Satan's Burnouts Must Die!

David Sodergren

This book is a work of fiction.

Any resemblance to names and people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the author.

Cover painting by Connor Leslie

Copyright © 2020 David Sodergren

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 9798572945430

For Steve

WARNING

This book contains disturbing scenes of

strong sex and violence.

Part I

1

10th July 1972

Death rode into town just as the sun was setting on Dennyville.

Sam West heard the low growl of the motorcycles long before he saw them. He stood on the sidewalk and waited, sweat trickling down the nape of his neck. It was too hot to be outside today. Far too hot. His beard itched, but with a bag of groceries tucked under each arm, he couldn’t scratch it.

The door to the hardware store opened, and Greg Lewis stepped out, fanning himself with his wide-brimmed hat.

He looked wearily at Sam, and said, “What in the name of all hell is that racket?”

Sam ignored him. He hated the man, always had, ever since Greg had taken Martha Sadler to the Valentine’s Ball when he knew Sam had been about to ask. It was the worst kind of betrayal, the end of a burgeoning friendship that never had the chance to blossom.

It had also been fifty-two years ago, but Sam West was a man who took the responsibility of holding grudges very seriously.

Even now, one day shy of his seventieth birthday, he glanced at Greg and briefly considered putting his groceries down, taking an egg from the carton that balanced precariously atop the bread and milk, and cracking it on Greg’s round face. Though the temptation was mighty strong, he decided against it. He did, however, curse his luck. Of all the stores to stop outside, it had to be Greg’s…

More people emerged from behind closed doors, more faces at the windows, drawn by the electric promise of excitement.

It was a rare commodity in Dennyville.

Sam’s granddaughter Angel called it a ghost town, and she wasn’t far wrong. Dennyville, Nevada was hardly the epicenter of American cultural significance. It felt more like those retirement communities Sam’s wife, Agnes, had spoken about in the years leading up to her passing. She had wanted them to sell the ranch and move to Florida — Florida! — to settle down in some godforsaken snake-pit with a thousand other retirees, sitting poolside waiting to die. It was one of the few arguments he had won in their thirty-six mostly happy years of marriage.

The noise grew louder. It sounded like the roar of a jet engine. Sam squinted into the setting sun, watching the black silhouettes through the heat haze as their wheels kicked up dust and sand. It reminded him of those old westerns he used to see as a kid. But those weren’t horses, they were motorcycles, and it sure as hell wasn’t John Wayne or Bill Cody riding into town.

“Trouble’s brewing,” said Greg in his all-too-familiar rasp. His voice had never been the same since the throat cancer.

“You the fucking oracle now?” said Sam. He smiled and turned to Greg. “Sorry old timer, didn’t realize I was speaking out loud.”

Greg nodded and smiled back. “Senility’s a bitch, huh?”

“I wouldn’t know. Still got all my faculties intact.”

“Pity you never had much to begin with.”

Sam looked back at the road. He was in no mood for Greg Lewis and his jibes. He often wondered if that thick black hair-dye had seeped into Greg’s brain and made him even more of an asshole, and on any other day he would have said so.

But not today.

Because today, for the first time in a long time, Sam West was in a good mood. It was Friday, which at his age didn’t normally mean shit, but this Friday was different. His granddaughter was coming to visit, to stay for the weekend to help him celebrate his birthday. He smiled at the thought. She had spent the last eight months travelling around goddam Europe of all places, which meant he had spent much of the last eight months alone. Sam had few friends, and apart from Angel, no family to speak of. Or, at least, none he wanted to speak of. His no-good son-in-law could ride all the way to Hell in that damn pink Cadillac of his.

“I hear Angel’s coming,” said Greg.

“That’s right.”

“Been a while. Sure be nice to see more young faces round these parts. Tell her I say hi.”

“She’ll be thrilled,” said Sam. “She always asks how that wrinkled old jackass from the hardware store is getting on.”

Greg laughed, his leathery face creasing in amusement, and then suddenly the bikers were passing them, their hogs belching black fumes from oversized exhausts, the noise deafening. Greg put his fingers in his ears, and Sam shook his head. He watched as they thundered past on a quarter ton of throbbing steel. Twelve of them… that was twelve too many. It made him uneasy.

Just keep on driving, he thought. Ain’t nothing for you here.

It looked like a mix of men and women, but he found it hard to tell these days, when the men wore their hair long and the women squeezed into black leather pants that left nothing to the imagination.

Times change, gramps, he heard Angel say, and it was true. Life waited for no man. The world around him kept changing. Angel insisted it was for the better, but while Sam had his doubts, he tried to keep them to himself.

No sense causing a scene at supper time, Agnes would say when the subject of politics was cautiously broached, before she had passed away in the sweltering summer of sixty-eight. Since then, Sam’s life had slowed, and that was how he liked it. He had a ranch and a cooler full of beers, and planned to live out the rest of his days enjoying them until he could join Agnes… wherever she was. Heaven? He wasn’t sure he believed in it. But she was somewhere out there, that much he knew. He would never tell anyone this — not even Angel — but on some mornings, he could swear that when he woke, he could hear her slumbering peacefully next to him.

The cycles had passed, the gut-churning thrum of their engines now a fading memory echoing through Main Street.

“Damn hell-raisers better not be planning on stopping here,” said Greg, as if he had read Sam’s mind. Hell, maybe he was the oracle. “They ain’t welcome.”

“So why don’t you go tell ’em?” said Sam, turning on his heels and heading towards his pickup. He hated to admit it, but for once he agreed with the old dope. Dennyville was bad enough without some shit-kickers coming in and tearing the place a new asshole.

He quietly hoped it was the last he would ever see of them, not realizing that their arrival signalled the end of life as he knew it.

2

The pickup was unlocked, and Sam laid his groceries on the passenger seat, mindful not to crush the chocolate cake he had picked up from Cakes & Stuff. Angel had told him she was coming straight from an anti-Vietnam War protest, and wouldn’t have time to pick up a cake. He wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. She was his wife’s granddaughter, all right. His old lady would have been proud. She hated the war, abhorred violence. What she didn’t realize — what with her being a woman, and all — was that sometimes violence was necessary.

It was another of his philosophies he chose to keep quiet around his family.

He looked in the rearview. The street was dead. Greg Lewis was still out there, no doubt waiting for some other poor sucker to pass by, but there was no traffic. The curious gawkers had retreated indoors to their air-conditioned palaces now the motorcycle gang had passed through. He wondered where they were headed. They had gone west, so most likely on their way to San Francisco or LA.

Sam pulled out onto the empty road. It wasn’t a long drive to his ranch, but the grumble of the engine bothered him, so he switched on the radio, changing the station until he found a Frank Sinatra tune he liked.

The only lights in town were at red, so he waited a moment, humming along to the music, then drove through what little was left of Dennyville. The town, like so many others in the desert, was ninety percent Main Street, with a few scattered buildings on the outskirts. Everybody knew each other, which was fine with Sam, because that meant he knew who to avoid.

As he drove, he spotted the tracks the bikes had left on the asphalt.

“Dumb little bastards.”

He had no time for biker gangs. At least the hippies had stood for something. Bikers believed in nothing but chaos and anarchy. They were too young and stupid to realize the world needed order. Conformity and discipline, that was what the young people of today required.

“You’re getting old,” he said softly.

The rocky desert rolled by unhurriedly, darkness spreading across the landscape like a tumor. He saw lights ahead, the flickering neon sign of Fiona’s Diner. Normally he would have stopped for his supper, but not tonight. He had to get home and make sure the ranch was perfect for Angel’s arrival. Okay, maybe perfect was an overstatement, but at least clean.

Something glinted beneath the neon sign, and his heart sank.

“Ah, shit,” he muttered.

The glowing pink-and-blue reflected off the smooth chrome of a Harley. Hell, more than one.

“Goddam bikers.”

They were there all right, the motorcycles parked outside, taking up half the road. He slowed the pickup as he neared, steering around the bikes. A couple of riders loitered outside. He tried to peer through the windows, but the dying rays of the sun reflected harshly in his eyes. It was okay. He didn’t need to see. The bikes were there, and so were their riders. He was no mathematician, but that was one equation he could figure out himself.

So what? Business is business, and Fiona needs all the business she can get.

He didn’t believe that, though. Bikers were always bad news. They lacked respect.

Respect.

That was another thing missing in the young folks today.

“Dammit,” he sighed. He liked Fiona’s place. She made the best burgers in the State, and he ate there several times a week. But more than that, he liked Fiona. She was a fine-looking woman who took shit from nobody. He had seen her manhandle men half her age and twice her size out of that diner when they made an off-color comment or touched the waitress inappropriately. Sam was glad he had never been on the receiving end of her anger. Sometimes, on the increasingly lonely nights out on the ranch, he would sit on the porch with a six-pack and wish she were there with him, just shooting the shit and watching the sun go down.

You’re a fool, he thought. She’s twenty-five years your junior. A woman like that ain’t looking for some old rascal to shack up with.

He noticed his heart beating a little faster than normal, which at his age was usually cause for concern. Was Fiona alone in there? She could handle herself, but could she handle twelve rowdy hell-raisers? He wasn’t convinced.

So do something about it.

Surprising himself, he spun the wheel and turned off the road, pulling up alongside Fiona’s own ’69 Chevy Camaro.

Now what?

He wasn’t sure. Hot damn, why’d they have to ride into his town on the night Angel was coming to visit? He didn’t have time for this. He checked his watch and saw it was almost five. Christ, she would arrive in two hours, and he hadn’t even started supper. He killed the engine and sat in the stifling heat, rolling down the window. Warm air invaded the cab. Outside, music drifted by, the jukebox cranking out some pop hit from yesteryear, drowned out by the sound of yelling and hollering from within. Glass smashed, someone laughed, and a woman shouted an obscenity he hadn’t heard since the war, the kind that would make a sailor blush.

He thought of Fiona, alone in there, scared out of her mind as they ran roughshod over her, wrecking the place.

No respect. They’ve got no damn respect. Not for the law, not for their elders, not for their parents.

Sam calmly opened the glove compartment. The small storage area was crammed full of crap. He pulled out a crumpled map of Nevada, a five-dollar bill, an unpaid parking ticket dated June twelfth, 1967, and there, beneath a half-empty packet of Camels, he found what he was looking for.

A Smith & Wesson 36.

It had been in the glove compartment for a long time. Back in the early sixties, Agnes had got it into her head that she should pick up hitchhikers, one of her damn fool notions that Sam found so endearing. Things were safer back then, but he had still insisted she keep a gun in the car in case things ever got nasty. They never did, and the pistol had lain buried like a relic until now. It felt heavy in his hand, burdened by the weight of expectation, and before he could change his mind, he tucked the weapon into the waistband of his busted Levi’s and exited the vehicle. He closed the door and headed towards the diner, thumbs hooked in his pockets.

That’s right, real casual.

He encountered the first two of them blocking the entrance. The strangers lit a cigarette that carried the pungent aroma of marijuana. Sam waved the smoke away, glancing at the bikers. One of them — a boy, probably still a teenager — leaned against the wall in jeans and a black waistcoat, his dark hair tied in a dust-coated ponytail. He paid Sam no attention, taking a deep draw on his smoke before handing it reverentially to his companion, a girl in matching leathers. She had her back to Sam. Her black pants were so tight they looked like they’d been painted on. He could see every curve of her buttocks, the fabric—

Keep your head in the game.

He dragged his eyes up to the print on the back of her jacket. It was a symbol, a strange one he didn’t recognize. A circle within a circle, and in the center, a five-pointed star. Beneath the tumbling auburn curls of the girl’s hair, two words were scrawled into the well-worn leather.

SATAN’S BURNOUTS.

“You got a problem, gramps?”

That was the boy. He exhaled, smoke streaming out his nostrils, lips curling into a disinterested sneer.

“You’d better hope not,” said Sam in a low growl.

The girl turned to him, eyeing him suspiciously. She was pretty, no older than twenty-five, with big, inquisitive eyes buried in a face that needed a damn good scrub. She fiddled with a silver necklace, and Sam noticed her jacket was unzipped to the navel. It was apparent she wore nothing beneath it.

“Hey, the old fart’s checking me out,” she said, elbowing the boy.

Sam hurriedly looked away, color creeping into his cheeks. “No, I… I was looking at your necklace.”

You damn fool.

“What, this little thing?” she said coyly, letting the necklace fall back into place between her breasts, a simple silver chain with the peace symbol on the end.

“Uh, yeah,” said Sam.

“You wanna touch it?” said the girl, thrusting her chest towards him, inviting him, daring him to do so.

Sam tried to speak, but his mouth was as dry as the desert that surrounded Dennyville. He shook his head instead.

“You can if you want,” she said innocently. She really was a beautiful girl, the kind you see smiling vacuously on magazine covers.

“No, thank you,” said Sam.

“Go ahead,” she said, looking up at him, biting her lip. She knew exactly what she was doing. “I don’t mind.”

“No,” he said. “I have to be going.”

Just walk away. For God’s sake, just walk away.

She pulled her jacket open, exposing a small pink nipple. Sam looked away. Inside the diner, something hit the floor and shattered.

“Listen,” he managed to say, “I have to go—”

She tugged her jacket closed and elbowed the boy.

“Hey Johnny,” she pouted, “you gonna let him stare at my tits?”

“Quit looking at my girl, mister,” said the kid, sounding like he couldn’t be bothered with the hassle. His eyes had a bleary look to them, and he scratched at a cold sore.

“Unless you got money,” said the girl, and she giggled. “For ten bucks, I’ll show you my pussy.”

“I wasn’t…” started Sam, and then she grabbed his crotch and laughed out loud.

“Oh shit, Johnny, he’s gets harder than you!”

Sam shoved her aside. The stupid girl had grabbed his gun, but he didn’t stop to tell her that. He could hear her laughing at him. He felt powerless. Humiliated. Goddammit, what had happened to him? At their age he had been fighting for his country. Hell, he had killed for it. Back then, he had been a hero, a decorated veteran.

Now here he was, being made to look a fool by a pair of snot-nosed, pot-smoking adolescents.

Let it go. Check on Fiona.

Feeling less confident than he had moments before, Sam shut out the girl’s braying laughter, and pressed his hand to the glass door.

The sign had been turned to display an illustration of an apologetic-looking cactus in a cowboy hat, the word CLOSED printed next to it.

That’s not good, he thought, and then he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

3

Sam hadn’t seen Fiona’s place this busy since the new highway was built in sixty-six and most of the traffic had been diverted fifteen miles south of Dennyville. Of the two booths, Several bikers were packed into the first, while the other was occupied by a lone figure, his chin resting on clasped hands. Four of the gang crowded the counter, behind which stood Fiona. She didn’t seem to notice Sam coming in. The leather-clad patrons shouted and jostled, some of them fighting, some of them — mostly the women — dancing by the jukebox, pumping in quarters like they were planning on staying all night.

Sam patted his waist subconsciously, feeling the comforting metal of the pistol.

What are you doing here, old man? Trying to be a hero?

He wasn’t sure. There were so many of them.

Just leave. This isn’t your fight. You’ll only get yourself killed.

He shuffled backwards towards the door. The girl outside was still laughing, and it filled with him with a strange, icy dread.

You’ve gone soft, he thought, and it was true. In the good old days, he would have drawn that pistol and fired the first round into the roof, then pointed it at the meanest-looking guy in the place, the one sitting on his own, and told him to—

Ah, but that was then. Now he was almost seventy, and though he still had a full head of hair, it was as gray as a storm cloud. His muscles had turned to flab, particularly around his waistline.

But you’ve got a gun.

True.

And what if they do too, huh? What then, tough guy?

Sam stepped back, feeling as small as he had ever felt, and that was when he caught Fiona’s eye. She shot him a look of gratitude, before turning back to the gang members vying for her attention.

No backing out now.

Fiona scribbled down orders on a notepad, and it was only when she turned her head that Sam noticed Molly O’Neil lurking behind her. Molly was Fiona’s only employee, a waitress like she had once been. She was seventeen, and as pretty as a peach. Sam supposed the younger patrons tipped her as handsomely as Sam used to tip Fiona when she wore that red-and-white checked skirt, the one that rode up higher and higher as the afternoon wore on.

Molly seemed to be using Fiona as a human shield. The girl visibly shook, and he couldn’t blame her.

“Hey, someone gonna take my order?” shouted one of the bikers from the booth.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” said Fiona. The electric fan on the counter blew her hair across her face, and it reminded Sam of the women in those shampoo commercials on the television.

“Send the waitress over,” replied the biker. “We’re hungry.”

This guy was older than most of the others, though still only in his thirties. To Sam, that meant he was a kid. He wore a denim jacket, the sleeves cut off to reveal sunburnt arms that glistened an angry pink under the lights. SATAN’S BURNOUTS was inscribed across the back of his jacket, and below the writing was that weird symbol again. He ran a hand through his ginger beard and slammed his fist off the table.

“Hurry the fuck up,” he shouted.

Sam surprised himself by stepping towards the booth.

“I’ll take your order,” he said, trying to sound conversational, and the bearded man looked up at him. His face was as burned as his arms, except for two white squares around his eyes where his aviators would usually sit. He pointed at Molly.

“Fuck you. I want her to take it.”

“Yeah, I want her to take it too,” said a kid next to him. He grabbed his dick through his jeans, and everyone seemed to crack up at that.

