Haunted part 1

Dirty hands pulled vines away from the grave marker, revealing it like uncovering a long-buried relic. It took a while to find the grave since it was under a lone tree on a hill between two towns. Locals knew about it, of course, so he asked around. As it wasn’t uncommon for outsiders to explore odd locations in the area, he got the answers he was looking for with no suspicion. The marker was dirty and unkempt, which was expected considering who was buried there. The name on the marker was clear, although there was graffiti painted across it: “Burn in Hell”. Stooping down, he dug his hands into the grass and soil, bringing up two handfuls before stuffing it in a leather pouch hanging iff his hip. Once he got what he came for, he turned and left the grave.

****

The pavement was cold and hard on his bare knees. The wind rushed up his spine and tussled his hair a bit, causing a shiver. Not far away, members of his motorcycle club rummaged through his clothes with a stingray, searching for a listening device. Jimmy was next to him. Like him, he had been stripped naked and made to kneel on the asphalt while the club members searched his clothes for a wire. The truck was parked behind them and a few more club members removed the guns from the back. This particular clubhouse was a roadside dive bar with nothing surrounding it except a trailer park and an autoshop. The place was remote, making it optimal to conduct business away from prying eyes. Dex, their club president, paced back and forth in front of them with a revolver in his hand, waiting for confirmation.

Dexter “Dex” Simpson was a man who gave into impulses whether it was pills, women, or fighting. Like most members of the club, he viewed it as a family, but he was also notoriously paranoid and violent; few were brave enough to cross him. He was tall with a greying beard and long scraggily hair, a man who would be intimidating even if he wasn’t the head of a biker gang.

The vice-president was a short but stocky man named Mikey. He helped search through the first set of clothes for a wire and, once satisfied, reported back to Dex.

“Nothing.”

“Thanks, Mikey.” Dex turned toward Jimmy who had been very quiet up until that point, “Jimmy, tell me again what chapter you’re from.”

Jimmy swallowed before answering, “Oregon.”

“All the way in Oregon,” Dex mocked him as he toyed with his revolver.

The man watched Dex grilling Jimmy and felt a sense of dread. As expected, Mikey and the others didn’t find a wire in his clothes, so he was safe for the time being. He knew he wasn’t a snitch or a fed. He began to suspect Jimmy, however. While Jimmy was his friend, he wondered if he wasn’t what he seemed. After all, as paranoid as Dex could be, there had to be a reason why he was going to all this trouble. He knew that, if Jimmy was revealed to be anything other than a devoted club member, it would come back on him; they were friends and had been running guns for the club. If Jimmy was a rat, they would likely consider him one as well.

Dex swayed above Jimmy who was still on the ground. “There’s a reason why I asked about Oregon,” Dex told him, “I’m sure you’re aware of this but, in this club, we look out for one another. And because of that, I got a call this morning from your old chapter. Know what they told me?”

He had been quiet so far, but as he watched Jimmy being questioned, he felt the urge to make a case for himself. “Dex…,” he began, “… Listen, I don’t know what -”

Dex shoved a finger in his direction, “I haven’t addressed you yet, Jake. We’ll talk soon enough, bet your ass. For now, you just hang back. I’m talk’n to Jimmy.”

Jimmy shook his head and finally responded to Dex’s question, “So what’s happening in Oregon?”

Dex toyed with the gun in his hand again, “The chapter got busted. Feds swarmed the clubhouse and took all the guns. No way they would’ve had any dirt unless they got tipped off. Damn near everyone’s in jail now, but the feds had nothing on their girls, of course. That means someone’s old lady called us and told us about what was happening. You got patched-in real quick over in Oregon, but no one seemed to know where you came from. Made some people nervous and for good reason. The moment you came over to our chapter, shit went south over there and some people wonder if you had something to do with it. It’s weird that the feds showed up the moment you came over here to help with the guns.”

“I ain’t a snitch,” Jimmy said defensively.

“I’m not calling you a snitch…,” Dex’s voice began to rise, “… I’m calling you a fed. Maybe you and Jake both are.”

“I’m no fed,” Jake protested, “I been with this club for over ten damn years, you know that!”

“Maybe the feds got to you,” Dex told him, “You been running with Jimmy this whole time, haven’t ya?”

“Y-yeah, but if I knew he was a fed or a snitch or -”

Suddenly, a stingray began to emit a high-pitched whine as it passed over Jimmy’s shirt. “Think we got something,” one of the bikers called out. Jake began to protest once again, but Dex brought a finger up to his lips and shushed him. Jake fell silent and nervously looked at Jimmy who avoided eye contact. A knife was produced and the biker cut open the lapel of Jimmy’s shirt. A second later, a strange device was removed. “Holy shit,” Mikey exclaimed, “It’s a wire!”

Jimmy quickly rose to his feet and shouted a single phrase, “Close down!” – a coded message to indicate a failed mission. There was an immediate panic among the bikers. Jimmy was a federal agent as feared; likely FBI.

