I shouted for her to hit the ground and waited for a few more precious seconds. He filled the scope, the crosshairs centered on his chin. I wished he would turn and flee. His hand, the one holding the gun, came up. My index finger squeezed, and all kinds of things happened. But first, there was a crack so loud it might have been thunder. The rifle pounded into my shoulder like the punch from a big man.
As my eyes flicked above the scope, his body left the bike. Because of the impact or because of his muscles twitching like when electricity is applied, I didn’t know. The bike seemed to ride out from under him, continuing on for a while, before angling off the road and disappearing into the forest on the other side of the road. The rider hit the pavement and rolled like a limp red rubber ball.
I checked the man at my feet to make sure he was dead, a task I should have done sooner, then ran to Sue. She was already walking in the general direction of the man she had shot, and she smelled of vomit. That was a good sign as far as I was concerned. A natural reaction. A human reaction.
Turning her shoulders to the dead guy I’d shot in the driveway, I said, “Go see if you can get that bike into the woods and out of sight.”
I went to the road.
A look behind told me the first man I’d shot was dead. He lay beside his motorcycle. I went to the other, the one I’d shot with the rifle, and found what had been a man in a tee-shirt emblazoned with the stylized image of a middle finger held high. No helmet, no leather. He’d fallen at probably thirty miles per hour and if my bullet hadn’t killed him, the pavement pounding and ripping his unprotected body had. He was a bloody tube of meat.
Using a fireman’s carry, I got him onto my shoulder and off the road where he couldn’t be seen by searchers. His bike was long gone, on a ride of its own into the thick underbrush. There were no skid marks or other signs of what had happened. I went to the other side and checked.
On the road was a puddle of drying blood. I scooped a handful of dirt and sprinkled it on the blood. The dirt absorbed most of the blood, and as it dried, it would change color and be hard to see.
Again, I scuffed tire tracks from the dirt driveway and found Sue had hidden the bike. She had her hands under his armpits and was struggling to pull the dead man into the edge of the trees. I grabbed his collar and together we dragged him out of sight.
She held up the rifle I’d used. “You might need this.”
I took it and ejected the empty shell by working the bolt again as if I’d done it a thousand times instead of one. I saw and felt the next shell enter the chamber. It was as large and long as my middle finger. The rifle was probably for deer or elk. Maybe dinosaurs. It had stamps in the metal, crowns that probably meant England, and dates. The latter ones were nineteen-forty-four. World War Two. A lot of hunters used surplus guns from the war.
She said, “Nobody else in sight.”
Damn. With the noise the rifle had made, everyone in the county must have heard and I’d been stupid enough to be involved with the morality of killing instead of defending us. I lied, “I know.”
“Shouldn’t we go somewhere and hide?”
We were standing in the forest, in dappled shade. “No. From here, we can keep an eye on the road. It’s better than most places to ambush people.”
Her voice came softly and with resignation, “I know. Do we have to?”
“Only if they come for us.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sue and I stood at the edge of the woods, near the driveway, where we could watch the approach of anyone from either direction on the road. None did. We expected the bikers to send more men, bikes, or a car, but that didn’t happen.
There had been four bikes chasing us. Four had ridden past. Then there were gunshots and three returned. Either the gunfight down the road had killed one, or there was still a rider out there. It was best to wait. If he was alive, he’d probably come roaring down the road before long. I moved a few steps to where the rifle had a good field of fire as I listened for the roar of another motorcycle.
The ejected bullet lay on the ground. I hadn’t searched the rider for more. I picked it up, blew the dust off and wiped it on my shirt before ejecting the magazine and inserting it with the remaining shells. Five left.
“My God, what have we done?” Sue whispered more to herself than for me to hear.
“Nothing,” I grunted.
She turned to me; her voice shrill. “Nothing? We’re surrounded by people we killed in the last ten minutes and you think that’s nothing? And there were those in the town. I fired the shotgun right into the middle of a crowd.”
After taking a step back to allow her to see I didn’t mean to attack her, my voice was soft and sincere. “Yes, we killed three people, maybe more, and for that I’m sorry. Not too sorry, though. They didn’t have to come after us with guns, did they? If we hadn’t killed them, we’d be dead.”
My pause confused her. She knew more was coming, but she first glanced at the closest dead man with revulsion clearly written on her face.
I continued, “Ask yourself one question. What did we do to them to cause this?”
She remained silent.
I got tired of waiting for her answer. “We had the audacity to ride a motorcycle peacefully along the road. For that, they chased us, shot at us and sent four assassins on motorcycles to kill us. Yes, assassins. Make no mistake about it. They were after us to kill us. For what? We had nothing of value.”
“Then why?” she asked. “The world has gone crazy.”
“Cockroaches is my theory. You see one and you step on it just to hear it crunch under your heel. To them, that is all we were.”
“It can’t be that simple.”
“Well, there are other things, too. They may have felt they were protecting their territory, or that we had something of value, or maybe they realized you are a woman and they wanted another female body to pass around tonight. The point is, we did nothing to deserve them trying to kill us. Those men would be alive if they hadn’t chased us, so if you want to assign blame, they get it all.”
She placed her index finger on my lips to quiet me. “You’re right, I know that on one level. Saying those things and trying to make me believe them is one thing. Tonight, when you wake up from nightmares again, we will know there is another fear to face.”
Fact versus feelings. She was right. And I suspected I would again wake wrestling with those demons again, the sounds of the impacts of the bullets, the ending of the lives of some mother’s children with their bodies rotting in the weeds beside a two-lane country road.
After what seemed a very long time, Sue suggested we follow the driveway and see where it went before dark. My instinct was to remain where we were in case the fourth biker returned. Logic said he wouldn’t. He would already be here if he was alive. All those shots earlier were men shooting at each other farther down the road. At least one bullet had struck its target.
We rolled our bike from under the trees. I thought about taking one of theirs, but they were too loud, attracting too much unwanted attention. Sue hadn’t learned to drive today, but maybe tomorrow. She climbed on behind me, carrying both the rifle and shotgun balanced across her knees. I made a mental note to return and search the one who had owned the rifle for more shells later—but considering the blank, scared expression Sue wore, that could wait.
After fifty yards, the driveway bent around a thick stand of alders and evergreens. I went so slow walking would have been faster, but my eyes were on the dirt ruts we rode in. No footprints, no tire tracks, and no grasses bent by boots. The house came into view and I planted both feet to balance as we stopped.