“Is help on the way?”
Most of the townspeople were older. Their worn faces pleading for answers, worried about what the future would hold for them. Jake looked around and noticed more people leaving their stores, coming out in the street to meet them, but the only person he kept his eyes on was the Sheriff strutting down the sidewalk.
Sheriff Barnes was a good’ol boy if Jake ever saw one, all the way from his cowboy hat to his boots, and that polished badge shining in the sun. Two deputies dressed in similar fashion followed closely behind him.
“Well, I never thought I’d see the day where I’d be happy to have a group of bikers roll through my town,” Barnes said.
Jake looked the officers up and down. Their bellies protruded over their waists, their gun holster straps still covering their pistols, slowing them down if they had to draw. They were kind. They were weak.
“How many people do you have in town, Sheriff?” Jake asked.
“Oh, I’d say there’s probably fifty of us here right now, more if you count some of the surrounding farms.”
“You and your deputies have any trouble lately? Any shortages of anything?”
“Well, no, so far we’ve been okay.”
Jake pulled the knife from his side and jammed it into the Sheriff’s throat. The blood spurt over Jake’s arm as he dug the blade deeper. Jake pulled the blade out and the Sheriff dropped to the ground. The Sheriff’s blood drenched his shirt and dimmed the shine on his badge.
Before the deputies could react Frankie blasted them through the eyes with his pistol. Hank reached for his gun, but Jake drew his own pistol and shot Hank through the gut.
Hank barreled over to the ground and the rest of the crowd scattered. They ran for their stores, their homes, whatever cover they could find.
With the town’s law at Jake’s feet, and their blood pooling on the street, Jake turned to his men, specks of the Sheriff’s blood still fresh on his face.
“We take what we want, boys. This town is ours,” Jake said.
The Diablos cheered and made their way down Main Street. Jake had his men hit the hunting store first. They smashed the windows, broke the glass cases housing the weapons, and horded all the ammo they could find.
They all spread out, hunting down the townspeople like dogs. A few fought back, but there weren’t enough that did to cause any trouble. Jake and his club were twenty strong. They were hungry, vicious, and had nothing to lose.
Gunshots and screams filled the town’s streets. Jake could see people running down the highway. He gathered six of his men around him.
“You three take the north end and you three take the south. Anyone that tries to run for it you gun down, understand?” Jake asked.
They nodded and took off toward the ends of town. Jake flagged down Frankie.
“Clear out the motel,” Jake said.
Frankie ran through the small motel, smashing down doors. He cleared the first floor and made his way up to the second. Each room he checked was empty. He blasted the locks of the doors until he came across a family huddled in the corner of their room: a husband, wife, and three daughters.
The husband tried to keep his family behind him, shielding them from harm. They were all shaking. The husband was the first to stand and speak.
“P-please. We don’t w-want any trouble,” he said.
The smoke from Frankie’s gun barrel rose in the air next to him. He holstered his pistol, smiling. His left hand went for the blade on his side. He ran his fingers across the flat end of the steel right up to the tip.
The husband stepped forward, his hands trying to form fists. Frankie toyed with him, jerking forward to scare the man, keeping him on his toes. Each time Frankie moved, the wife and daughters behind him let out a yelp and with each yelp Frankie let out a throaty laugh.
When the husband finally made a move for the blade Frankie knocked his hand out of the way and thrust the five inches of steel into the husband’s stomach.
Frankie twisted and turned the knife in the husband’s gut. The husband’s hands groped Frankie, grasping onto him and trying to hold on to the last moments of life he had left.
Blood dribbled down the husband’s chin and then he collapsed on the carpet, coughing up blood, clutching the knife wound and trying to staunch the bleeding with his hands.
The wife crawled to him with tears running down her face. She held his face in her hands. His eyes stared blankly up at her. His lungs gasped for breath until finally the gasps stopped, his body lying motionless before her.
Drops of blood from Frankie’s knife dripped on the carpet next to him. He wiped the blood from the blade onto the bed sheets, smearing red stains at the foot of the bed.
“Well, aren’t you a pretty bunch,” Frankie said.
Frankie’s ragged black hair hung in mangled strands across his face. The sweat from a week’s worth without showering had let the grime on his skin build up and a strong odor surrounded his body. He pointed at the oldest daughter, Mary, who was no older than sixteen.
“You. Come here,” he said.
“No!” the mother cried, rushing back to her daughters.
Frankie moved slowly toward them. The daughters retreated further into the corner of the room by the sink and bathroom. All three daughters were crying, their mother spreading her arms wide, offering her body as the only protection she had to give.
“Come here,” Frankie repeated.
Frankie tossed the mother aside and seized Mary’s arm. The girl flailed as he threw her onto the bed covered with the bloodstains of her father.
“Wait!” the mother screamed.
Frankie pointed the pistol at the youngest daughter, Erin, and the mother stopped.
“Wait,” she said calmly. “Take me.”
She slowly unbuttoned her blouse, her fingers trembling and fumbling with each button. She walked slowly to him, taking her shirt off.
“Take me,” she repeated.
Frankie looked her up and down. The gun still pointed at Erin, while Mary lay on her back, frozen in fear on the bed.
“Just let them go,” the mother said.
She was standing directly in front of him now. Frankie ran the tip of his blade gently across the mother’s exposed flesh.
“Take off your pants,” Frankie ordered.
She undid the clip on her skirt and let it slide down her legs onto the ground. She kicked the skirt off of her bare feet. Small spasms shook her body as she stood there awkwardly in front of him.
Frankie grabbed her by the hair and threw her on the bed next to her daughter. The mother tried to push Mary off the bed, but Frankie pointed the pistol at her.
“No. She watches,” Frankie said smiling.
Frankie’s jeans dropped to the floor and he climbed on top of the mother. She turned her head to her daughters, their faces red and wet with tears. Her face was calm. She slowly mouthed, “close your eyes.”
The mattress rocked back and forth. Frankie’s grunts where loud and sharp. He kept his head down, his face buried into the mother’s neck, forcing his body onto hers.
The door to the motel room still hung open. Outside the sounds of gunfire and screams echoed in the distance.
The mom saw the open door and used her free hand to grab Mary’s arm. Mary opened her eyes, focusing only on her mother’s face. The mother made a quick nod toward the door and pointed to her other daughters crouching on the floor.
Mary nodded and gently crawled off the bed. She rushed over to Erin, and her middle sister Nancy, and grabbed the two of them.
The mother wrapped her arms around Frankie’s back, her lower lip quivering as she coaxed him on.
“Yes,” she whispered
“You like that, bitch?”
Frankie thrust his body harder into her and the mother cried in pain as she watched her daughter’s slip out the door.