“And I said I would do it,” said Sam. He hated the way they acted, and the hate emboldened him. It was a more aggressive emotion than fear, and a more familiar one too. Comforting, almost. “Now, what’ll it be?”

The biker said nothing. Instead, his hand disappeared into his pocket.

Rotten, icy tendrils coiled around Sam’s heart. His fists clenched instinctively.

That’s the problem with kids — they’re unpredictable. At least in war, you know the enemy is trying to kill you. It’s never a surprise.

The kid pulled a switchblade, smiling up at him and toying inexpertly with the weapon. Years ago, Sam would have disarmed the kid without breaking a sweat.

Grab his lean wrist, snap it, snatch the knife and hold it to his throat. Maybe even cut him a little to show you mean business.

But he was old now. Old and slow. What if he tried and failed? What would they do to him?

The kid stabbed the switchblade into the counter and left it vibrating from the impact like a tuning fork.

“I said I want her to do it,” he said, his voice pregnant with malice.

“It’s okay, Mr. West,” said Molly. “I’ll do it. I’ll take their order.”

Sam nodded, ashamed at his inaction, as Molly left the safety of the counter and walked towards the booth, the checked skirt swishing across her thighs. All eyes were on her, and she took each step slowly, as if afraid she might fall and embarrass herself.

“Molly, wait,” said Fiona.

The girl turned to her. “It’s okay,” she said, forcing a pained smile. “I got this.”

Sam stood back to allow her access. The scent of her perfume mixed with the smell of biker dirt and unwashed leather. In that moment, Sam was immensely jealous of her bravery. Where he had frozen, she had found the courage to act.

A new song burst forth from the jukebox. It was one of those psychedelic rock and roll tunes that had been all the rage in the sixties. He recognized the song, had heard it before in the diner. Primitive, it was called, though he didn’t know the group’s name, and didn’t care to.

A girl by the counter, wearing a skirt the width of Sam’s belt, shouted, “Turn it up!” She scrambled past Sam and onto the table, flashing her underwear as she did so. Her feet knocked the salt and pepper shakers over, and they rolled across the table and smashed against the floor. Once up there, the girl started gyrating her hips like she was hula-hooping in slow motion, giving the diner patrons a real eyeful.

Is that dancing? thought Sam. God, you’re getting old.

He watched as she moved her body in time to the music. The assembled crowd yelled and cheered, cries of “Take it off, baby!” competing with the song. Another girl joined her, then another, the table groaning beneath them. Sam glanced at Molly, but she just looked down at her blank notepad.

“So,” she said, raising her voice to be heard. “What’ll it be?”

The kid looked at her, offering a weather-beaten smile. “I got an idea, baby. Why don’t you get up there and join ‘em?”

Molly shook her head vigorously, her blonde hair flowing across her face.

“I bet you could really move,” he grinned. “I bet those sweet little titties of yours really move.” He reached up towards her chest, and she swatted his hand away, which drew derisive laughter from the occupants of the booth.

“Your order… please,” she said, near tears.

Sam knew he should step in. He tried to walk, but his feet were blocks of concrete. There were too many of them. They outnumbered him twelve-to-one. The odds were all wrong.

“Burger, fries, and a shake,” said one of the gang, a girl no older than Molly. She had heavy black eye make-up that made her look like an ill-tempered raccoon.

Molly hastily scribbled the order down, and Sam wondered if they had any intention of paying. He looked around the diner, at the dancing girls, at the guys tussling in the corner. A paper airplane menu sailed past him. Fiona was preoccupied with taking orders at the counter and failed to notice the chaos. Or maybe she was blocking it out?

His gaze came to rest on the man sitting alone in the booth. He looked early forties, with hard, mean eyes that blazed with cruelty, set into the kind of face Sam doubted had ever encountered a smile. Sam had seen that look once before, in the eyes of a soldier he had served alongside, name of Collie Jackson. The guy had enlisted with the sole intention of killing, using the military to legitimize his bloodlust. During his time serving, Sam had met a few guys like that, but there had been something about Collie Jackson that made him watch his back in case the man ever turned his rifle on him.

The creep in the booth gave off similarly dangerous vibrations, like a volcano with lava simmering below the surface, ready to explode. The guy caught him staring, and they locked eyes. This time, Sam was determined not to be intimidated.

“What’s the special?” he heard one of the gang ask, and he turned back to Molly. She looked confused. Without thinking, Sam’s hand inched towards the gun.

“The what?” she said. “We… we don’t have a special today.”

“Aw come on, baby,” laughed the kid. “The special! I know you got the special.”

“I’m sorry… it’s just what’s on the menu.” She swallowed hard, her lip quivering.

Do something, you pathetic old bastard.

And then what? They would turn on him.

“Baby, I asked you for one thing,” said the kid. “The goddam special. You gonna give it to me or not?” He laughed again, a mocking laugh that finally brought tears to Molly’s eyes.

“But there isn’t one,” she stammered, and looked to Sam for help.

“Sure there is,” said the kid. “It’s right… under…” He leaned over the table and grabbed the hem of Molly’s skirt. “…here!” he shouted, lifting her skirt up past her waist. There was a flash of color as her panties were exposed, and she squealed, trying to push her skirt back down.

“Don’t,” she cried, but then the kid had her by the wrist and was pulling her down across the table.

“Hey,” said Sam weakly, but no one paid him any attention.

“Hold her down,” barked the kid, as he reached for Molly’s skirt and ripped it off, leaving her bent over the table in her floral underwear, her face squashed against the formica. The kid tossed the torn garment into the crowd, several of the bikers fighting over it like eager bridesmaids catching the bouquet.

“Please don’t!” she screamed. She looked at Sam in horror.

“Hey,” he said again, louder this time, but not loud enough.

The kid smacked his hand across Molly’s ass. “Hey, looks like the special is a shake!”

“Sam!” shouted Fiona, and he saw her trying to fight her way through the crowd. The gang reacted quickly, grabbing her by the arms and forcing her against the counter, pinning her. One of them clasped a hand over her mouth as she thrashed and kicked. Sam looked from Fiona to Molly. His heart thundered in his chest, and he struggled to breathe.

The kid ran his tongue across chapped lips as he traced a filthy finger along the waistband of Molly’s panties. He pulled them out a little, letting the elastic snap back into place, then looked over at Sam and smiled. What few teeth remained were the color of chewing tobacco. He unzipped his fly. “Watch this, old man. This is how the Burnouts roll, you dig?”

He smacked Molly hard enough across her rear to leave a red handprint, then grabbed a handful of her underwear. “Baby, when I ask for the special, you give me the motherfucking special.”

The girls were still dancing on the counter, but everyone else had stopped to watch. Sam couldn’t believe it. They weren’t just watching the spectacle… they were laughing.

“No, please don’t!” screamed Molly. She was looking at Sam, right at him.

The kid pulled down his jeans and shorts, his hard cock pointing at Molly’s ass. To roars of approval, he bunched her panties in his fist, yanked them down to her knees, and—

“Stop right there or I’ll blow your goddamned head off.”

The voice surprised everyone, not least Sam. At first he wasn’t sure who had said it. Then he saw his arms extended before him, the kid’s head lined up perfectly with the barrel of the gun, and realized it had been his voice.

Oh shit, you really did it.

The kid turned to face Sam.

“The fuck you think you’re doing, man?”

“Let her go,” said Sam. “Let her go now.”

The kid looked at him for a long time, his cock throbbing in his hand. “Cool it, old timer,” he said. “You ain’t gonna shoot nobody.” For all his bravado, he didn’t sound convinced.

“Wanna bet?” said Sam. With a gun clutched in his hand, he felt his confidence returning. Hell, he almost felt young again. The gun hadn’t fired in many years — maybe never had — but a good old-fashioned revolver like this would shoot nice and straight.

“What’s she to you anyway?” said the kid.

“She’s a friend of mine.”

The kid looked down at her.

“She’s a prime piece of ass,” he said absently. “That’s all.”

“Take your dirty goddam hands off her.”

The kid regarded him coolly. “What if I don’t?”

Sam applied six pounds of pressure to a seven pound trigger.

“Then I’ll have to kill you.”

Shrugging half-heartedly, the kid let go of Molly.

“Shit man, I was just foolin’. Ain’t nobody got hurt.”

Sam’s eyes flashed to the leader sitting in the booth. He was watching with keen interest, but made no move. A hint of a smile crept stealthily across his face.

Suddenly Sam was aware of movement. He felt a burly hand on his forearm, and turned in time to see a dark-haired biker the size of an outhouse approaching him.

Sam responded by shaking free and slamming the butt of the pistol into the man’s nose. The sound of the cartilage snapping was as loud as a gunshot. The biker staggered backwards, tripping over his feet and falling against the wall, blood gushing from his shattered nose. A couple of bikers rose, reaching into their pockets.

Sam stayed put. He aimed the gun at the kid again, who stood there with his pants around his ankles, a look of defiance on his face. His slowly wilting dick told a different story.

“I swear to Christ in heaven that if you don’t pull your pants up right this second, I’ll put a bullet in your fucking skull, do you understand me?” said Sam. “And anyone else who fucks with me. You dig?”

“He ain’t got enough bullets,” said someone.

“Yeah,” said another. “You can’t shoot us all.”

“Maybe not,” said Sam. “But I could take down five of you before you stopped me. How does that sound? There five of you here willing to die?”

“All right, all right,” said the kid, backing off. “Cool it, man. I wasn’t gonna do nothing. Just giving her a little scare, that’s all.” He took a last longing look at Molly’s ass. “All right, you heard the man. Let her go.”

The bikers released her, and Molly pushed away from the table. She stood a moment, sobbing, then yanked her underwear up.

“Okay, Molly,” said Sam. “Go to Fiona.”

She looked at him with wet, red eyes. “My skirt,” she said, self-consciously covering her underwear. Someone snickered.

“Where is it?” said Sam. No one responded. “Give the girl her skirt back. Now.”

“What you gonna do about it, gramps?” said the man in the booth. “We let the bitch go. Consider yourself lucky.”

Sam hitched in a troubled breath. He was irrationally angry at Molly for making this more difficult than it needed to be. “Go to Fiona, Molly.”

She just stared at him, her face all screwed up, black mascara tears running down her cheeks. Then she turned to the kid who had stripped her. He smiled and winked.

“You bastard,” said Molly, and she spat in his face.

The kid stopped smiling. Phlegm dribbled down his bristled cheek.

No one moved, no one made a sound.

"You shouldn't have done that," the kid said casually, wiping away the mucus with his forearm, smearing it across his face. Then he grabbed Molly by her blouse, pulling her towards him. He raised his fist, ready to strike, the veins on his bicep bulging.

Without thinking, Sam applied the extra pound of pressure to the trigger.

4

The bullet slammed into the kid’s fist, crushing bones as it plowed through flesh and muscle like a knife through steak. Behind him, the wall exploded in a puff of splinters, the bullet embedding itself in the wood with a harsh thump.

The kid shrieked, holding his injured hand, blood splattering heavily on the checkered linoleum floor. Molly ran from him, taking refuge behind the counter. The other bikers had released Fiona, and she went to Molly, the young girl huddling close to her.

The kid looked at Sam, his mouth open, a string of blood-flecked drool trailing down his chin.

“You fucking shot me, man,” he said. His voice was distant, emotionless. He stared at his hand like it belonged to someone else.

“That’s your last warning,” said Sam. “Now get out. All of you. Get out of this diner… get out of my town. You’re not welcome here.” When no one moved, he said, “Get the fuck out of Dennyville, and don’t look back unless you want a gun shoved so far up your asshole you’ll be spitting bullets.”

Every member of the gang was staring at him. He knew that at the slightest provocation, they would attack, descending like lions on their prey. If he showed even a hint of doubt, a flicker of weakness…

He looked from biker to biker, their hands twitching above their pockets, some already wielding rusted blades, others flexing their fingers within brass knuckle-dusters.

But no guns. They don’t have guns.

Not that he could see, anyway.

The man in the booth stood. He cracked his knuckles and turned to Sam.

“It seems we’re not welcome here,” he drawled in a voice that was more used car salesman than biker. There was an air of authority around him, the rest of the gang hanging on his every word. Sam thought of the news reels about that desert wacko, Charles Manson, and his gang of psychopathic murderers. A shiver traced its arctic finger down Sam’s spine as he pictured Manson’s grinning, bearded face, a bloody X carved into his forehead.

The man left the booth and walked towards the kid. He took the boy’s hand, raised it to his lips, and ran his tongue around the wound, lapping up the blood. The boy squirmed in pain, but didn’t cry out. When the man finished, he kissed the kid on his stubbled cheek.

“The blood is the life,” he said.

“The blood is the life,” the bikers repeated. Every damn one of them. The man strode towards Sam, his mouth a ghastly scarlet smear.

“Stop right there,” said Sam.

The man did as requested. “Then how am I supposed to leave? You can’t have it both ways, Mr… ?”

“You don’t need to know my name.”

“No, I suppose not. But I like to know the names of the people I hurt. It helps me remember them.”

Sam scowled, his finger itching over the trigger. “If you’re trying to scare me, forget it. I fought two wars so that assholes like you could roam free. You don’t frighten me.”

The man gave the vaguest hint of a shrug. “And yet you waited until your young friend was seconds away from getting fucked. Why was that, I wonder?”

Sam said nothing, and the man continued.

“You know what I think?”

“Don’t care either way.”

“I think you wanted to see it. An old man like you… why, when was the last time you made love? When was the last time you—”

“That wasn’t love,” said Sam. “That was rape. There’s a world of difference.”

The man smirked. “Free love, man. It’s the one thing the hippies and I agree on. Well, that, and the benefits of good grass.”

“Get out,” said Sam. “And take your stinking, sleazy rapists with you.”

For the first time, a glimpse of anger crossed the man’s face, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. He turned to his gang and gestured towards the door. Sam kept the gun trained on him while the bikers filed onto the street, taking their sweet time about doing so, muttering not-so-subtle threats under their breath.

Soon, only the leader remained. Sam chanced a glance towards the women. Fiona had her arm around Molly, comforting her. They both watched.

“She okay?” said Sam. The adrenaline was wearing off, and he noticed his hand was shaking from the arthritis pain in his shoulder. The lone biker laughed.

“What’s so funny?” said Sam, relaxing his arm.

The biker stalked towards him, pausing as he drew level. “Nothing. It’s just… you realize I could have killed you?”

“Is that so?” said Sam.

The man nodded. “That so. The power of Satan flows through me. It gives me life, powers you couldn’t even dream of, let alone comprehend. Only those who’ve drunk from the pussy of divinity could understand.”

Sam chuckled. “The pussy of divinity… you’re a goddam psychopath, you know that, right?”

“I’ve been called that. People call me all sorts of names when they’re about to die. Psycho, crazy, head-case. After a while, when I’ve cut them a few times, they start to beg. Suddenly I’m not so crazy anymore. They call me sir. They tell me they’ll do anything. They tell me they love me.” He paused. “They call me a god.”

“I think they were right the first time,” said Sam.

The man attacked suddenly, his movements fast, almost otherworldly. Sam heard Fiona scream, then felt a jolting pain in his wrist. He bellowed in pain, and the next thing he knew the man had the barrel of the gun pressed to his temple, the metal hot against his skin.

“I like you, old timer,” laughed the man. “Shame I never got your name. I could’ve stopped by next time I’m in the neighborhood.”

Sam’s voice dropped to a whisper. “If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you.”

“Yes, of course you will,” said the man. “It was nice meeting you too.” He turned to the women. “It was nice meeting all of you. You got a pretty town. It’s a pity we can’t stay.”

“Yeah, a real pity,” said Sam, his voice a parched rasp.

The man removed the pistol from Sam’s skull and placed it on the table.

“The name’s Marduk, by the way,” he said. He glanced at the gun, then turned towards the exit.

Sam wasted no time. He lunged for the weapon.

“Don’t!” screamed Fiona, as he raised it to shoulder height and pointed the barrel at the man’s back.

The biker stopped in the doorway, waiting expectantly.

Do it. Pull the trigger. Blow that motherfucker away.

He wanted to, badly, but then Fiona was at his side, her trembling hands on his.

“Sam, put it down,” she said, her voice as soft as velvet. He looked at her tear-streaked face, at the trickle of blood from her nostril. “Just let it go. It’s over.”

Outside, the bikes revved and took off down the highway.

Molly threw up behind the counter, and Fiona buried her face in Sam’s shirt. She wept, and so did he, as the night once more fell silent.

5

“Why didn’t you stop them sooner?”

The words echoed through Sam’s brain on the short drive home. He gripped the wheel, knuckles white with fury.

“What took you so long?”

He hadn’t expected to hear it. Well, maybe expected was the wrong word. He hadn’t wanted to hear it.

He had found Molly’s torn skirt stuffed between the cushions in one of the booths, and brought it round to her. She hadn’t stopped crying since the bikers left, and she sat on the floor by the grill, tugging her blouse down over her thighs as he approached.

“Here you are,” he said, holding out the skirt and averting his eyes. She snatched it from his grasp, and he turned away.

That was when she said it.

“Why didn’t you stop them sooner?”

The words were a dagger in his heart.

“What took you so long?”

He didn’t have a good answer. He looked over at Fiona, and she dropped her gaze. She obviously felt the same way, and that was fine, because so did he.

Things had spiraled out of control. If he had just pulled the gun sooner, before Molly had been bent over the table about to get—

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s too late,” said Molly quietly.