Dex angrily fired and Jimmy’s orbital socket exploded. The bikers rushed in various directions. It was only a matter of time before the placed would be swarming with federal agents – fortunately for them, they had a drill prepared. One biker hopped in the truck and drove it away. Others rushed inside the clubhouse to remove any incriminating evidence. Dex and his vice-president got on their bikes and started them with a handful of their lieutenants following suit. Dirt was kicked up and a fleet of motorcycles left the area. In the opposite direction, the sound of engines approached.

Jake stared stupidly at the dead agent next to him. He didn’t know if he was off the hook with the club. If they still suspected he was involved in the sting operation, then he was a dead man. Additionally, he didn’t want to be there when federal agents showed up. He turned and ran naked into the night, ignoring the cold and the blistering of his bare feet. He had made it to the trailer park by the time he heard agents shouting. His heart began punching its way through his rib cage and in the distance, gunshots echoed as remaining bikers fought law enforcement. Jake continued to run and didn’t stop until he was sure he was safe.

A week later…

The weapon was hung on the wall behind a glass case.  At first blush, it appeared to be a simple knife; an old strip of fabric had been wrapped around one end to create a makeshift hilt and the blade was white and jagged.  One might be forgiven for assuming it was a knife made of stone or ivory, but according to the placard below the display case, it was made from a human femur.  Farrell Creed stood in front of a group of curious young adults from out of town and motioned to the strange weapon.  “The Shelley Clan made stuff like this all the time,” Creed explained, “A lot of their tools, clothes, and weapons were made from human remains.  What they didn’t use, they ate.”

Creed allowed his tour group to take everything in, not noticing Gus Davidson rounding the corner behind him.

“Creed, can I borrow you for a minute?” Gus asked him cheerfully, “I can finish the tour for ya if you like. There’s someone here to see you.”

“Sure,” Creed left the group behind and met Gus around the corner, knowing that whatever the situation was, secrecy was important. He leaned in and whispered to Gus, “Why didn’t they come out here to talk?”

“The dude looks pretty nervous. Wanted you to meet him in the office to talk privately. Pretty obvious he don’t wanna be seen.”

“Alright. Thanks, Gus.”

Creed ventured to Gus’ office, curious to know who might be waiting for him. Cautiously, he opened the door and there, sitting at the desk, was Jake Markham. Jake and Creed met each other when they were both in their early 20s and working in construction. They hit it off because they had much in common – family dysfunction, a childhood spent getting into trouble, a general disdain for society, and their love of motorcycles. Eventually, they took motorcycle lessons together from local enthusiasts and saved up money to buy bikes. As they began to ride, they started hanging out with bikers, leading to a meeting with a club – The Hell’s Trespassers.

Creed was initially intrigued at the prospect of joining but he didn’t like the rules and hierarchy that went along with joining a motorcycle club. As he matured, the concept of joining organized crime was less appealing. Jake, on the other hand, was the sort of person who gravitated toward order and a sense of belonging due to his chaotic home-life, so he gladly joined the gang. As the years went on, Jake left town to ride with the Hell’s Trespassers, but he and Creed made sure to get a few beers if Jake was in the area.

When Creed saw Jake, the fear in his eyes was apparent. What’s more, Jake wasn’t wearing his riding vest (or his “cut”). The Hell’s Trespassers had strict rules about being in public without it.

“Hey, brother,” Jake stood to his feet and gave Creed a hug.

“Hey, man,” Creed gave him a worried look, “You in trouble with the club?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“You ain’t wearing your cut. It’s gotta be bad.”

“You’re not wrong,” Jake peered cautiously out the window, “My chapter thinks I’m a snitch.”

Creed scratched his beard, “Yep, that’s pretty bad.”

“So here’s what happened,” Jake sat back down at the desk, “I was doing some gun-running between states with a guy named Jimmy who we all thought was legit. About a week ago, we showed up at the clubhouse with our product because our president wanted to see it before we made the deal. Our president’s kind of a hardass so it wasn’t too strange that he wanted to check things out, but when we showed up, he looked more pissed than usual. He was standing there with the VP and probably our entire chapter and I knew we were in deep shit. They knew Jimmy was up to something.”

Creed finally sat down in the opposite chair, “Was Jimmy a cop?”

“Worse. He was a goddamn fed,” Jake shook his head resentfully, “Maybe FBI or ATF or whatever. I trusted that asshole. I gave him so much information…”

“So what happened once your prez found out out the guy was an agent?”

“Jimmy aborted the sting or whatever, then everything went to shit. Jimmy got his brains blown out on the spot but I got away. Now, unless I do something, either I’m gonna get killed or arrested. I’m fucked either way.”

“And you probably need to disappear?”

“Yeah, I know we haven’t spoken in a while but I know I can count on you,” he reached into his pocket and removed a large envelope before dumping it on the desk, “It’s all the cash I got.”

Creed sighed, “I’d do it for free, but I need to call a guy. A few years back, I helped a girl get away from her crazy-ass boyfriend and I ran across this guy who specializes in forging documents, setting up new places to live, shit like that. He normally works as a coyote but he’s not too picky.”

