Jim scanned the ground around him searching for anything he might be able to use to defend himself.
The remains of a VW Beetle rested beneath the overturned body of an SUV, its domed roof crushed almost beyond recognition, its neo-hippy owner now surely nothing more than pulp behind the compacted steering wheel. The Beetle had collided with the upturned truck that blocked most of the lanes but it had been in a skid when it hit because the car had come to rest sideways against the truck. The chrome front-bumper had been torn from one of its mountings by the impact, and now lay glinting in the gloom, beckoning to Jim.
Jim took a step sideways. The thug in the suit matched him but didn’t move away from the bike.
Certain he wasn’t going to be suddenly battered Jim backed the few remaining feet to the VW. The suit didn’t move, guarding his prize like a lion who had just stolen a kill from a hyena.
Casting a nervous glance over his shoulder, Jim turned his attention to the bumper. The impact of the crash had torn one of the metal L-brackets holding the bumper to the car’s chassis free, that side now rested loosely against the ground, but the second bracket was still fixed firmly by its welded joint. It was going to take the application of some brute force to separate it.
With a final look over his shoulder to make sure his attacker wasn’t going to jump on the bike and attempt to ride off into the darkness, Jim braced his foot against the hood of the Beetle, grabbed the bumper, and pulled. The already stressed and twisted metal of the mounting squealed and screeched its resistance, but Jim felt the ancient rusted metal give somewhat. He was going to have to twist the joint to get more torque and that meant pushing the bumper upwards and leaving no question in his assailant’s mind he was trying to obtain a weapon.
Squatting down Jim spread his legs wide for better leverage, took the free end of the fender in his hands, resting it uncomfortably against his shoulder. Pushing from his knees, he wrestled the length of chromed steel towards the sky. As he heaved, he felt the resistance increase until finally, as it reached the one o’clock position, he had to set his feet back a step and lean into the upright piece of metal, his entire body weight now pushing against it. With a squeal that began to increase in frequency the bumper slowly began moving towards its apex until, with a final effort from Jim, the metal fixing snapped.
Jim hurtled forward, his right knee catching the curved hood of the destroyed beetle. He slid off the hood to the ground, sprawling onto the freeway, the now free bumper clattering and clanging to the ground beside him. Scrambling hastily onto his knees, Jim reached out and grabbed the bumper, hefted it to his chest and tested its weight. Using the remainder of the bracket fixings as handles, he held the bumper in front of him like a staff, as he climbed back to his feet.
A guttural roar alerted Jim to the oncoming stranger as he ran full charge at Jim, the baseball bat in position for a devastating upwards strike at Jim’s head. Instead, the bat connected with the bumper as Jim thrust it out in front of him. The metal fender rang violently in his hands as the bat smashed into it, the energy of the impact reverberating painfully through his fingers and up through his elbows to his shoulders.
Jim gasped as pain spiked through his hand. Dear God, this guy is strong.
Afraid his traumatized fingers would drop his only protection, Jim switched his hands from the stubby remains of the fixing brackets and took an overhand grip of the curved chrome of the bumper, exposing his fingers to his assailants bat but assuring his grip.
The suit raised his bat for another attempt, this time an overhead swing. Jim saw the man’s eyes flick to his exposed fingers and instinctively knew the next strike would target them. He would be no use in a fight once his protection was gone and with his fingers broken or crushed, the battle would be over and he would be at the mercy of this psychopath.
It was now or never, Jim realized, spying his only chance to end this uneven fight. He feinted a blow toward the man’s exposed crotch, and as his attacker instinctively dropped his guard, Jim brought his metal staff around in a powerful sweeping strike to the left side of his head. The makeshift weapon sang in Jim’s hands as it connected with a thrumming twang against the attacker’s cheekbone. The man’s eyes glazed over for a second as he staggered back. Unbelievably, the big man regained his senses almost immediately and, with a shake of his bloodied head, began advancing on Jim once more.
Jim smashed the bumper into his head again, this time sending the dazed man to his knees. Still conscious but swaying like a willow in a breeze, he tried to use the bat as a crutch to push himself back to his feet.
What is this guy made of?
Jim hit him once more with all the remaining strength his arms had. This time the man went down and, with a final groan stayed down.
A panting, sweating, Jim Baston kicked the aluminum bat clanking and echoing away into the wreckage of cars. Gasping for breath, he tossed the dented and bloodied VW bumper to the ground, well out of reach of the felled giant.
Jim tentatively reached out two fingers to touch the unconscious man’s neck. Good, there was a pulse. At least he hadn’t killed the idiot. There was a lump of purple broken skin on the man’s forehead and blood trickled from a cut across the bridge of his nose.
Reassured that the disabled man wasn’t going to be getting up anytime soon, Jim forced his own exhausted body over to where his bike waited and gave it a cursory once-over. It looked okay.
Is this the kind of world he had to look forward to? he wondered. One where a stranger would be willing to beat-in his head for a bike?
And with that thought, Jim Baston hefted the bicycle onto his bruised shoulder and began to climb over the ruined truck that lay between him and the remainder of his journey.
Sixteen
Thousand Oaks was oddly untouched by the events of the day. As Jim Baston rode his bike onto his ex-wife’s parents’ street, it struck him how strangely normal it all seemed here. The fires and chaos were distant, no smashed cars littered the road, and no bodies lay bloated in the heat.
The streetlights’ luminescence pushed back the darkness of the road ahead of Jim, and here and there, decorative garden lights, buzzing with moths and bugs, cast their meager glow over deserted driveways and empty garden paths.
Not one light was visible behind the drawn curtains of the houses lining both sides of the cul-de-sac. Jim knew people were home, he could see the occasional twitch of a drape or curtain as the occupants of the single-story homes watched him make his way down El Dorado Drive.
It was so quiet. A sudden hiss and blur of movement sent Jim swerving on unsteady wheels off the sidewalk and back out into the middle of the road. He let out an embarrassed laugh when he realized it was just a lawn sprinkler spurting and spluttering into life in a nearby garden. It took all his control not to allow the laughter to disintegrate into tears, his frayed nerves had been pushed well beyond their breaking point by the day’s events, and his grip on reality was tenuous at this point.
Thomas and Jessica Shane lived in an alabaster-white bungalow on a quarter acre of landscaped property at the end of the little street. Jim pulled to a stop outside their home with a squeal of objecting brakes. Resting with one foot on a pedal and the other against the raised curb, he could see the house looked just as he remembered it. Its green lawn so well-manicured it looked sprayed into place rather than planted. The drive leading from the road up to the two-car garage was spotless, the rose bushes and flower beds glowed in luxurious color accenting the crazy-paved path leading up to their front door. Jessica Shane had always loved her roses. Her death had left a vacuum in all their lives.