Anger flooded Sam’s veins. He knew it was because she was right, but he couldn’t help himself. He turned, looking down at her as she cowered before him. “I saved you. I protected you. That kid was about to… about to…”

She broke down again, crying into the useless fabric of her ripped skirt.

“Stop it, Sam,” said Fiona. “Just stop.”

“But I shot him. I saved her.”

“You waited so long,” said Molly. “Everyone saw…”

But she couldn’t finish the sentence. Sam rested against the counter, wiping sweat from his brow. His shirt was soaked in it. He rubbed his eyes and looked at his feet.

“Listen, I said I’m sorry. What more do you want?”

“Just go home,” said Fiona. “I can handle it from here.”

He heard the disappointment in her voice and tried to change the subject.

“You gonna call the cops?”

“On what?”

He glanced towards the pay phone, the one that had a hand-written OUT OF ORDER sign on it. It had been like that for months.

“Okay,” he said. “Want me to call them when I get home?”

“Don’t bother. I’ll do it. Just go.” She glared at him. “Please.”

And so he had. He left them in the diner, got back in his pickup, and now headed down the old highway towards his ranch.

His hands shook, and he drove slowly. Christ, he needed a drink, something strong.

Arsenic?

“Fuck off,” he grumbled to himself.

The bikers’ tracks were still visible. A sickness rose in his stomach. What if they were out there, waiting for him? What would they do to him? He had thwarted their attempt to assault Molly… he had even shot one of them.

Satan’s Burnouts.

Why’d he have to get mixed up with a satanic biker gang? He had read about devil worshippers in the paper, seen them on the news, but part of him had never believed in their existence. They were the sort of thing you saw in bad drive-in movies.

You never should have stopped. If you’d just kept on driving, you’d be home by now, and none of this would—

But that was absurd. They would have raped Molly, and then Fiona. Hell, they might even have killed them. Okay, so he had acted too slow, he knew that… but still, he had acted. They would see that, eventually. Next time he saw them, they’d thank him, and give him an extra slice of pie with his supper.

Dream on.

He took the left turn that led to his ranch, leaving the highway — and the bikers’ tracks — behind. The pickup scrabbled over the rocks of the dirt road. He stopped the vehicle and sat a moment, overwhelmed with anger and frustration and shame.

Molly was right. She was absolutely one-hundred percent right. He had let them bully her, humiliate her… and he had stood and watched, a firearm tucked into his pants. He remembered the way he had said, “Hey,” like that was going to stop them.

Pathetic.

And to think he called himself a man. A decorated war veteran, reduced to a simpering coward by a gang of bikers. What would Angel have thought if—

Angel!

Shit, she would be here soon. How was he going to put on a brave face for her? Would he tell her what had happened? He’d have to. The police would want to speak to him, presuming Fiona called them. And why wouldn’t she? That’s what the cops are there for — to protect and serve.

He picked the groceries off the passenger seat and trudged up the stairs to the porch. The front door was unlocked, which was how he had left it, and he entered the kitchen and placed the bags on the table. Tears came then, big ones, running down the lines of his face and disappearing into his beard.

The hallway clock chimed six times, and Sam put his head in his hands. He remained there a while, then wiped his eyes with his sleeve and made his way back out to the pickup to get the cake.

He stopped halfway down the hall, pausing to look at a framed display of his medals. Though Agnes had refused to talk of his war days, she had allowed this sole concession to his violent past. Sam thought that secretly she had been proud of his bravery.

“I don’t deserve them,” he said. “I’m a goddam fraud.”

He punched the display, the glass splintering and jabbing into his knuckles, but he didn’t care. He could worry about that later. Brushing the shards aside, he tore the medals from the backboard. The entire frame came with them, falling to the floor and taking the nail with it, leaving a round hole in the wall like a tiny bullet hole.

With his medals clutched in his bleeding hand, Sam stormed into the kitchen, opened the trash, and threw them in.

6

Fiona dabbed at her nose with a napkin. The bleeding had stopped, and though the organ was sore to touch, she didn’t believe it was broken.

She looked at Molly fastening her skirt, a spare one Fiona had found in the store cupboard. It was too big around the waist, but it would preserve her modesty until she got home.

Poor girl.

“How you holding up?” she said. It was a stupid question, she knew, but it was out there before she realized.

Molly finished fastening the button. “Okay,” she whispered.

“Come on, I’ll take you home.” She put her arm around Molly’s waist, and the girl leaned into her, seeming to collapse into her arms.

“Why did they do it?” she asked.

Fiona held her, stroking her hand through Molly’s golden hair. What could she say to that? That she should get used to it? That being touched, groped, spoken to like dirt and treated like shit was all part of being a woman?

“Because they’re cowards,” she said instead. “Because they only way they can feel like real men is to bully women.”

“I hope they die,” said Molly simply, with a weariness that belied her seventeen years.

“Me too,” said Fiona. She was unsurprised at how easy it was to wish someone dead. She had done it before, many times.

Molly pulled away. “Do you have to call the cops?” she said.

Fiona smiled tenderly at her. “There’s a bullet hole in the wall. If Sheriff Hall notices that next time he’s in for coffee, I’ll have a lot of explaining to do.”

If he’s not too busy looking at your boobs, she thought. Sheriff Hall was no better than any of the other regulars. He liked to come in and order a drink and talk about the weather, but the whole time, his eyes were on one thing — Molly. Men were all the same. Well, except for Sam West. Fiona had caught him looking at her the way most men looked at Molly, and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t sometimes get a thrill out of it. Sam was old, she knew that, but she wasn’t getting any younger herself. He was a good man, a brave man… or so she had thought.

Now she wasn’t so sure.

She supposed he had been scared. Could she blame him for that? No. She had been scared too. But at least she had tried. When that boy had molested Molly, she had run to her. Sure, they had stopped her, restrained her, even hit her… but she had tried.

God, she had tried.

“Please don’t call them,” said Molly, snapping Fiona from her thoughts.

“Oh sweetie, I have to. You understand that, don’t you?”

“But I… I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want people to know.”

They stood by the door, gazing out over the arid, black-cloaked landscape. The refrigerator hummed softly in the corner.

“Oh Molly, honey, no one will know. We’ll keep it between you, me, and the sheriff.”

“No,” said the girl. “People always find out. There are no secrets in a place like this. Everyone will know. They’ll look at me… and they’ll know.”

She had a point. For as long as Molly lived here, she would always be the girl who was assaulted in the diner. There was no escaping it. Things stuck round here like dead flies to a windshield.

“Don’t call them,” urged Molly, desperation in her voice.

Fiona took her hand. “I have to. The cops might be able to stop them before they… hurt someone else.”

“The cops don’t care,” she said sadly. “I see it on the news. They never catch them, and if they do? They let them go. No one cares what they do to us. No one.”

“That’s not true,” said Fiona, but she was lying.

She knew all too well.

Years ago, before she moved to Dennyville, she had been attacked by her stepfather. She had gone to the police, and the officer taking her statement had exposed himself to her.

She had been seventeen, the same age as Molly.

After that, the whole incident was forgotten about, and she was sent back to live with her abusive stepfather, until the day she beat him unconscious with an iron. She could still picture the red V shape on his forehead from where she had hit him. It was the last time she ever saw the bastard. After that, she headed west and never looked back.

“Let me sleep on it, okay?” said Fiona. “I’ll call you in the morning. How’s that sound?”

The girl nodded, and Fiona tried to smile for her.

“Now let’s get you home.”

She flicked the light switch, plunging the interior of the diner into darkness. Only the drinks machine glowed coolly, casting an eerie blue glow across the empty booths. As Fiona locked up, she heard the distant sound of wheels on asphalt. Her heart quickened, and she turned in time to see an eighteen-wheeler rumbling past, kicking up plumes of dust. Moments later, it was gone, the lights enveloped by the night.

Molly squeezed Fiona’s hand. “I thought it was them,” she said.

So did I, thought Fiona, though she didn’t — couldn’t — say so.

“You don’t have to worry about them anymore. They’re long gone.”

Yet still her heart pounded, so hard she felt it might crack a rib. She placed her hand on the small of Molly’s back and led to her to the Camaro by the soft glow of the neon sign. The diner was normally open til eight, but she didn’t think there’d be too many disappointed customers tonight.

Molly stopped dead in her tracks. “Oh no,” she said in a barely audible voice.

“What?” Fiona turned to the girl, to her pale, frightened face. Her heart started to pound again. She looked ahead, but could see nothing except for her car and—

“Shit,” said Fiona.

The Camaro. The tires were flat. No, not just flat. They were slashed to ribbons.

“Bastards,” she said. “Fucking greaser assholes.”

She circled the vehicle, inspecting it. All four tires had been destroyed, and KUNT had been scraped into the door, flakes of paint lying in the dust like dried blood.

“What do we do?” said Molly. She sounded like she was on the verge of a panic attack. Her fingers scratched at Fiona’s arm hard enough to leave marks.

Fiona took her by the shoulders, stooping slightly to look directly into her eyes.

“It’s okay.” She spoke slowly, reassuringly. “Someone will come along. They can drive us.”

“What if no one does?” said Molly, her eyes darting around the desert.

“They will.” She pulled Molly closer to her. “There’s always some tourist who takes a wrong turn and ends up cruising through Dennyville.” She tried to smile. “Hell, it’s the only reason I’m still in business.”

“But—”

“No buts,” she said firmly, aware they had little choice. It was walk into town, walk to Sam’s, or stay in the diner. But she didn’t want to stay in the diner, and she didn’t think Molly would either. She wasn’t sure if Molly would ever set foot in there again after what had happened. Bad memories are like ghosts.

They haunt you.

Yes, they haunt you, and Fiona knew that better than most. Often, late at night, her subconscious would play its tricks. She would be a teenager again, hugging her pillow, listening to her stepfather’s drunken footsteps weaving blindly through the hallway, bumping into the walls, heading for—

Shit, she could hear them now. She clamped her eyes shut, swallowing hard. This was not the time. She concentrated, trying to force the footsteps out of her head, willing them away. Molly whimpered, and it was only then that Fiona realized the footsteps weren’t in her head.

They were coming from behind.

“You ladies still open?” came a harsh voice they both recognized. Fiona bit back a rising scream.

Molly, on the other hand, screamed loud enough for both of them.

7

Fiona turned, stepping protectively in front of Molly. The girl gripped her arm so tightly it practically cut off the circulation to her hand.

It was one of the bikers, shrouded in darkness.

“What do you want?” said Fiona.

“I just asked… are you open?” It was the guy Sam had smashed across the face with his gun, his nose and mouth stained red with dried blood. “I don’t mean your legs or nothing. I mean the diner. Is… it… open?”

He was alone. Wasn’t he?

“We’re closed,” she said.

The man pointed to the window. “It says you’re open til eight on Fridays.”

“We’re closing early tonight.”

“Oh yeah? Got somewhere to be?”

Fiona nodded. “Yeah. We were just leaving.”

The man laughed and stepped towards them. “Shame about your tires, cunt.”

Fiona looked at him, at his blood-smeared face, at the thick, rusted chain that hung from his hand, and thought about the damage it could do to her and Molly.

“We don’t want any trouble,” she said carefully.

“And I want some fries. That too much to ask?”

“I told you, we’re closed!” she snapped.

Breathe, Fiona. Breathe.

“Would you please leave us alone,” she said as calmly as possible. “Haven’t you had enough for one night?”

“I haven’t had any fun tonight,” he sneered. “It was Eddie got all the kicks. Ain’t that right, Eddie?”

“Damn straight,” said another voice.

“Oh God,” whimpered Molly.

More footsteps approached, from all around now. Figures emerged from the shadows like dark and shapeless phantoms. A blade glinted in the neon light of the sign, and Fiona turned to Molly.

“The diner,” she hissed. “Run.”

She pushed Molly in front of her, hard enough to get her moving. The girl understood. She ran, and Fiona followed, struggling to keep up with the younger woman, fumbling in her pocket as she did so, searching for the keys.

Where the fuck were they?

The bikers closed in, patient and unhurried, as if they knew the women had nowhere to hide.

“Hurry!” screamed Molly. She was at the door, hands pressed to the glass, tears running down her cheeks. Fiona caught up to her. She found the keyring and wrenched it free, isolating a key and jabbing it into the lock.

It was the wrong one.

Molly turned to the bikers, backing up against the cool glass. “Hurry! For God’s sake, hurry!”

Fiona tried the next key. Why did she have so many fucking keys?

Molly sank to a crouch, her hand covering her mouth. “They’re coming, oh God, they’re coming,” she kept saying.

Fiona caught the advancing biker’s reflections in the door, and then she had it, the right key sliding in. It turned effortlessly and the door opened, the little bell above it ringing. Fiona grabbed Molly by the arm and hauled her inside. The girl fell flat across the floor, lying on her back.

“Get up!” roared Fiona as she slammed the door shut and shoved the key into the lock with quaking, fearful hands. It slid satisfyingly into place. And then what? The door was made of glass. The windows were made of glass. Half the fucking building was made of the most breakable substance on the planet.

But that didn’t matter, because she and Molly were inside, and the bikers were outside. Even if it was for only a few seconds, it was all the time she needed. She abandoned Molly by the door and raced behind the counter. Her notebook was still there, the gang’s orders scribbled down in handwriting only Fiona could read.

“They’re gonna kill us, they’re gonna kill us,” said Molly.

“Not if I can help it,” said Fiona. She reached under the counter, hands searching for… for…

Something pressed into the base of her spine, and she felt a warm breath on the nape of her neck.

“Looking for this?” said the one who called himself Marduk, and then his laughter split the night like an axe to the forehead.

8

Fiona froze. All at once, the fight drained from her. Her body sagged, her shoulders slumped, hands still grasping hopelessly beneath the counter for a handgun she knew was no longer there. When the bikers first arrived, she had forgotten it even existed. Heck, she had never used it in all her years of working here. And now, when she needed it most, it was—

“You really should lock the back door,” said Marduk. She turned, and there he was, backlit by the drinks machine. He had a Coke in one hand, her gun in the other.

“I didn’t call the cops,” she said. It was the first thing that came to mind.

He took a long drink. “That’s good. For us, I mean. Not for you. For you, it’s very bad news.”

“Just let us go. We won’t tell anyone. You have my word.”

“It’s not your word I’m interested in.”

The door shattered inwards in an explosion of glass, the bikers filing in one-by-one like school kids walking into a classroom. Fiona watched Molly scurry silently across the floor, her face drained of color.

The bikers flocked round her. Molly kicked, lashed out, but they swarmed her, a plague of locusts with one thing on their wretched minds.

“Leave her alone!” screamed Fiona. She went for them, leaving the leader sipping his Coke.

A female biker stepped in front of her, and Fiona surprised her with a punch to the gut. The girl doubled over, gasping for air, and Fiona brought her knee up into the girl’s face. She felt the impact, and when the girl’s head flew back, a couple of her front teeth dangled from torn, bleeding gums. Fiona shoved her aside and barged headfirst into the crowd, as Marduk stood behind the counter, laughing like all this was a game.

A sick, perverted game.

She caught glimpses of Molly’s bare legs through the tangle of denim and leather-clad limbs, heard her pained cries, and it wracked Fiona’s body with an agony worse than any physical pain. It was silly, she knew, but she had come to regard Molly as the daughter she never had. She had always wanted children, a girl in particular, and Molly had arrived at a time when Fiona had been in a deep depression.

She saved your life.

That was true.

Two years prior, Molly had arrived for work to find the diner closed, and no sign of Fiona. Instead of just taking the day off like a normal teenager, she had cycled to Fiona’s place on the outskirts of Dennyville. There, she had looked through the window and found Fiona lying facedown on the floor, powdery white pills scattered around her.

She had broken the window, climbed in, and stuck her fingers down Fiona’s throat until she retched the pills up, then cradled her head on the sofa while Fiona sobbed out her entire ghastly life story.

Molly had been fifteen then, and she never told a soul what had happened. What was it Molly had said earlier?

People always find out. There are no secrets in a place like this.

She was wrong. Secrets were kept… but only between family.

This was why Fiona gave not a second thought to wading into the sea of bikers. She scratched her nails down one of their faces, she elbowed one in the throat, all the time getting closer to Molly. They had her by her legs, spreading them wide and laughing. Someone ripped her blouse open, the plastic buttons popping and rolling across the wooden floor of the diner.

“Get off her! Get off her, you bastards!” screamed Fiona.

They seemed surprised by her ferocity, and for a moment it gave her an edge.

But all moments must end, and some come sooner than others.

To Fiona, it felt like an eternity, a million years passing in slow-motion, a dream from which she could never wake… but in reality, it was over in seconds.

Someone took her by the hair and pulled, her head snapping back. A fist connected with her cheekbone, and the sound was like an atomic bomb going off in her ears. Her vision blurred, doubled, and she staggered backwards, hitting the counter with her hip, the man still holding her hair.

No, it wasn’t a man. It was a girl, young and pretty and freckled. She smiled at Fiona, her mouth moving. Fiona thought she was talking to her, but then the girl blew a large purple bubble with her gum. It popped, and she whirled Fiona round to face the counter, slamming her head down onto the glass top. It smashed, long shards of razor-sharp fragments slicing her skin. Her face was inches from a key lime pie, blood dripping onto it and staining the cream topping red.

Raspberry sauce, she thought absurdly, and then she was hauled back. Someone punched her in the side, and she expelled a lungful of air. They hit her again, and this time she collapsed, unable to breathe.

The girl kneeled beside her. Fiona felt her head droop, and the girl slapped her.