“How much?”

“He ain’t cheap,” Creed picked up the envelope, “This should do it.”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“Yeah, I’ll contact him today and see if we can meet. In the meantime, I’m gonna call my partner up and we can help you hide out.”

Jake sighed, “Thanks, man.”

“Ain’t gonna let nobody kill a friend.”

“No, I mean, thanks for not saying ‘I told you so’. You refused to join the Trespassers. You were right.”

Creed shrugged, “Not much good it’d do at this point.”

Across town, Alysa brought a newly-bought bed set into a small apartment. The walls were bare and aside from some kitchen appliances and a bed, there was no furniture. Her insurance agency gave her the funds for a new apartment and some items after a fire burned her home down. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for now. She was hoping to get more furniture in the future.

Her life had taken several bad turns of late, particularly when it came to losing her status as a priestess in training for Iseda. She had little to look forward to, so she found herself burying herself in her work. When she wasn’t going on missions with the Commission, she went on cases with Creed. She also had a training session with her witch mentors coming up. Learning witchcraft gave her a new set of mystic skills in addition to her Iseda magic. It was another way to keep herself busy. And as she put her new sheets on her bed, she received a text message from Creed. She was relieved to get a case.

Elsewhere…

The woman’s hands trembled, making it difficult to open the cash register. The man with the gun stood at the other side of the counter, nervously looking in different directions. It was late and the gas station was empty; he waited until the motorcyclist paid for his gas and left before he made his move but he was constantly aware of his surroundings. “Hurry up, bitch!” he shouted while waving his gun. The station attendee finished putting the money in the bag and the gunman snatched it off the counter, then quickly made a move for the door.

When he turned, his first sight was his own reflection in a motorcycle helmet visor. It confused him for only a second, giving him pause. The motorcyclist’s gun barrel dangled at his side, pointing to the floor. A trigger was pulled and the gunman’s foot was obliterated in a cloud of bone and flesh. He fell on his back, dropping the money and his weapon as he screamed. The motorcyclist raised his glock and pulled the trigger again. Blood sprayed along the freshly mopped floor. Sobbing out of fear, the clerk ran into the backroom where she locked the door and frantically called the police.

The Horseman calmly left the gas station, holstering his gun at the hip before sitting on his motorcycle. He knew the clerk was calling the police and he knew he’d be long gone once they got there. Before he could start his engine, he heard a voice coming over his helmet’s radio: “What the hell are you doing?” The Horseman silently looked over his shoulder and noticed a car parked on the side of the road, several yards away. The headlights were off, but the streetlight cast enough light that the contours of the car were visible. He recognized it as a vehicle belonging to FBI agents – specifically, his handlers for this mission.

“Just getting some gas,” Horseman answered.

“Bullshit. You paid for the tank and left, then went back inside. Next thing we hear are gunshots.”

“Some junkie tried to rob the place. I took care of it.”

“The junkie wasn’t your mission.”

“What’re you gonna do, fire me?”

“I will repeat your objectives…”

“I already know ‘em.”

The agent ignored him, “… There are three people of interest: Hell’s Trespasser chapter president Dexter Simpson, his vice-president Mikey Spencer, and former club member Jake Markham. Markham may have pertinent information regarding a failed sting operation. We want him alive. The other two men are to be eliminated. We’d like to know your plan going forward so there won’t be any further… distractions.”

The Horseman spoke with an emotionally tired tone, “The Hell’s Trespassers are after Markham. We find Markham, we’ll find our targets. Going by your files, Markham knows Farrell Creed, who is probably willing to protect him. Going to Winghaven is our next step. I should be there by morning if you’ll stay outta my way.”

“What if, on your mission, you run into Creed and Alysa Saraki?”

“I’ve met them before. I can handle it.” Horseman started his bike and sped off.

In Winghaven, Jake climbed down a ladder, landing in the safe house under Stagger Lee’s. Creed and Alysa followed.

“It ain’t the Hilton, but it’ll keep you outta sight for now,” Creed told him.

“It’ll do, thanks,” Jake sat on the cot tiredly, “I’ve been on the run so long, it’s nice to relax for a second.”

Alysa gazed around the room thoughtfully, “Y’know, I just realized I haven’t been down here since Mom died.”

“Seems like a long time, huh?” Creed responded.

“Yeah,” she answered sadly, “So much has happened since then.”

“Yeah, life does that. Let’s go topside and we’ll…”

Creed trailed off as something caught his eye across the room. Curious, Alysa and Jake simultaneously turned their heads in the same direction to see what he was looking at. From their point of view, there was only a blank wall. And yet, Creed’s stare was intense, focused. He said nothing, his eyes locked on something only he could see.

The man was standing only a few feet away, although his feet never touched the floor. He wore the same flannel shirt and jeans he had on the day he he died. His beard was partially gray and his hair was long and greasy. His lips curled into a snarl that almost turned to a smile. And when Nelson Creed spoke, his voice was ethereal and moved like a ship passing through a fog.

“It’s a real pisser, ain’t it boy?”

Continued…