young child’s naivety, he ignored the fact that his mother lay dead on the floor. With an almighty effort, the youngster finally got a bead on Mitch and pulled the trigger. A hollow click signified the gun was empty. The boy howled in frustration. Mitch took two huge strides, leant over the counter and snatched the gun from the boy’s grasp just as a bespectacled man lurched through the doorway and grabbed the boy in an enveloping hug.

‘Please don’t hurt my son. He’s just a kid. He don’t know any better,’ he pleaded, crouching on his knees as if using his son as a shield. The fact was not lost on Mitch.

‘I’m not gonna hurt him. He has more guts than you have. Take him over in the corner and keep him quiet until we leave. You let him loose and I’ll kill you both.’

The man scrambled to obey before the biker changed his mind. He squatted down in the corner clutching his son with trembling arms.

The storekeeper watched in horror as the door opened and Ranger Martin stumbled through followed by the two bikers who had captured him. Tim Martin’s holster was as empty as his hands. The storekeeper’s last hope for rescue evaporated as the bikers forced Tim into the same corner he occupied with his son. The Ranger sat down on the floor alongside the cowering man and his weeping son.

The gang systematically stripped the shelves of basic supplies, clothes and weapons. They filled five large backpacks with anything they felt would help them survive in the wilderness. Billy-Bob filled one extra pack with all the ammunition he could carry and found a canvas holster for the hunting rifle. They littered the floor with the items they didn’t want.

The storekeeper held his son close and shielded his eyes from the grisly sight of his mother’s corpse. He looked on in helpless frustration as the gang pillaged his store. The Ranger reached out to reassure him that everything would be fine, but the storekeeper pulled away and turned his back on the wretched official.

‘Hey you! Lawman. What are you anyway? A sheriff?’

Ranger Martin looked up into the cold, dark eyes of the brunette, Cydney.

‘No... I’m a Forest Ranger.’

‘What do you do? Arrest trees for littering when they drop leaves?’

The bikers thought this was hilarious and laughed loud and long. Martin sat on the floor in silence and endured their ridicule. The laughter left Cydney’s eyes as quickly as it came.

‘Get up, Ranger. Make yourself useful. Carry this bag.’

The humbled lawman clambered to his feet, picked up the heavy rucksack containing the ammunition and struggled into its harness. The girl looked at him with cold eyes.

‘Go wait outside, boy.’ Her dominance was total and he obeyed, walking out the door with his head bowed.

She hovered over the shopkeeper. ‘You’re lucky to be alive, mister. I’m only leaving you alive to take care of your boy. He showed some balls. I respect that.’ He didn’t respond or even look at the girl. She shrugged, kicked him viciously in the ribs, turned and left the store. As the other bikers followed her outside, the storekeeper sat in the corner with his devastated son and watched in horrified fascination, as flies began to congregate on the congealing pool of his wife’s blood.