“Hey,” she said with a bubblegum smile. “You get to watch.”

They dragged Molly into the middle of the room, kicking and screaming. Her skirt was gone, and her blouse hung in tatters over her slender shoulders.

“Leave her…” slurred Fiona, dozens of minuscule pieces of glass embedded in her face.

Several of the men were already unbuckling their jeans in preparation.

“Wait!”

The voice rang out strong and true.

Sam, thought Fiona, but she knew it wasn’t.

Her luck had run out a long, long time ago.

The bikers stopped, looking expectantly at their leader like hounds waiting to be fed. He strode forwards, stopping before the spread-eagled Molly.

“This one belongs to me,” he said with a wicked smile. “She belongs to Satan.”

He got down on his knees.

“Let her be an offering to The Great One, our true Lord. Let the blood she spills sate his thirst, let her drive him to a climax of sexual frenzy!”

He held his hand out, and within seconds someone placed a knife in it. He waited, then wrapped his fingers around the blade. With his other hand, he gripped the handle and pulled the blade free. Blood trickled between his fingers, dribbling onto Molly’s breasts, running down her stomach and pooling in her bellybutton.

“The blood is life, the blood is death,” he said, and the group repeated the words, chanting them, quietly at first, then building in intensity.

Fiona tried to get up, but the bubblegum girl slammed her head against the counter and she almost blacked out. She wished she would. What she was witnessing was an abomination.

Still Molly struggled.

She’s a fighter, that girl, thought Fiona. She deserves better than this world.

“I will mark thee,” said Marduk. “I will mark thee with the holy symbol, so that in hell, you will be one of the chosen ones. You will sit by Satan’s cock, servicing him. May your asshole gape for all eternity.”

Then he leaned over, knife in hand, and cut her.

Molly screamed.

The tip of the knife scratched across her pale stomach, slicing the pliant, delicate flesh. Blood frothed and bubbled, then spurted, hitting Marduk in the face. He licked his lips, tasting her, and dug in harder. Molly’s screams turned to frenzied, choked sobs. Marduk wiped away the crimson fluid from her stomach and resumed cutting, not stopping until she was marked by two circles, one within the other.

The girl by Fiona’s side nudged her with a sharp elbow. “You see what he’s doing? She belongs to Satan now. She’s an offering.” The girl sighed wistfully. “I wish it could have been me.”

“You’re all… crazy,” said Fiona, as she fluttered in and out of consciousness.

“Crazy for Satan,” said the girl, as she unzipped her black leather pants and tugged them down over her ass. She took Fiona’s limp hand and placed it between her legs, using it to massage her cunt, panting as Marduk went to work carving the five-pointed star onto Molly’s belly. “Crazy for Satan,” she cooed, as she pressed Fiona’s hand harder against her crotch.

“You sick fucks,” said Fiona, but no one could hear her. The jukebox was playing again, one of the female bikers stabbing in quarters and jabbing randomly at the buttons.

Fiona knew the song well. It was Once In a While by The Chimes. When Fiona had inherited the diner from her old boss, the jukebox had been populated with psychedelic garage rock. Molly had taken it upon herself to even up the selections with some of her own collection of doo-wop records from the fifties and sixties.

One time, Fiona had deposited the garbage out back, and when she returned, she had caught Molly dancing to Once In a While, singing into her mop like it was a microphone. Fiona had sneaked back out so as not to embarrass the girl, but from then on, every time the song came on she thought of that moment. That private, unguarded moment of a young girl enjoying her life, so much still to come, so much to look forward to.

Now Molly writhed on the floor of the diner in an ever-widening pool of blood, her golden hair plastered to her face, a pentagram — for that was what it was — carved into her tender flesh, while Satanic monsters laughed and sneered and touched her.

They had marked her.

Let them. If there really was a hell, then it was here on Earth.

They were living it right now.

Marduk held the knife out, blood dripping from the tip, and someone took it from him. He put his hands on Molly’s breasts, smearing blood across them, and leaned over her.

“She’s yours, Satan! Live through me!” cried Marduk, his eyes closed in holy rapture. “She’s yours! She’s yours! She’s yours!”

The bubblegum girl rubbed Fiona’s hand between her legs.

“Take me, Satan,” she moaned. “Fuck me in front of the Nazarene… split me in two! Oh Satan, split me in two!”

Fiona turned her head from the atrocity and looked at the girl. Her eyes were closed, head against the counter, mouth open in revery. Fiona took her chance. She reached over to the girl’s jacket pocket and grabbed the hilt of the knife that protruded from it.

A switchblade.

She pressed the button, and the blade snapped out. At the soft whick the girl’s eyes opened, but by then it was too late. Fiona plunged the knife into her throat, right up to the handle. The girl spat out her bubblegum and choked, hot blood gushing from her jugular. She reached up with confused hands as Fiona twisted the knife, angling it until it severed her windpipe, watching as the girl’s face turned blue.

She had to move fast. As Fiona got to her feet, unnoticed, she took a last look back at Molly.

The girl was dead, thank the Lord.

If only it could have come sooner.

She staggered to the door as the gang chanted, screaming in a blood-frenzy, giving their lives to their Dark Lord. She wanted to kill them, kill them all, every last one of them.

But not right now. She wouldn’t stand a chance.

Blood poured down her face, getting in her eyes, and she felt faint. Only adrenaline was keeping her going now.

Come on, come on!

She was almost at the door. What then?

Run. Run and hide. Flag down a car. Just get away!

Shattered glass crunched beneath the soles of her shoes.

Quiet!

As if they could hear her. They were lost in praise of Satan, the jukebox still cranking out Once In a While as Marduk thrust furiously into the dead girl that Fiona had loved like a daughter.

She stepped through the broken glass of the door, crossing the threshold, the warm early evening air refreshing against her skin. She had to get to the road, had to reach it, hope that a car passed. It was her only chance.

She gazed down the highway. It was a desolate, literal road to nowhere. There were no cars, no headlights, no nothing. She stumbled towards Dennyville. She was limping, but couldn’t remember hurting her leg. Wiping blood from her eyes, she smelled the bubblegum girl’s sex on her fingertips.

She was dead now, that bitch, and Fiona didn’t regret it. She never would, not for as long as she lived.

Where are the cars? Where is everybody?

Someone had to come along. Wasn’t Sam’s granddaughter Angel arriving tonight? And didn’t Sheriff Hall usually come in for a coffee around six? Come on, someone had to drive by. She didn’t think she could make it into town by herself, not in the state she was in. She needed help.

If there truly was a God in heaven, now was the time for him to make his presence known.

“Where do you think you’re going, bitch?” shouted a distant voice, and Fiona closed her eyes.

“God can go fuck himself,” she said, and then a gun fired and Fiona fell lifeless to the dirt.

Part II

9

Angel Hooper was nervous.

She hadn’t seen her gramps in almost a year, and now she was minutes away from a full-blown reunion… but that wasn’t what bothered her. She knew as soon as they got together it would be like no time had elapsed, and they would settle back into old routines. He would offer to make dinner and mess it up, then she would step in and fix things. After, they would sit on the porch and drink some beers and reminisce. She would talk about what she had been up to, and he would talk about her grandmother, carrying on into the small hours until one of them fell asleep under the stars, usually her.

So no, it wasn’t seeing her gramps that was making Angel nervous. It was something else entirely. She looked over at Daniel Adamson shuffling uncomfortably in the passenger seat.

“I’ve never seen you so quiet,” she said. “What’s eating you?”

She already knew the answer, but there was no harm in bringing it up.

“Dunno,” shrugged Daniel. He took a beat, then added, “You think he’ll like me?”

“Yeah, of course he will.” She smiled. “Well, probably.”

“Now why’d you have to go and say that last part?” said Daniel, though he was smiling too. She couldn’t see it, but she could hear it in his voice.

Angel giggled. A car shot by doing around seventy, and she stole a glance at Daniel as its headlights momentarily illuminated the interior of the vehicle. He looked like a kid in the dentist waiting room, and it made her laugh. She had never seen him like this. He was always so confident, so assured. But he had never met her family before. Or any of her friends, for that matter. How could he? They had met in Paris four months ago, sheltering from a storm under a cafe awning, and that had been it. Love at first sight, or something like that. That night they had gotten drunk by the Seine, then gone back to Daniel’s hotel room and made love until morning. It had been wonderful, perfect, and they had spent the rest of their time together traveling Europe by train, by bus, by bicycle. They were inseparable, and when Daniel had proposed to her on a small island near Venice, Angel had said yes.

He was as broke as she was, so the ring had been three daisies tied into a loop, a holdover until he could afford a proper one. She still carried it in her purse, and would continue to do so until the day she died, which was hopefully a long way away.

“You know I’m kidding,” she said. “You guys’ll get on just swell. I promise.”

“What if he marches me out the door with a shotgun?”

“You’ve seen too many movies, city-boy. Not everyone in the country’s a hick, y’know.”

“I know,” he protested. “It’s just…” He paused, pushing his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “Should I take these off?”

“Your glasses? Why?”

Daniel sighed. “It’s just… what if he thinks I’m a—”

“A what?”

“A coward. What if he thinks I’m a coward?”

“And you think it’d be better if you took your glasses off and fell down the porch stairs?”

“Angel, I’m serious,” he said. “You told me he was a war hero. What the hell’s he gonna think of me protesting the war?”

“He’ll think of you the same way he thinks of me.”

“No, it’s different between men. He won’t respect me.”

“Yeah, you’re right. You’re absolutely right. Take your glasses off, that’ll earn his respect.” She put her hand on his knee and squeezed it. “You’re such a dork.”

Daniel chuckled softly. “You’re right, as usual.”

“Look,” said Angel, “Gramps doesn’t like to talk about the war. He’s a gentle soul now, most of the time. Just don’t go feeling me up in front of him or something. Then he would shoot you.” She smiled. “Oh, which reminds me. We’ll be sleeping in separate rooms.”

Daniel snorted. “Damn, really?”

“Sorry, but it’s the rules!” she laughed.

“And what if I was to sneak in and surprise you in the middle of the night?”

Angel grinned. “Then I’d think you were the bravest man I’d ever met.”

She patted his thigh and watched the road. Dennyville appeared on the horizon, the small buildings little more than specks. What would Daniel make of the town where she grew up? He was from New York, of all places. The Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, Central Park… how could Dennyville compare, with its one post office and a Main Street where the tumbleweed outnumbered the cars two-to-one?

Her stomach grumbled loud enough to be heard over the engine, and she wondered what her gramps would be rustling up for supper. He was a TV dinner man through-and-through, ever since her grandmother had passed, but he was always tried — God bless him, he really tried — to make something when she came to stay.

“Welcome to Dennyville,” she said to Daniel, as they passed the old town sign. She slowed the vehicle as they cruised along Main Street, Daniel staring out the window.

“It’s nice,” he said.

“You don’t have to lie. It’s no Big Apple or anything…”

“I wouldn’t lie to you. It’s…” he searched for the right word. “It’s cute. Like you.”

Angel rolled her eyes, though she secretly enjoyed the compliment. After a succession of lousy boyfriends, she was glad to have a man who seemed to worship the ground she walked on. And why not? She was one hell of a catch.

A catch? Ugh, she hated that phrase. It implied ownership, like Daniel had chased her down and caught her, and now she belonged to him. Well, to hell with that. The pair of them were equals.

Til death do us part, right?

She grinned and turned up the radio. It was playing Make It With You by Bread. As she listened to the folksy melody, a cop car sailed by. Sheriff Hall waved at her through the window, and she waved back, marveling at the size of his mustache, which was in danger of overwhelming his round face. She found herself laughing.

“What’s so funny?” said Daniel.

“Nothing,” she replied. “It’s just good to be home, y’know. I’ve missed this place.” She turned to him. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

“I’ll always be with you,” said Daniel. “I’ll never let you go. I promise.”

He leaned forwards and kissed her, and she responded in kind. They were still kissing as they left Dennyville, and although Angel kept one eye on the road, she knew the chances of them encountering another vehicle were slim.

Daniel’s hand crept up her thigh like a spider. It brushed against the crotch of her jeans, then slipped beneath her t-shirt.

“Hey,” she said, but she liked the touch of his fingers on her skin. He moved past her navel — he knew she didn’t like to be touched there — and his hand came to rest on her breast. “You’re a creep,” she said. She kissed him harder, and had the sudden crazy idea of pulling over and doing it right here in the car.

Is that so crazy?

She supposed not. People probably do that all the time. But she hadn’t… and now she wanted to. Hell, she knew Daniel was thinking the same thing. His tender cupping of her breast had turned into something urgent, more sexual.

She pulled away from his kiss, her lips wet with his saliva. “Want me to pull over?” she whispered.

“What, here?”

“Why not?”

He kissed her again, harder than before. Her tongue found his, as Daniel continued to caress her breast. He brushed the underside of it, and she giggled. She couldn’t help it. She was naturally ticklish. Her previous boyfriend had hated the fact she laughed at his touch, but it wasn’t malicious. She just had sensitive skin. Anyway, Daniel didn’t seem to mind. She could tell by the bulge in his pants.

He looked at her with those big doe eyes of his.

“I love you, Angel Hooper,” he said.

“I love you too.” She turned back to the road. It no longer mattered where they stopped, as long as it was—

“Jesus Christ!” she screamed.

There was a woman on the road.

In the glare of the headlights, she looked otherworldly, her face a bleached-out vision of terror. Angel spun the wheel wildly, slamming her foot on the brake. The woman’s arms were raised as if she were trying to flag them down, and Angel jerked the wheel hard to avoid her.

It was too late.

The car turned, tires screeching, and the side of the vehicle struck the woman with a sickening thud.

10

“Oh my god,” said Angel.

The car had come to a stop in the middle of the road. She glanced down at Daniel, wedged between the dashboard and the passenger seat.

“What was that?” he said.

She tried to speak, but no words came out. Her hands shook… her whole body shook.

“Did we hit someone?” asked Daniel.

Angel nodded. Something howled nearby. She checked the rearview and saw the woman lying prone, facing the stars.

“Who was it?”

“A woman,” croaked Angel, finding her voice. Ahead, she could make out the neon glow of Fiona’s Diner, the sign jutting up obtrusively across the landscape. The woman must have come from there. But why would she be walking on the road after sunset? Did she have a death wish?

Daniel pivoted, staring through the back windshield.

“Oh shit,” he said.

“Is she dead?” said Angel. Tears sprang to her eyes. “Did I kill her?”

“It’ll be fine,” said Daniel, which didn’t answer either of her questions.

Angel groped for the handle and opened her door. Daniel grabbed her arm.

“Where are you going?” he said.

She looked at him, at his pale face. “We need to check on her.” She made to leave, but Daniel held onto her.

“There’s no one around,” he said.

She turned to him, confused. “What?”

“I just mean… there are no witnesses.”

His words began to sink in, like blood seeping through a bandage. “We can’t leave her. We hit her.”

“I know.” He spoke slowly. “I’m just saying—”

“Well, don’t say it,” she snapped. How could he even suggest such a thing? A hit and run? Maybe that’s how they did things in New York… but not here. That was worse. That was a crime. This… this was an accident. That was all. An accident.

Yeah, keep telling yourself that.

She exited the vehicle. Daniel joined her. He took her arm, but she wriggled free. She didn’t want him to touch her, not right now. After all, that was why they had hit the woman in the first place, wasn’t it? Because his hand was up her shirt.

You didn’t stop him.

No, but that was beside the point.

They walked towards the motionless figure, sneakers scuffing over the blacktop.

“She’s dead,” said Angel. “She’s dead.”

“We don’t know that,” said Daniel, though he sounded scared, his voice dry. Maybe he was right? Maybe they should get in the car and hightail it out of here. No one would ever know…

Absolutely not.

She mustn’t think like that. She was an adult, and had to face grownup responsibilities like anyone else.

Even jail time?

The thought horrified her.

Maybe she’s not dead?

But Angel knew she was. She knew it in her gut, the way she knew when she was hungry, or tired. The woman was dead, and she had killed her.

She had killed her.

That made her a murderer. She would be arrested, go to court, go to jail, her whole life destroyed… and for what? So she could be felt up by her boyfriend in the car?

Your fiancé.

Okay, yeah, that made it much better. The judge would surely show lenience after hearing that.

I’m sorry, your honor, but my fiancé was tickling my titties, and I liked it and wanted more, and that’s why this woman is dead now. I rest my case.

The woman lay there, legs and arms sprawled out. Blood covered her face, but Angel recognized her.

“Fiona,” she said.

“Who?”

Angel kneeled by the woman, looking at her lifeless face. “She owns the diner. My God, I killed Fiona.”

The world seemed to spin, and Angel lost her balance, falling onto her ass. She felt sick, her eyes blurring. Daniel was talking, but the words were meaningless. She looked at Fiona, tried to focus. The woman stared right at her, glassy eyes open wide, judging her, accusing her.

“Angel… Angel, can you hear me?” said Daniel.

“I killed her,” said Angel. “I killed Fiona.”

She looked at Daniel, and he stared helplessly back at her.

“I killed her,” she said, and then the dead woman on the road reached up and grabbed her wrist. Angel screamed as cracked nails dug into her soft skin. Fiona looked up at her. She tried to speak, exposing blood-red teeth.

“Help me,” was what she said.

11

Sam stood by the kitchen window and stared out towards the road. The old clock in the hallway chimed seven.

Angel would be here soon.

She was usually very punctual, one of the many traits he admired in her. Sam had no patience for time-wasters. He looked out across the desert, but found no signs of life. He could be the last man on Earth for all he knew.

Would that be so bad?

He closed his eyes, but all he could see was the tormented face of Molly O’Neil, and the leering grin of that rat-bastard biker holding a gun to his head. What was his name again? Marduk? What kinda damn-fool name was that?

He scrubbed at some dishes in the basin for a while, anything to occupy his mind. The clock chimed once. How in the hell had half-an-hour passed already?

He could feel himself getting angry. No, not angry. That wasn’t what he felt at all. He was… apprehensive. Worried, even. It wasn’t like Angel to be late. What if…

What? What if she’s run into the Burnouts? Is that what you were thinking?

“No,” he said, but it was a lie. A filthy lie. That was precisely what concerned him. What would they do to Angel if they got their rotten hands on her? The same thing they were going to do to Molly?

And this time, there’s no one to stop them.

His blood curdled. Should he go out there and look for her?

“You’re being silly,” he told himself, yet he abandoned the window and investigated the cupboard in the kitchen corner. Inside, a shotgun rested on two hooks on the wall, four boxes of shells on the shelf beneath it, next to a packet of out-of-date cereal and a paint can, the white paint oozing over the sides. He lifted the shotgun down and cradled it.

It felt strange.

He hadn’t held the weapon in, oh, at least twenty years, not since that pack of coyotes had attacked his horses. He cracked the barrel and saw it was empty, then picked up two shells and inserted them. It closed with a satisfying thunk.

“I’ve missed you, old friend,” he said, then felt foolish talking to a gun. He turned, half-expecting to see Angel in the doorway laughing at him… but there was no one. No person, no sound, except the relentless tick-tock of the grandfather clock. He stuffed a few shells in his pocket, then took the beer and the shotgun and went outside to wait on the porch. He settled himself onto the porch swing, laid the gun by his side, and waited.

It was dark out, but Sam had lived here for so long he didn’t need light to know what was out there. The worn pathway to the gate, then his pickup and the dirt track that led to the road. Beyond that lay rolling plains of dust and rock, and far away, edging over the horizon, the peaks of the distant mountains.

The crickets chirped, but other than that, all was still. He farted, breaking the near-silence, and opened his beer, dropping the ring-pull at his feet.

Should he call Fiona? He doubted she wanted to speak with him. Better to wait until tomorrow, or the day after. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to eat there again. How could he look Molly in the eyes after what had happened?

You saved her, his subconscious argued, and the more beer he drank, the more he agreed with it.

The hallway clock struck eight. Goddammit, he didn’t like this. Angel should be here by now. If not, she woulda called. She always called. He left the shotgun and the empty beer can on the porch, and trudged inside. There, he grabbed another beer, and sat by the phone, flipping through the little notebook that lay beside it. The notebook had the number of everyone in town, written in Agnes' impossibly tiny handwriting. He found Fiona’s home number and dialed, waiting as the phone rang out.

“Dammit,” he said, slamming the receiver onto the cradle. It didn’t catch, and fell to the side, dangling by its cord. “Pull yourself together.”

He stooped to reach the phone, hearing the joints in his knees and back popping. He was stiff from sitting too long, and… wait, what was that?

A noise outside.

A vehicle was heading up the driveway.

They’ve come for you. You’re finished now, old man.

Bright light streamed in through the gauzy lace drapes, blinding him, and he remembered the shotgun was still on the porch.

Old fool! Might as well have left a shovel to dig your own grave.

He hastened through the house, leaving the phone hanging like a suicide victim. Footsteps thudded up the porch stairs, and he broke into a jog, fumbling with the door handle and throwing it open.

Sam stepped out into the night air, his heart hammering, but he was too late.

They were right in front of him.

“Gramps!” cried Angel. She threw herself at him and he stumbled back, her arms closing around his neck. She buried her head in his shirt and sobbed.

He hugged her tightly, then relaxed as if afraid he might crush her. “You’re alright,” he said.

A car door slammed, and Sam’s stomach dropped.

“Who’s that?”

Angel didn’t release him. “That’s Daniel,” she said through the tears, as if that answered anything. “Oh gramps, we need to call an ambulance. We need to call an ambulance now.”

“Who’s Daniel?”

“He’s my… my… oh gramps, it’s Fiona. She’s…”

Fiona.

“Angel, we have to get her inside,” shouted the man at the car.

“Fiona,” said Sam. He moved Angel back, looked her in the eyes. “What about Fiona?”

“She’s… she’s all messed up,” said his granddaughter, and then she dissolved into tears once more.

12

Sam and Daniel carried Fiona from the car to the front room, laying her on the couch. She was awake but drowsy, and when she saw Sam’s face her eyes widened.

“Sam,” she said.

“It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

He took her hand and gently squeezed it, inspecting the damage the bikers had wrought on her pretty face. There was glass everywhere, small shards that poked out from her cheeks and chin. Her lips were sliced open, her nose bleeding, but the worst part was the nasty gouge out of the side of her head. It looked like a bullet had done it. The wound was packed with dirt and gravel.

Sam looked at Angel. She lurked in the corner, chewing her nails. She wouldn’t be much use in a situation like this. Women rarely were. Beside her stood the boy she had brought. He couldn’t recall what she had called him. He wore glasses, and Sam doubted he’d be much help either, but he needed someone.

“You,” said Sam. “Get me a wet cloth from the kitchen.”

The boy nodded. “Where is it?”

“Angel, help him,” commanded Sam, and the two of them left Fiona and Sam alone. Fiona’s eyes flickered, and she tried to sit. He held her down. “Easy, tiger,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Tell me what happened.”

“Molly,” she said, salty tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

“What happened to Molly?”

She let out a ragged sigh.

“Get a glass of water,” shouted Sam, hoping Angel would hear him. He turned back to Fiona. “It’s all right. You’re safe now.”

Fiona took several deep breaths. “They came back,” she said. “They came… back for us.”

The boy hurried into the room with the glass of water and a wet cloth. Sam took them, holding the glass to Fiona’s dry lips.

“Sip it,” he said. “Not too much at once.”

“I gotta talk to you,” said the boy.

“Then talk,” Sam grunted. Blood flowed from Fiona’s nostrils into the glass, turning the water red.

“Not in front of Angel,” the boy whispered, glancing to the door as Angel solemnly entered.

“How is she?” she said, as Sam dabbed the cloth at the cuts on Fiona’s face. There was a lot of blood, and she would definitely be scarred, but it could have been worse. Her hair was singed, but it would grow back and cover most of the damage. She was lucky. An inch to the left, and the bullet would have lodged in her brain.

“She’ll be okay,” said Sam. He gazed down at Fiona. “It’s not all your blood, is it?”

She shook her head, and a piece of glass below her eye socket caught the light. Sam reached for it, gripping it between his fingers, and pulled. Fiona winced, her blood spraying Sam’s face.

“Sam,” she said. “Molly’s dead.”

“Jesus.” He swallowed. “What did they do to her?”

He had to know. Because if he was going to go through with the idea that was forming in his head, he would need to be prepared for anything.

“They’re still out there,” said Fiona.

“Tell me what they did,” said Sam, more insistently.

“You have to call the cops.”

“I can’t. Phone’s out of order.”

And there it was. A lie, told right to her face, his plan set in motion. He didn’t have much time, and everything needed to be just right.

“I tried calling you earlier,” he said, embedding the lie further. “But there’s no tone. Lines must be down.”

“Then get the sheriff…” Fiona’s eyes closed. Sam waited a moment, checking on her breathing. Satisfied she was okay, he stood, wiping bloodstained hands on his jeans.

The boy came to him, put his hand on his shoulder.

“Listen, Sam,” he said, and Sam turned angrily towards him.

“You address me as Sir. I don’t know you from Adam, son. You could be one of ‘em.”

“Gramps!” cried Angel.

He looked at her, at her young face distorted with grief.

“That’s my fiancé,” she said.

“Your what?” Sam saw the boy recoil from his fury, and it almost made him smile.

“It’s true, sir,” he said. “We’re getting married.”

Sam sighed. “This ain’t the time nor the place.” He didn’t want to hear this right now. There were more important matters at hand.

Like revenge.

The boy went to Angel, put his arm around her. Sam looked at them both. He was angry. He wanted nothing more than to punch the little pipsqueak in the face.

Save it.

“Gimme your keys,” he said to Angel.

She glanced at him, still biting her nails. “Why?”

“You gonna drive into town and get the sheriff?” said the boy.

Sam shook his head and smiled. He couldn’t help it. “No. I know who did this.”

“You what?” said the boy.

“You gonna make me repeat myself, son? I said I know who did this… and I’m going to make them pay. Now give me your keys. They know my truck.” His grin widened. “If I take your car, they’ll never see me coming.”

“No, gramps,” said Angel. “I can’t let you—”

“Gimme your goddam keys, now!”

“Look, you can’t speak to her like that,” said the boy. He stepped forwards, and Sam pushed him back against the wall.

“Please,” said Angel, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Let’s talk about this.”

“You’ve got the time it takes for me to pour myself a drink,” he said, and stormed out of the room, trying not to think about Angel’s announcement. Why’d she have to go and tell him she was engaged? He needed to focus.

In the kitchen, he took a bottle of Scotch from the cupboard, and poured three glasses, offering two of them to Angel and the boy.

Her fiancé.

The boy held his hand up. “I’ll be okay,” he said. Sam shot him a look.

“Then I’ll have two,” he muttered, the boy shrinking under his reproachful glare.

Angel sat on one of the old wooden chairs and took a long drink. “What did you mean in there?” she said.

“Huh?”

She stared into the bottom of her glass. “You said you know who did this.”

Sam downed his first drink. “I had a run-in with a biker gang earlier today. They call themselves Satan’s Burnouts. Bunch of longhair psychopaths. Devil worshippers, I think. They were gonna rape the little waitress in there.”

“Molly?” said Angel.

“That’s right. Had her bent over the table. I shot one of them.”

Color drained from Angel’s face. “You… shot someone?”

“That’s right. Didn’t have any choice.”

Leaving out a few details there, aren’t you, partner?

“Did you kill him?”

“Nah. Just shot him in the hand. The kid’ll live, but he’ll have a hard time jerking off for a while.”

“Gramps!”

“Sorry,” he shrugged.

What’s wrong with you? That’s no way to talk in front of your granddaughter.

He knew that, and yet he couldn’t help himself. He felt energized.

Young again.

All he needed was a biker lined up in the sights of his shotgun, and—

“What did you mean by you’ll make them pay?”

Sam finished his second drink and slammed the glass on the table. Time was up.

“I meant what I said. I’m gonna find them… and I’m gonna kill them for what they did to that little girl.”

“Don’t you dare, Sam.”

The voice came from the hallway, and he turned to find Fiona leaning against the door frame. She was ashen, and the cut on her head had reopened, but she still looked pissed off. She was one hell of a woman, all right.

“Fiona,” he said. “You shouldn’t be up.”

“I need a smoke.”

“I don’t have any. Go back to—”

“How about you?” she said, turning to Angel.

“I got some grass,” said the boy, and Angel shot him a look.

“Even better,” said Fiona.

“Go lie down,” snarled Sam.

Fiona glared at him. “Why? So you can be a hero?”

“No, it’s just—”

“You gonna kill them? Is that what you’re thinking? You just gonna walk up to them and shoot them dead?”

He waited while she took a joint from the boy and let him light it.

“That’s good stuff,” said Fiona as she drew on the cigarette. “The kids always have the best grass.”

“You shouldn’t smoke that shit,” said Sam. “It rots the brain.”

“Says the man planning on getting himself killed.”

“Doesn’t Molly deserve justice?”

Fiona nodded. “She does. But not from you. You had your chance. It’s not your fight anymore.” She stopped, took another draw. “Get the damn cops.”

“Please, gramps,” said Angel. “Listen to her.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna take advice from someone stepping out with a pot dealer.”

“We’re engaged,” she corrected him.

“Not if I have anything to say about it. But we can talk about that later. Right now there’s a gang of creeps roaming the highway raping and killing women, and I can’t believe I’m the only one who fucking cares!”

Fiona just stared at him. “Stop making this all about you, Sam.”

“This is about Molly.”

“Bullshit. This is about you feeling emasculated. Weak. Old. My daughter didn’t lose her life so you could prove to yourself that you’re still a fucking man.”

“Your daughter?”

Fiona looked wounded. “She might as well be.”

“Might as well ain’t good enough. I’m going out there, and no one can stop me.”

“How will you find them?” That was the boy again. Did the little drug dealer not know when to shut up? “They’re probably long gone by now.”

“Tracks are easy to follow.” He smiled wryly. “I don’t expect you to understand, son. Maybe one day, when you’ve lost someone close to you.”

“Didn’t realize you cared so much about Molly,” said Fiona. She was crying, and took another toke on the joint.

“Of course I do.”

“You make me sick,” she said. “You’re using her. She’s just a prop to you, isn’t she?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s true,” said Angel.

Christ, her too?

“My English lit teacher told us about that. She said wronged women are often used to center a man’s narrative.”

Sam chuckled to himself. “I don’t know what that means either, but maybe I’m just a simple-minded old man who values honor, and decency, and patriotism.”

“Grandma wouldn’t have let you do this,” said Angel.

The words stung him, and he hated her for saying it.

“Well… she’s dead now,” he said. “She’s dead, and this is my house, my ranch. Dennyville is my town. And I’m not about to stand by and let some burnouts wreck it.” He looked at them, at their worried and angry faces. “Give me the damn keys.”

Angel rummaged in her handbag. She found the keys and silently held them out. Sam snatched them from her and shoved past the boy, heading for the door. Fiona blocked the way. She was unsteady, and gripped the door frame for balance.

“She deserves better than you,” she said, and spat a blood-flecked glob of phlegm at his feet.

He looked her in the eyes, held her gaze.

“Well, apparently I’m all she’s got,” he said, then Sam elbowed past her and left the kitchen.

The hunt was on.

13

The night air wrapped around Sam as he stepped onto the porch.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was the boy.

“Mr. West,” he said. “My name’s Daniel Adamson, and I need to talk to you.”

Sam turned to look at Angel’s fiancé, and decided to give the boy one last chance to prove himself.

“You coming with me?” He doubted the kid would be any use in a fight, but it would make the odds more favorable, and with any luck, the bikers would kill him.

“What? God, no,” said the kid, looking as frightened as a cat stuck up a tree.

“Then you’re wasting my time,” said Sam. He walked to the porch swing and hoisted up his shotgun, hiding the strain on his face as he bent. “Go look after the rest of the ladies.”

He smiled at that. It was a good line, one he might use on Greg Lewis sometime.

“I saw what they did to her,” said Daniel.

Sam froze, the gun clutched tightly in his hand, the shells bulging in his pockets. Something about the way the boy spoke…

“What do you mean?”

“The others… they didn’t see. But I did. I went in to the diner to call the cops while Angel stayed in the car with that woman.”

“Fiona.”

“That’s right.”

Sam was growing impatient. Every second wasted talking to this whimpering idiot was a second in which the gang could make their escape. And yet, something kept him there, waiting.

“You know the funny thing?” said the boy. “The phone was out of order. I wish I’d known that before. Then I wouldn’t have seen it. I wouldn’t have to remember.”

“What did you see, boy?”

Daniel looked down at his smart black shoes, refusing to make eye contact. “It was the blood. It wasn’t like in the movies. It was dark, almost brown. It was everywhere.”

“And Molly?”

“She… she…”

The boy broke down, and Sam left him there weeping on the porch, the track crunching beneath his cowboy boots. He tossed the shotgun onto the passenger seat of Angel’s car, and climbed in. When the headlights flashed on, he saw Angel watching from the kitchen window. He raised his hand. She didn’t wave back. The women were being ridiculous.

Centering a man’s narrative.

What the hell did that even mean? If a woman was unable to defend himself, then by God it was up to a man to step in. Especially when rape was involved. Christ, he knew Molly’s parents, Bo and Lorna. He briefly entertained swinging by their place and telling Bo, letting him come along for the ride, but that would take too much time.

As he pulled out of the driveway, he glanced at the shotgun. He hadn’t fired it in a long time, but he could still remember how it thundered in his hands. Guns had come a long way since the war. People were always inventing fresh ways to hurt, maim, and kill their fellow man.

And women.

Look at Vietnam, at the use of Agent Orange. Chemical warfare, they called it. It was cowardly. Sam knew there were only three ways in which you should kill a man — by fist, by blade, or by bullet. Anything else was plain wrong.

He stopped the car before the highway. The tracks of the motorcycles were still visible, all right. He’d have no trouble following them. But first, he had to see something.

Sam turned the wheel and hit the road, cruising towards the diner, following the glow of the sign like a wise man on his way to see the infant Christ. He arrived sooner than he wished, and parked one final time beside Fiona’s Camaro. An eerie sensation of deja vu passed through him, and despite the heat, he shivered. The Camaro’s tires had been slashed, and an obscenity scratched onto the side.

Sam waited, hands on the wheel, until he could wait no more. Any longer and he knew he’d change his mind. He had to see this through, and was keenly aware that once he entered the diner and saw what they’d done to Molly, fleeing would no longer be an option. It couldn’t be that bad compared to the atrocities he’d seen during the war; men with their heads blown off, blood spouting from their necks, men desperately holding in their guts through crooked fingers…

He left the motor running and exited the vehicle. The diner entrance was locked, but the glass had been smashed. He stepped inside and flicked on the lights. The boy was right about the blood. It flooded across the floor, squelching beneath his shoes. But blood had never bothered Sam. He had seen worse. He—

Jesus Christ.

Was that a foot? It was. Molly’s foot, still wearing her black sandal. The skin around the ankle was frayed and jagged, as if the appendage had been hacked off with a machete. Chipped white bone jutted out amongst the gristle. He swept his eyes over the floor, finding more… parts. Two legs, an arm, a hand, each crudely severed. The pale skin glistened unnaturally under the lights, taking on a plasticky sheen.

“It ain’t right,” breathed Sam. “It ain’t right.”

Something caught his eye. A person, sitting in the booth in the corner. He reached for his weapon and realized he’d left it in the pickup.

You’ve turned into a goddam amateur.

The person didn’t move. It was a woman. Her blonde hair hung below her bare shoulders, and Sam knew it was Molly. He walked towards her. Why? There was no point. She was dead, as dead as dead can be, her limbs scattered around the diner. He put his hand on a table for balance and felt something squish beneath his fingers. He looked down, unsure what it was until he lifted his hand and saw the round, pale nipple in the center of the severed breast.

Disgusted, he took a napkin from the dispenser and rubbed his fingers, then carried on to the middle booth where Molly — or whatever was left of her — sat.

“My God,” said Sam, and for the first time in his life, he felt faint. He thought he had seen it all… but not this. This couldn’t be the work of human beings. It was unholy. It was an affront to God.

Molly stared forwards, her face a patchwork of scars and dangling strips of flesh. Her throat had been slit, and both her breasts removed along with a large patch of skin over her stomach.

He looked up at the wall, where the skin was stuck into the wood with a knife, and saw the familiar symbol carved into the loose, sagging flesh.

“No,” he said, and tried to brush away a strand of hair from Molly’s face. Her head toppled from the body and thudded onto the table, bouncing once and rolling over the edge. It smacked onto the floor by his feet, and Sam’s stomach turned. But somehow, that wasn’t the worst part.

It was the dozen-or-so cocktail sticks that had been shoved into the neck to keep the head on until some poor sucker like himself came along.

That was what finally made Sam West fall to his knees and vomit all over the severed head of Molly O’Neil.

14

Angel sat in her grandfather’s recliner and stared out the window. He hadn’t been gone an hour, but it felt like years had passed. Fiona lay on the couch, a crocheted blanket draped over her, a band aid across the bullet wound on her head. Occasionally she stirred as if in the midst of a ghastly dream, but otherwise the ranch was quiet.

Daniel entered holding two cups of coffee, and laid one on the table next to her.

“What did you say to him?” she said.

“Huh?”

“When you went after gramps. You spoke outside… what did you say?”

Daniel sat opposite her, shifting uncomfortably. “I just asked him to reconsider.”

She nodded, unconvinced. “Molly… the girl you found in the diner… what had they done to her?”

He removed his glasses and wiped them against his shirt.

“They killed her,” he said softly.

She nodded again. She knew he was lying. Well, maybe lying wasn’t the word, but he wasn’t telling her everything.

“You think he’s really going to do it?” she said.

Daniel shrugged. “He’s your grandfather.”

“I don’t think he will. He’s not a violent man.”

“Then maybe he’ll change his mind.” Daniel’s eyes darted to the window as if expecting Sam to pull up any minute now.

“What if they come here?”

“They won’t,” said Daniel, far too quickly. “They’ll have moved on by now. Biker gangs are transient by nature. They don’t settle down near the scene of a crime.” He lifted his coffee, seemed to consider drinking it, then put it back down. “We could take your grandfather’s truck into town? Find the sheriff, tell him—”

“It’s too late. Gramps is already out there. I don’t want to involve him. If you’re right, then he’ll drive around for a while and come home. Anyway, he’s probably got the keys with him.”

Daniel leaned back against the chair. It creaked beneath him.

“Want the radio on?” he said.

She glanced over at Fiona. The woman slumbered peacefully.

“Sure. But quietly, okay?”

While Daniel struggled to find a suitable station, she turned her gaze towards the window. A vehicle drove past on the old highway, but all she could see were its lights.

She hoped Daniel was right. This should have been a weekend of celebration, not of blood-crazed vengeance.

Angel closed her eyes and said a silent prayer, unaware that tonight — like most nights — God wasn’t listening.

15

The tracks were fading, but still visible under the glare of the headlamps.

Angel’s car was new, a 1971 Datsun her father had bought for her, one of those fancy Japanese imports. Sam only ever drove American cars — he needed vehicles built for reliability — but even he had to admit it handled well on the debris-strewn road. He tasted vomit at the back of his throat, and reached for the Coke between his legs.

He was unable to stop thinking about Molly. They had butchered her. If Fiona had seen… if Angel had seen… they wouldn’t have tried to talk him out of it. They would have cheered him on. Hell, they’d be sitting here next to him, armed to the teeth. He had enough guns for all of them, that was for sure. Most were hidden around the house. Agnes had called him paranoid, and he had laughed about it. But maybe she was right… and maybe it wasn’t a bad thing to be. People hurt each other without a second thought. Especially now. Things were different before. Better. Society was on a downward curve, and had been for a while. The juvenile delinquents of the fifties had turned into the hippies of the sixties, then the bikers of the seventies. What did the nineteen-eighties hold? Part of him hoped he wouldn’t live to find out.

You might not live to see tomorrow, he thought grimly.

He shoved the voice aside. He didn’t need to hear negative talk like that, not when he had a job to do. A score to be settled.

A mission.

You saw what they did to her.

He had. But this was different. Molly was a girl, young and defenseless. He was a man, a military man. And he was armed. He glanced at the shotgun on the passenger seat, the revolver next to it.

Then he saw something.

A fire, up ahead.

Sam killed the headlamps and slowed the Datsun, pulling off the road and coming to a stop. He wound down his window and listened. The wind was blowing in his favor, carrying with it the expected hooting and hollering of the biker gang.

Satan’s Burnouts.

“What kind of a name is that?” he said aloud, leaning his head out and squinting. It was them all right, the women dancing around the fire. Jesus, did they never stop dancing? They were probably on something. Pills, or grass, or LSD. He remembered Angel’s boyfriend — fiancé, he corrected himself — with his bag of dope. That little shit, corrupting his beloved granddaughter. When this was over, he had half a mind to go after him next.

Sam opened the door, then tucked the pistol into his jeans, picked up the shotgun, and stepped out into the night. He started towards the fire, then paused. Guns were all well and good for taking them out, but what about stealth? As soon as he fired, they would be on him. No, he needed something else. Dammit, why had he not considered this before?

It’s almost like this whole operation is half-assed…

He trudged around to the trunk of the Datsun and popped it. Inside were two small suitcases belonging to Angel and that pipsqueak, one red and one blue. He didn’t bother opening them, as he doubted he would be killing anyone with a pair of socks or a sweater. Then something caught his eye.

“Perfect,” he said, lifting the tire iron from the trunk and inspecting it. It was reassuringly weighty, and he smiled, imagining the pain he could inflict with one well-timed swipe. He searched in vain for a knife or blade, but there was no toolkit in Angel’s car. He was disappointed in her. Any self-respecting driver should have a basic toolkit and first-aid kit in the back of their vehicle. Lord knows, he did! But the tire iron was better than nothing, and he was thankful for that. He slung the shotgun over his shoulder by the strap, and walked on.

Music drifted across the plain, the sound of an acoustic guitar and someone singing. He recognized the tune. Brown Sugar by The Rolling Stones. He didn’t like the band, but they were unavoidable. Angel used to bring her records when she came to stay, and the Stones were always on heavy rotation. She even had a t-shirt with those big red lips on the chest, which Sam thought was an invitation for boys. When he told her so, she had laughed at him and told him to get with the times. Well, if rape and murder were what was ‘hip’ these days, he was happy to not ‘get with the times.’

The music was handy, though — it masked his footsteps. He took the long way around, staying hidden behind a small sandstone formation. Now and again he would freeze, listening for the sounds of approaching bikers, or deadly wildlife. The last thing he needed was to step in a rattler nest. A fantasy came to him, of taking the lead biker and holding a rattlesnake up to his face, letting it bite him, again and again, the man screaming…

Sam grinned. His body trembled. Nerves or excitement? Well, why not both? He chuckled to himself.

Quiet!

He heard something up ahead. People talking. His heart beat fast, dangerously fast, as he prowled around the rocks, hardly daring to breathe. He saw two bikers, heard the faint sound of their lowered voices. It was a man and a woman, the woman leaning against the rock, the man on his knees. There was the soft whick of a match, then the small flame lit up his face.

Sam waited cautiously, clutching the tire iron in both hands, desperate to use it.

Slow down. Wait for the right moment.

The man lit a cigarette. He inhaled, his face glowing a soft orange.

“That’s good shit,” he said.

“Don’t fall in love with it,” said the woman. “Give me some.”

Sam’s throat was parched. He gripped the tire iron.

“What’ll I get in return?” asked the man in a way that suggested he knew exactly what he expected. The girl either didn’t, or was playing dumb.

“What do you want?”

The biker cleared his throat. “I think, uh, maybe you should take off your clothes.”

Sam wanted to laugh, and had to restrain himself from doing so by biting down hard. He had heard some clumsy attempts to woo a lady in his time, but this was—

“You wanna fuck?” said the girl. “You shoulda just said so.”

My God, thought Sam.

He watched as the girl took off her shirt. Like all the young women these days, she wore no bra, the lunar glow catching the outline of her breasts. She wriggled her jeans down and stepped out of them. She wasn’t wearing panties either.

“Jesus,” muttered Sam.

The girl turned her head in his direction, and Sam ducked down behind the rock. “You hear something?” she said, as Sam’s heart raced madly.

“You’re just stoned,” said the man, and the girl giggled at that.

That was too close, you old fool.

He stayed out of sight for a few minutes. A zipper was pulled down, followed by the sound of clothes being clumsily removed, the wet smack of hungry kisses, then the quiet but passionate moans of lovemaking. Only then did Sam dare to raise his head above the rock. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he could make them out, lying in the sand, the woman on top of the man, grinding her hips into him. He had one hand on her thigh, the other on her breast. He still wore his white socks.

Sam started to move, then hesitated. If there was one couple here, why couldn’t there be others? He looked around, but saw no one else. Bongo drums accompanied the acoustic guitar now, the bikers singing along to George Harrison’s My Sweet Lord, except they had changed the words to My Satan.

Sam stood simmering, watching the couple fuck in the dust. The man had his hands on both breasts now, and the woman tucked one hand between her legs, the other reaching to the man’s balls.

How could they have sex after what they had done to that girl… what were they, animals? Monsters?

He knew what he had to do.

The woman was on top… that was good. Ideal. He would take her out first. The woman was always more likely to scream and alert the others.

He abandoned his hiding place, walking steadily towards them. The girl was moaning, the man grunting, muttering about the revolting things he wanted to do to her. Sam gripped his weapon. It felt impossibly heavy. He approached from behind, watching the girl’s spine move as she writhed atop her lover.

He took another step forward. They were within reach. Arm’s length, that’s all he needed. Room to swing, like Babe Ruth.

The girl’s buttocks clenched, and she arched her back.

Sam hovered behind her. He raised the tire iron.

“That’s it,” said the man. “Oh God, Carol, that’s it!”

“Mmmmhhhhhh,” said the girl, or something similar.

Sam took one final step.

The girl leaned back. He could see her face, the marijuana cigarette clamped between her teeth, her eyes closed. She exhaled plumes of smoke from her nostrils, and then her eyes opened.

She saw Sam, but there was no time to scream.

He brought the tire iron down with all the force he could muster. The impact was devastating. Her face folded around the metal object as the front of her skull caved in. Were it not for the tuneless singing, the sound of her spine snapping would have echoed across the valley. The tire iron smashed into the packed dirt with a resounding clang, but Sam had no time to check if anyone had noticed. Already, the man was attempting to scramble out from beneath the dead woman whose face pumped jets of blood into the air.

Sam tried to raise his weapon, but it was stuck in the woman’s broken face. The man wriggled out from underneath her, and Sam put one boot on the woman’s hair, wrenching the tire iron free, shreds of dripping wet skin stuck to the tip. He swung again. The biker raised one arm in defense. It did no good, his radius and ulna shattering. He let loose a horrifying scream.

Shut him up. Shut him the fuck up.

Sam dropped to his knees. Wincing in agony, he thrust the tire iron at the man’s neck, the tip plunging into his exposed jugular. The skin broke easily, expelling great gouts of dark blood. The man coughed up more of the thick fluid, a look of shock in his bulging, manic eyes. His hands tugged feebly at Sam’s shirt.

A motorbike roared nearby, the engine revving. It sounded like a dragon, hot and angry. Headlamps sprang into life, illuminating the valley.

They had heard him.

The music stopped, followed by the empty twang of the guitar being tossed aside. The night was suddenly alive with activity. Sam tried to rise, but his knees ached, crying out for respite. His heart, too, beat an out-of-control rhythm, pounding sledgehammer blows against his ribcage.

“Oh God,” he whispered as a light fell upon him, blinding in its stark simplicity.

The car. He had to get to the car. Battling the mutiny taking place within his own body, he stumbled from the scene, leaving the tire iron jutting out of the biker’s neck. The bikes were getting closer, much closer… too close. One screeched past him, and he felt a kick to his side. He toppled gracelessly to the ground, then rose, trying to lift the shotgun strap over his head. He managed, raising the gun, aiming at nothing. A light caught in his eyes, and he pulled the trigger.

Someone came at him, a woman, her face a feral sneer. She held something in her hand, dull and gray. Sam had one second to register that it was a wrench before it connected with his jaw and everything went black.

16

Angel fidgeted in her seat.

According to the clock, it was nearly ten. Her gramps had been gone for, what, almost two hours? She wasn’t sure. Time — that unruly infant — was misbehaving. It felt longer than two hours. Closer to four, in fact. Or six.

“Something’s wrong,” she said.

“Yeah, no shit,” muttered Daniel.

They were in the kitchen, an untouched mug of coffee on the table. Fiona was asleep on the front room couch, where Angel’s grandmother used to sit, knitting or working on her tapestries. Some of her work still decorated the walls.

Angel stifled a yawn. Despite her nervousness, she was tiring.

“Go to bed,” said Daniel.

She shook her head. How could she sleep knowing her gramps was out there? She had never seen him act like that. It scared her. This wasn’t some war in the olden days. This was 1972! People didn’t just turn into raving vigilantes. It was uncivilized.

It was against the law.

Then again, they had killed Molly. Did they not deserve what was coming to them?

“He’ll be okay,” said Daniel. Had he read her mind? “Probably driving around, blowing off steam. He’ll never find them.”

She didn’t believe that, though she wanted to. She wanted to so badly it hurt.

“You’re right,” she said, as if the act of speaking it aloud could trick her brain into accepting it as fact.

“Then go to bed. It’s been a long day.” He put his hand on hers. It was cold, clammy, and she fought not to recoil from his touch. “I promise, I’ll wake you the moment he comes home.” He smiled wanly. “Believe me, I don’t want to be alone with him.”

“I wish we could call the cops,” she said, glancing over at the phone which still hung uselessly from the receiver.

“Go to bed,” said Daniel. She decided to try, if only to stop him saying it.

“Okay. But wake me—”

“The moment he gets home. I know.” He smiled and kissed her forehead. His kisses normally soothed her, but not tonight. She stood, stretching her stiff legs. The Scotch had gone to her head. She felt woozy, and yawned again.

As she started to leave, Daniel gripped her wrist. “Hey. Your grandfather have any more guns?”

“I… I don’t know. Why?”

He released her. “No reason.”

She knew why, of course. In case they came here, the ones who had murdered Molly and almost killed Fiona. If that happened, they would need guns to defend themselves.

To kill, or to be killed.

The idea sickened her. She was a pacifist, as was Daniel. But how well did she really know him? Could he shoot someone? Could he kill?

Could you?

No. Never. Well, not unless absolutely necessary. If someone was about to kill her, then perhaps. She waited in the doorway a moment, and looked back at Daniel. He was deep in thought. Scared, too. It was written all over his face. And not the way he had been in the car, worried about meeting her gramps. This was a terror he was trying desperately to mask. But for who’s benefit? Hers… or his?

Angel entered the hallway and went next door to check on Fiona. She was awake, and looked better than before. Only a few of the smaller pieces of glass were still embedded in her skin. They would need tweezers to remove them, but no one knew where they were kept.

“Hey,” said Angel. She thought about taking a seat next to the woman, then decided against it.

Fiona looked up at her. “He’s been gone too long,” she said.

“I know.”

“He’s a fucking idiot.” She glanced apologetically at Angel. “No offense.”

Angel nodded, snorted out a laugh, and then sat.

“You got any more of that grass?” said Fiona. “Really takes the edge off the pain.”

“That was it, I think. Sorry.”

“It’s alright.” Fiona’s words were indistinct. Angel assumed she was trying to move her mouth as little as possible. Every time she did, the tiny cuts in her face threatened to open. One of them already had, a trickle of blood running down her cheek like red wine.

“I’m sorry we hit you,” said Angel. “With the car, I mean.”

“If you hadn’t come along, I’d still be there. Might even be dead.”

They lapsed into a period of silence. Angel thought Fiona had drifted off again, and made to leave.

“They’ll kill him,” said Fiona.

Angel stared at her. It was a shocking thing to hear.

“He’s a fool,” Fiona continued. “A stubborn old fool.”

“Daniel says he won’t find them.”

Fiona nodded. “I hope he’s right. But Angel… if he’s not home by morning, someone’s going to have to walk into town. It’s at least ten miles, so I’d start at sunrise.”

“We won’t need—”

“Angel, listen to me. We might not need to. But we should be prepared. Whoever goes should avoid the road. Stay out of sight.” She looked at Angel, looked her right in the eyes. “You understand what I’m saying? We need to get the cops, but we don’t know if they’re still out there. This is no ordinary gang. What they did…”

She trailed off, and Angel held her hand.

“I’ll go,” said Angel. “If gramps isn’t back by sunrise… I’ll go. Daniel’s no good with directions. But it won’t come to that. You’ll see.”

Fiona tried to smile, but her eyes were red with wasted tears. Angel swallowed hard, then stood.

“I’m going to bed,” she said, and suddenly all she wanted was to be enclosed by the comforting softness of a blanket, to rest her head against the pillow and drift off into a dreamless netherworld… the idea was thrilling. She had rarely felt so tired.

Fiona nodded, leaning back into the couch.

“It’s not his fight,” she said.

“I know,” said Angel.

“Men always have to make everything about themselves.” Fiona’s eyes closed, another tear forming, mingling with the blood from her cut and staining the white cushion.

“It’s not his fight,” she said again. Then, quietly, she added, “It’s mine.”

Angel hovered by her side.

She had nothing to say to that.

17

Sam West was not a man who frightened easily.

Several tours of duty had seen to that. With the loss of his wife, and his rapidly advancing years, death no longer held the same frostbitten chill it once had.

Or so he had thought.

Now, encircled by a group of men and women, most of them less than half his age, he felt a prickle of terror in his heart.

He was going to die tonight.

“Well, what do we have here?” said one of the men. He held a machete loosely, the blade swinging back and forth like a pendulum.

“They’re dead,” came a shouted voice from nearby. “Ripper and Carol. He fucking killed ‘em, man!”

The leader — Marduk, he had called himself — crouched by Sam, cocking his head and smiling humorlessly.

“What in the hell were you thinking, old timer?” There was no malice in his voice. Just curiosity. “You come here for revenge, is that it? You gonna wipe us out?”

“Still might,” said Sam, though the threat was overpowered by a needling, high-pitched tremor in his speech.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Marduk. He laughed then, a booming sound that ended as quickly as it began. He shook his head. “You thought you could handle us all?”

“I got two of you.”

“Seems you did. Two of our coven, our blessed brother and sister. You’ve spilled the blood of the Burnouts, man. That ain’t cool. That ain’t cool at all. We’ve lost three people today. Your friend took out Mary back in the diner, but she paid the price. I understand why she did it, though. Desperation. She acted. She tried to protect someone.” He ran his calloused hand down Sam’s cheek. “You, on the other hand… you had your chance. You had your chance, but you stood and watched with your limp old-man boner. Tell me, old timer. If that other woman hadn’t been there… would you have stopped us? Or would you have watched? Hell, maybe you’d have joined in? When was the last time you got some sweet-ass pussy, my man?”

“I wouldn’t,” said Sam. His eyes clouded. “I’d never…”

“Yeah, you’d never. Sure. That’s what they all say. But not us. Not the Burnouts. We don’t live by society’s rules. We’re free, like eagles soaring through the cloudless sky.” He stared wistfully into the night sky, then turned to Sam and grinned. “But horny eagles. Eagles that worship our Lord in Hell. Satan. Beelzebub. Call him what you will, but—”

“How ‘bout you shut up a minute?” said Sam. He glanced around. Nine bikers remained. He still had his revolver tucked into his pants, but only had five shots.

No wait… four shots. One bullet was lodged in the wall of Fiona’s Diner.

It was not enough. But better than nothing? Yeah, sure. Why not?

Marduk spoke again. “You like to party, old timer?”

Sam looked at him, not comprehending the words. “What?”

“I said, do you like to party? We do.” Marduk chuckled. “We don’t just drive across the country sacrificing chicks every night. That would get boring, am I right?” He glanced around for confirmation. The bikers nodded in agreement. “Even death can grow tiresome. As fun as sacrifice is, you gotta take time out for play. I bet you ain’t played in a long, long time, have you?”

Sam was speechless. He thought about the gun again. Focusing on it kept him sane.

“How about it, old timer?” said Marduk. “You wanna play with us? You wanna play with my girls? They’ll show you tricks that’ll blow your mind.” He leaned in conspiratorially, his face inches from Sam’s. “They fuck for Satan. Can you dig that? You comprende? The devil’s blood flows through them. It flows through all of us. You ever have an out-of-body experience? I bet you ain’t, gramps.”

Gramps.

That was what Angel called him. Angel… dear, sweet, innocent Angel. Sam broke down, sobbing into his hand as Marduk laughed. The rest of them joined in. Someone kicked him in the ribs, winding him.

“We’ve already buried one of our own tonight,” said Marduk. “And now we’re gonna have to bury two more. But we don’t grieve for them. They’ve ascended to a higher realm. They’re by His side now, fucking in the eternal flames of Hell. Tonight, we shall honor their memory.” He gripped Sam by his hair and pulled his head back, then ran his tongue over Sam’s cheek, tasting his tears.

Sam could take no more of this madness. He reached for his gun, found it, grasped it. He raised the firearm, then caught a glint of light as the machete arced through the air, burying itself in his wrist. It struck bone, the vibrations coursing through his skeleton. The gun dropped from his fingers, greedy hands retrieving it. A coyote howled, or at least that’s what Sam thought it was, before he realized the sound was coming from him. He stared down at his hand. It hung askew, sinew and muscle glistening in the sinister light of the pale, fat moon.

“My hand,” he spluttered, and then their hands were on him, pushing him down against the dirt. Someone squeezed his cheeks, forcing his lips apart, as dirty fingers invaded his mouth, placing something in there. They clamped his jaw firmly shut, while whatever was in his mouth dissolved on his tongue. Hot liquid sprayed his face, his own blood gushing from his wrist, and then they were carrying him like a victorious football coach, back towards the bikes, towards the raging fire. Marduk led the way.

“Rat, get the guitar,” he said.

“What you wanna hear?”

“It’s ladies’ choice tonight.”

One of the girls chimed in. “Gimme Shelter!”

“Excellent,” said Marduk. “Pinky has chosen Gimme Shelter. We shall dance til sunrise in praise of our Lord Satan!”

The biker started strumming the chords to the song as they roughly deposited Sam on the ground. He rolled onto his side, cradling his injured arm. Three women walked in a tight circle around him, the light from the fire dancing across their faces.

“Show us the way, Satan,” they whispered in unison, removing their clothes as they walked, discarding them by the fire until they were naked.

“Leave me alone,” cried Sam, and then the women descended, pinning him down, crawling over him. They tugged his pants down, then his underwear, and he instinctively shot out his good hand to cover his flaccid penis. They laughed at that, long and loud, and uncovered him, fondling his cock, running their hands up and down it. One of them sat on his face, smothering him, while the man playing the guitar forgot the words to the song, breaking out in hysterical giggles instead.

Sam could smell the woman’s sex, taste it, as they ripped the clothes from his body, caressing him, fingers catching in his thick, graying chest hair. Then the caresses turned to scratches, clawing his flesh. He tried to push the woman off his face, and she put her hands on his throat and choked him until he stopped.

“I can’t get him hard,” he heard someone say. More laughter.

The woman left his face, and another straddled him, running her breasts across his stomach, fiddling with his lifeless cock.

He felt funny… was that the right word? The world seemed to grow quieter, almost like he was sinking into the dirt. What had they given him… what had he taken? He looked at the woman atop him. It was Fiona… my God, it was Fiona! His eyes traveled across her nude, surprisingly youthful body, taking in the gentle curve of her breasts, her flat stomach, the triangle of dark hair around her pubic region.

“It’s working,” said Fiona, though it wasn’t her voice. It was different. Harder, crueler. “He’s getting it up!”

Sam felt himself stiffen, and Fiona lifted herself slightly, putting his cock inside her. More women watched from the shadows, their faces obscured.

“Fiona,” he gasped, reaching out for her, blood spraying from his wrist across her body, the acoustic guitar the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.

“Who the fuck is Fiona?” said Fiona in that unfamiliar voice, and when Sam looked up, he saw it was no longer her.

It was Angel.

“No!” he cried, as his granddaughter writhed naked atop him. He tried to stop her, but they held his arms, his legs. Angel’s hands covered her breasts, and she bit her lip. “Angel, please! Stop!” he roared, but she just laughed at him. He wanted to stop, needed to, but he had never felt harder in his whole life. She leaned over him, her nipples pressing into his chest, and spat on his face. Then she erupted in hysterics, slapping him, over and over, punching him until he broke down.

“Stop, please… stop,” he sobbed.

“Why didn’t you stop them sooner?” said Angel, only it wasn’t Angel anymore.

It was Molly.

Her face was white, a corpse’s face, and she had no arms or legs or breasts, but still somehow she bounced atop his cock, a jagged line opening across her neck.

“I’m sorry,” he wept.

“What took you so long?” she said, and then her head came loose, thudding onto the ground as great gouts of blood pumped from her neck. Sam could see the toothpicks jutting out like cacti on an arid plain.

“I’m sorry!” he screamed, but it was lost to the night.

“Shit,” said Molly’s severed head. “He’s gone again.”

“Well, if he won’t fuck us,” said Fiona, “Maybe we should fuck him?”

Molly laughed at that, her torso toppling to the side and landing heavily in the dirt.

Angel stepped forward. She looked down at her grandfather and smiled.

“Get me the tire iron,” she said. “The one he killed Carol with.”

“No,” moaned Sam, but they weren’t listening.

Instead, they helped him onto his hands and knees. He couldn’t see Angel anymore, or Fiona, or Molly. They were gone, he was sure of it. A woman walked towards him, one he hadn’t seen in a long time. The tire iron swung by her naked thigh, the thin slop of the female biker’s face still clinging to the weapon like moss, soft and dripping.

“Wanna clean it first?” said someone.

“No,” said Sam’s dead wife, Agnes. “Why should Carol have to miss out on one last earthly fuck?”

Everyone laughed at the idea, men and women alike, and by the time Carol’s remains were inserted into Sam’s anus on the end of the tire iron, the LSD had fully kicked in, and he found himself laughing along too.

18

Fiona sat alone in the front room.

The TV was on, an old Boris Karloff movie playing with the sound off. She had hoped it would distract her, keep her mind from straying to those dark thoughts that tormented her, but it wasn’t helping. The pain in her face was bad, but bearable. She had experienced worse. And anyway, no amount of physical pain could equal the mental torture of witnessing Molly’s death.

God, she needed a drink. She stood, her blood-caked clothes sticking to her body, and opened the door. The hallway was quiet, light spilling out from a crack beneath the kitchen door. She knocked once and entered. Angel was nowhere to be seen, but her fiancé stood by the window, hands on the basin, staring out into the ethereal darkness.

“Angel?” she said.

“Asleep,” said Daniel. “I found some sleeping tablets in the bathroom. Slipped her a couple. She should be out til morning.”

“Does she know?”

“If I told her, she would have refused.”

The way Fiona saw it, that was precisely the reason he should have asked her. He had drugged her. But the deed was done. There was no sense arguing about it now. Maybe later, when things were back to normal… whatever that meant.

She crossed the kitchen to the cupboard.

“If you’re looking for guns, there’re none in there,” said Daniel, his eyes never leaving the window.

“Just a drink,” said Fiona. Daniel didn’t reply.

She found a bottle of gin tucked at the back, and slugged it straight from the bottle. It burned her throat, sending a warm tingle through her body. The telephone receiver swung from the wall, and Fiona walked towards it. She took the receiver and placed it on the cradle.

What if…

She lifted it again, holding it to her ear. There was a quiet but definite buzz.

“I think the phone’s working again,” she said, then realized it had been working the whole time.

God damn you, Sam. You bastard.

She started to dial the sheriff’s number.

“Someone’s coming,” said Daniel. “Switch the lights off.”

She understood, slamming the receiver down and racing as fast as her body would allow to the kitchen door, flicking the lights off.

“Is it him?” she asked.

“I can’t tell.”

“Well, is it your car?”

“They’re… walking.”

That made no sense. Sam’s ranch was isolated. No one just passed by. She joined Daniel by the window, staring out. At first she saw nothing but the trees swaying in the evening breeze. Then, as her eyes adjusted, she saw him.

“Jesus Christ,” she said. It was Sam, all right… but what had happened to him? He wore nothing but his pants, his sagging belly flopping over the waistband. Blood covered his torso, long razor blade scratches criss-crossing his skin. His face, too, was a crimson nightmare, two wide white eyes staring out from amongst the mask of dried blood.

“My God,” said Daniel, abandoning his post by the basin. Fiona grabbed him.

“Where are you going?”

“We have to get to him,” said the incredulous boy.

“We don’t know what’s out there,” she said, but the words never registered on his face.

“He knows where the guns are,” said Daniel, shaking free of Fiona’s grip and running for the door. Seconds later the porch light lit up the front yard like a beacon, and the boy appeared.

“Mr. West,” he shouted.

“Keep quiet,” snarled Fiona. She remained by the window, motionless, ignoring the macabre reflection that stared back at her. It was too late. The boy was running towards Sam. Odd… she could have sworn Sam was smiling.

She made her way into the hall and peered up the stairs. Angel was up there, fast asleep. There was no time to wake her, not yet. She moved to the front door, lurking away from the glare of the porch light.

Sam ambled towards them. He was clutching onto his pants, and when he saw Daniel running towards him, he let go and waved. His pants fell to his ankles. Fiona gagged, and Daniel stopped running.

Dark blood stained Sam’s thighs and legs, drawing the eye to where his penis and testicles had once been. Now, there was nothing but a ghastly crater, black and charred from where fire had cauterized the wound. Fiona’s hand shot to her mouth.

She watched Daniel take a step back, and then the darkness behind Sam seemed to move.

“Daniel, come back!” she roared. He turned to her, then back to Sam, who was lumbering ever closer.

Figures emerged slowly from the seductive black cloak of night. At first, Fiona wasn’t sure if they were human. Their faces were red, bright red, with sinister black holes where their eyes should be.

Was it blood? Or face paint? She couldn’t tell. They followed Sam, closing in on him like humanoid spiders crawling towards a fly trapped in the center of a web.

It’s them. He brought them back with him.

Satan’s Burnouts.

A gun… there had to be a gun somewhere in the house. She knew Sam owned a revolver — he had fired it that afternoon, in her own diner. Where was it now? In his pickup?

Sam tripped over his own pants, landing on his knees. He was still waving.

“Agnes,” he called out. “I’m home!”

A bright flash lit up the driveway, and then Sam’s head was gone. It burst like a melon, the shotgun blast obliterating it in a scarlet explosion. His hand waved one more time, and then Sam West’s naked torso slumped forwards onto the driveway, the loose skin slopping wetly against the dirt track.

One of the bikers raised the shotgun in the air triumphantly.

“Hail Satan!” he shouted, as bikes revved, their headlamps flashing on, bathing Sam’s body in their unforgiving glare. Fiona watched as Daniel got unsteadily to his feet and ran for the porch.

He never stood a chance.

Two bikers on motorcycles caught up to him, skidding and knocking the boy off his feet. They set about him, beating him, and Fiona slammed the front door and headed for the kitchen, for the phone. The door would hold them… but not for long. She grabbed the receiver and dialed with trembling fingers. It was Sheriff Hall’s home phone number. There’d be no one at the station now, not in Dennyville.

The phone rang. She pressed the receiver to her ear.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” she urged through clenched teeth. Fists pounded on the front door. Fiona edged her way back into the hall, the telephone cord stretching. Time was almost up.

Outside, a motorcycle engine growled menacingly.

“Pick up, pick up, pick—”

“Do you know what time it is?” said a voice on the line.

“God, Sheriff, it’s—”

Then the front door burst apart, splintering into thousands of pieces as a motorcycle came blasting into the hallway. Sharp pieces of wood flew at Fiona, and she dodged into the kitchen, screaming in fright. She hit the linoleum, the phone skittering from her hand, pulled back by its straining cord. The bike shot past the kitchen door, skidding on a rug, and then footsteps thumped across the hall as Satan’s Burnouts piled in. Fiona crawled towards the quickly retreating phone, reaching for it, stretching.

She could hear Sheriff Hall on the other end.

“Who is this? Hello? Is anybody there? What’s all that noise?”

“It’s Fiona Lewis, come to—”

A leather-gloved hand closed over her mouth, silencing her. Fiona tried to bite down on it, her teeth squeaking against the black material. Her captor spun her around to face him, keeping his hand clamped over her mouth.

Thick red greasepaint coated the man’s face, black inverted crosses daubed on each cheek. The crosses seemed to drip like shadowy liquid from the pools of his eyes.

He looked like a walking nightmare.

Marduk grinned and slammed her up against the wall.

“We really must stop meeting like this,” he said.

Part III

19

Angel Hooper’s eyes flickered open, and she had to fight to keep them that way.

A resounding bang had roused her from the deepest sleep she had ever known. She couldn’t even remember her head hitting the pillow.

What was that sharp noise that had woken her? It sounded like a car crash.

Or a gun shot.

According to the bedside clock, it was past midnight. Was her gramps home?

She tried to sit, battling gravity every step of the way. Her limbs were leaden, her head scrambled like the static after the TV shows finish. She could hear voices, as if the radio was up too loud.

It’s gramps' birthday party, her sleep-addled mind told her. Quick, get downstairs, you’re missing the celebration!

She tried. Jesus Christ, though, she was so tired.

What was that grumbling sound outside… a helicopter?

Angel wiped her bleary eyes as she lay in the same bed she had slept in as a child on weekend stays at the ranch, her feet poking over the end. That noise made no sense. It was definitely a vehicle. A car, or a… a motorcycle.

No.

She tossed the covers aside and swung her legs out of bed, the floor cold beneath her bare feet. Tugging her nightdress down over her hips — it always rode up when she slept — she stumbled sleepily to the door and cracked it open. Downstairs, the front door slammed, and someone ran in. What the hell was going on?

“Gramps?” she said, though it came out as more of a sigh than anything resembling speech.

She trudged across the landing, leaning over the wooden balcony that overlooked the hallway and front door. Fiona appeared in the kitchen doorway. She was holding a phone and muttering under her breath. Angel yawned, gripping the handrail for balance. She felt like her eyes might close at any moment, sending her toppling over the—

That was the moment the front door exploded under the impact of a motorcycle. Angel screamed and stepped back. The vehicle entered the hall, skidding out of sight below her. It smashed into something — probably the grandfather clock — and the engine died.

“Get her!” shouted a voice. It came from outside. Then, as if by some kind of dark sorcery, the hallway filled with people, strange, leather-clad intruders invading the house, one after the other, piling into the kitchen. Their faces were bright red and snarling. One of them hauled Fiona out, slamming her against the wall. More entered, dragging someone behind them.

Daniel.

Angel almost screamed, instead biting down on her fist. Despite the fear, despite the terror, her instinct for self-preservation kicked in. Backing away further, she waited by the bedroom door and listened.

“Anyone else here?” said a man. When there was no reply, she heard a brutal thump. “I asked you a question, boy!”

“It’s just us!” shouted Fiona.

Angel’s heart broke. It was the biker gang her gramps had gone to find. They were here now, and she instantly knew her grandfather was dead. Tears formed in her eyes, but she sniffed them away. There was no time to cry, no time to grieve.

They had Daniel and Fiona, and they would come for her next.

They don’t even know you exist.

“I asked him,” said the voice. There was a pause, and then Daniel screamed.

“No,” breathed Angel. She wanted to see what was happening, but couldn’t risk it.

“It’s just us, I swear,” she heard Daniel say. “Oh God, I swear, just please stop.”

He was trying to protect her.

“I don’t believe him,” the man said. “Check the rest of the place out.”

The words were a dagger in Angel’s heart, gleaming and deadly. She wasn’t given to swearing often, but right now only one word came to mind.

“Fuck,” she said.

The bikers dispersed downstairs. Doors opened, slammed shut again. Any minute now they would head upstairs.

Where they would find her.

Where they would kill her.

There was nowhere to run. She had a split-second decision to make. Angel slipped back into the bedroom. She went straight for the window. It was a big drop, but she could make it. Or maybe sneak onto the roof and wait there? She grabbed the latch… and it was stuck. The crisp white paint around the window — that Sam had applied just last month in preparation for Angel’s arrival — had sealed it shut.

“No,” she whimpered.

What about the bed? Could she hide under it?

She took one look at the messed-up bed sheets, where seconds before she had been dozing peacefully, and a plan formed. Did she have time? Only one way to find out.

They didn’t know she was here. That was the key. She darted to the bed and straightened out the sheets, tucking them in, moving as fast as she could. All the while her mind raced. Where were her bags?

Still in the trunk of the Datsun, alongside Daniel’s. No problem there. She clapped both hands over the pillow, flattening it. Did she hear footsteps on the stairs? It was hard to tell. There was too much noise, too much commotion, and the fury with which her heart beat made it difficult to hear anything over the thunderous rush of blood in her ears.

A door slammed nearby. The upstairs bathroom. She could tell by the shriek of the hinges. Thank Christ they still needed oiled. She kicked her clothes under the bed, glancing around for any further evidence.

Her handbag.

She threw that under too.

The bathroom door closed, and another opened. The bedroom next to hers, the one her grandmother had always referred to as ‘The Guest Room’.

Time was up. She got down on her hands and knees by the bed.

The light!

“Shit,” she spat, getting back up and running as quietly as possible towards the switch. She flicked it, plunging the room into darkness, and headed for the bed, dropping and diving under it.

The guest room door closed, and Angel frantically clawed her way under. There wasn’t much room. Why would there be? It was a child’s bed, for Christ’s sake. She pressed herself to the floor, squeezing her ass under the frame, pulling her legs in as far as they could go. She felt sick and horrified. The footsteps marched along the landing. She turned slightly, able to see the thin strip of light beneath the door. Two black shapes appeared.

She looked to her right and saw her white sneakers.

Angel almost cried out. She shuffled across the floor, reaching her arm towards them.

The door started to open.

Her fingers closed over the laces.

She dragged them in with her as the door opened fully and someone entered, heavy boots clomping on the floor. Angel hitched in a breath. The adrenaline was flowing so hard she could barely stay still. Her fingers twitched, and she clenched her fists to stop them. She suddenly realized she needed to pee very badly.

Don’t freak out, don’t freak out, don’t freak out.

The biker turned on his heels and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Why do all bikers slam doors? she wondered crazily. She supposed they’re outside a lot. Very few doors to practice with. She started to laugh at that, a demented, terrified laugh, and once again she had to thrust her fist into her mouth to stop herself. The footsteps carried on along the landing, trying the remaining doors, one-by-one, until there were none left to slam. Then they came back, nearing her door again, and Angel knew he was playing with her, making her think she was safe before dragging her kicking and screaming from under the bed by her ankles, and then carrying her down to the others, where they would… where they would…

Her bladder released, and she cried softly, feeling as helpless and pathetic as she had ever felt.

The footsteps passed by, receding down the staircase and back into the main hallway.

Angel trembled with an excess of nervous energy. She took deep breaths, huge lungfuls of air. She wanted to scream, to yell, to pound her fists until they were red and raw and bloody.

But she knew she couldn’t.

Because she was Daniel and Fiona’s only hope.

It was all up to her, now.

20

Downstairs, someone screamed.

Angel couldn’t tell if it was Fiona, or Daniel, or even one of the bikers. Laughter followed, bellowing guffaws and high-pitched giggles. Somehow, it was worse not knowing what was going on. It allowed her imagination to run riot.

Were they being tortured?

Yes. She was surprised how easily she came to that conclusion. So what now? What could she do? The way she figured it, she had two options. One was to escape, to get help. That would take hours. So what did that leave?

The second, and less likely option. Kill the bikers and rescue Daniel and Fiona. It was ridiculous, a fantasy. How could she do it?

With a gun.

But she didn’t have one.

Unless…

She remembered that time, all those years ago, playing hide and seek on the ranch. Her cousins were there, cousins so distant that she couldn’t even remember their names. She had chosen to hide in her grandparents’ bedroom, tucking herself under the bed. It had been so easy back then. She recalled lying there, something cold and metallic scraping against her head, looking up to find a handgun taped to the underside of the frame.

After the game, she had questioned her gramps about it. “That’s for protection,” he had said, his face coloring. “Now, don’t you go telling your grandmother about that, you hear?”

Would it still be there? Why not? Nothing else on the ranch had changed in the last twenty years. But what good would it do? Angel had never fired a gun before. She had never even held one. What was she going to do, walk down the stairs and point it at them and demand they release their captives? They’d laugh at her. They’d laugh.

Still, there’s no harm in having a gun on you. You know, just in case.

She couldn’t believe she was even considering it. And yet, the more she did, the stronger her conviction became.

She needed that gun, needed it now.

Angel slid out from under the bed. At first, she wasn’t sure her legs would hold her, but somehow she managed to stand. She caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror, and wanted to cry in humiliation.

But time was short.

Peeling off her wet underwear and slipping into her jeans and sneakers, she crept towards the door. Cracking it open, she peered out. Raucous sounds assailed her from downstairs. Furniture dragged across floorboards, glass shattering, screams of terror.

Angel left the sanctity of her bedroom, making her way gingerly across the landing, keeping low against the wall. In a moment, she would be visible to anyone standing in the hallway. It was a chance she had to take. Edging closer, she looked round the corner at the downstairs hallway. The front door was gone, lying in pieces across the floor. One biker urinated in the corner by the entrance, his back to her.

She wrinkled her nose in disgust, and made a break across the landing, reaching the wall and pressing herself against it. Biker piss drizzled against the hardwood floor downstairs.

Stealthily, she made her way across the landing, passing two more doors before rounding a corner. One doorway remained.

The entrance to her grandparents’ room.

What if someone’s in there?

Her shaking hand reached for the door handle. Then, with infinite care, she pressed it down and stepped inside.

The room was unchanged. The photos on the bedside table, the carpeted floor, even her grandmother’s jewelry box. Nothing had moved. The only giveaways that someone lived here were the crumpled sheets and the discarded sock with a hole in the heel. She crossed to the bed and lay beside it, putting her hand under and groping around like a clumsy first-time lover.

The gun was still there.

Thank you for being so predictable, gramps.

She cried then, at last, her tears as salty as a sea breeze. She pulled the gun loose. It came free with an obnoxiously loud ripping sound, and she tore the ancient tape from the handle. The handle, was that what it was called? The butt? Or was that just rifles? She couldn’t remember, didn’t care. She had a gun, a weapon, a means to defend herself.

And that’s all. Defense, not offense. Don’t forget that.

And now what?

She walked to the window. The pickup was out there, but no sign of her Datsun. Dammit! Gramps wouldn’t have left the keys to the pickup lying around. That old hunk of junk was his pride and joy. He would leave the house unlocked, no problem. But not his beloved truck. What was it he called her again? Betsy? Yes, that was it. Betsy the truck.

Something caught her eye. She leaned forward, nose pressing against the glass.

Her stomach lurched.

There was a body on the driveway. A naked body, pants bunched up around their ankles.

“Oh God,” she whispered.

It didn’t have a head.

“No,” sobbed Angel, for she knew it was her beloved grandfather. The death didn’t come as a shock to her, but the manner was worse than she could have imagined. Why was he nude? Where was his head? What the fuck had they done to him, an old man, a day shy of his… wait, no. It was after midnight. It was Saturday.

Today was her grandfather’s seventieth birthday.

“You bastards,” she snarled. “You rotten—”

Footsteps clumped on the stairs. She turned to the door, gripping the gun. Was it loaded? Surely. Why the hell would you hide an unloaded gun for protection?

Someone was coming. Angel backed up, looking for somewhere to hide. She couldn’t fire the gun. It would alert the others.

The wardrobe.

There were two of them, so she flung open the doors of the nearest one, confronted by a bulging rail of her grandmother’s floral dresses. Angel forced the stiff material aside and climbed in. The thick metal rail prevented her from standing, so she squatted awkwardly, feeling the burn in her thighs from calling upon long-dormant muscles.

Don’t come in here, don’t come into the bedroom.

She watched through the narrow gap of the double doors as a woman entered, dressed in the requisite female biker apparel of a skin-tight black leather skirt and white Marlboro t-shirt that was torn so badly it revealed the underside of her breasts. She was pretty, but the lank hair that framed her face reminded Angel of wilted graveside flowers.

The woman crossed to the dresser and opened the top drawer, rummaging through the contents and discarding unwanted items on the floor.

“Where’s the good shit?” she muttered. Her accent was east coast, New Jersey or thereabouts. She spotted the jewelry box and tipped it upside down. Bracelets and rings clattered onto the dresser.

Hurry up, thought Angel. Her legs throbbed. She wished she could sit, but there was no space in the wardrobe.

The biker shoved rings onto her fingers, draping gold chains and pendants around her neck. She held her hands out and spread her fingers, admiring the stolen jewelry.

“That’s right,” said the woman to herself. “I’m a fancy fuckin’ lady.”

Angel’s grip tightened on the gun.

Those aren’t yours. They belong to my grandmother.

She fidgeted uncomfortably, her muscles seizing up.

Just leave! Get out, you bitch!

But the woman remained.

“Gotta have more shit than this,” she said, and turned towards the wardrobe.

Angel froze. She could swear the woman was looking right at her.

Stay still. If you move, she’ll see you.

It was difficult, though. She trembled, the gun shaking in her hands.

Are you ready to use it?

She shook her head, silent tears spilling down her cheeks.

The woman was coming over.

Angel’s finger brushed the trigger, closed over it.

Stay away. Please, stay away.

The biker swerved to the other wardrobe, opening it and throwing dresses onto the floor in a pile.

“Well, what the hell is this?” said the woman.

She was out of Angel’s sight. What had she found? Hell, what did it even matter? She didn’t know how much longer she could stay cooped up in the wardrobe. The pain was becoming unbearable.

It doesn’t matter. You have a gun.

That was true.

And after seeing what they had done to her gramps, she wasn’t afraid to use it.

21

A biker kneeled before Fiona.

He gazed into her eyes as he ran a six-inch blade across her neck, hard enough to leave a mark, but not enough to break the skin.

“I’m gonna kill you slow,” he smiled.

She just looked at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of her fear. That was what he wanted, wasn’t it? The fear. The power.

The control.

Well, good luck to him. She had seen and felt it all before. Fiona had stared death in the face and lived to tell the tale. Oh, she couldn’t say she had come out of it unscathed — her past torments had left a mark, that was for damn sure — but it had made her stronger.

She looked at the face of the boy. He wore the same expression that all men do when they’re on top of women. One of smug satisfaction, like he belonged there, like she belonged to him.

You make me sick, she thought. All of you.

The gang had trashed the place. Anything that could be broken, had been. Well, except her spirit. She glanced at Daniel, sitting sniveling in the corner. One of the female bikers crouched next to him, jabbing his arm and face with a hypodermic needle while he tried to swat her away like she was a fly.

Poor bastard.

“Hey, bitch,” said the boy in front of her. He slapped her. “I’m talking to you.”

Fiona said nothing. Her cheek stung. She watched as he slid the knife between her breasts, running it over the fabric of her shirt. He cut through the thread of one button, and it fell into her lap. He smiled, displaying a mouthful of crooked teeth.

“How bout I keep cutting?” he said.

He wanted her to beg for mercy, to plead for her life.

Well, fuck that.

“You not know how buttons work?” she said.

“I… what?” His brow furrowed in frustration. “I’m gonna fucking slice you up, bitch,” he said, defaulting to his tough guy posturing once more. He cut the second button free, gliding the knife downwards.

Fiona’s eyes dropped to the boy’s blood-soaked hand, where Sam had shot him only a few hours ago. She wished it had been his face. Would the death of one of their own have quelled the gang’s thirst for blood? Or made things worse? Maybe if Sam had only threatened them, instead of pulling the trigger, the gang would have moved on, and Fiona would be home in bed right now reading a good book.

Violence begets violence.

Was that from The Bible? She didn’t know. Fiona had never been the praying type, and she wasn’t about to start.

Another button came loose from her shirt. The boy tugged the sides apart.

He glanced admiringly at her, and said, “For an old bitch, you got nice tits. Be a shame if I cut them.”

“Tits are overrated,” said Fiona.

The boy looked at her like he didn’t understand.

The pain in Angel’s legs was worsening. She closed her eyes, clenching her muscles as cramp set in.

The female biker was trying on her grandmother’s clothes. Angel could see the leather skirt and Marlboro tee lying on the rug by the bed.

She had no right to be going through someone else’s things. Especially not a dead woman’s things. The bitch already wore Angel’s grandmother’s jewels. Was that not enough?

“Oh yeah, real nice,” said the woman. The gold bracelets jangled together each time she moved.

Get out!

Perhaps she could reason with her? Was it possible the woman was being held against her will, and made to do the bidding of a malicious gang of biker thugs?

Unlikely.

Still, if the woman didn’t leave soon, Angel would have no choice. The claustrophobic confines of the wardrobe were taking their toll on her numb legs.

The woman stepped back into Angel’s line-of-sight.

“No,” she mouthed, her heart racing.

The biker was wearing her grandmother’s wedding dress. Angel had never seen it in person, but she recognised it from the framed photo that hung in the front room. Her grandparents had looked so happy back then, a handsome couple setting out on the adventure of a lifetime. Now they were both dead, and some biker was parading around their bedroom in the pristine white wedding dress, a grotesque mockery of the happy event. It fit her perfectly. She looked beautiful in the floor-length satin gown, a radiant vision of thirties glamour. The woman wiped away the grime from the mirror and admired herself. She pulled her hair back, pouting at her reflection.

“Satan’s bride,” she whispered, and blew herself a kiss.

It was the last straw. Angel took a deep breath, readied the gun, and silently opened the wardrobe doors.

22

“Take it off,” said Angel.

The biker slowly turned to her, her movements calculated. She opened her mouth, and Angel raised the handgun.

“Don’t make a sound,” she said. She was unused to the venom in her voice. It frightened her.

The woman regarded her as if Angel was a snake hiding in her boot.

“Where the fuck did you come from?” she said.

“I could ask you the same question. Now take the dress off.”

A sly smile creased the biker’s face. “You gonna shoot me if I don’t?”

“I might,” said Angel.

The woman licked her lips.

She’s more used to this than you. Stay cool.

She had to think. Was escape still an option? Could she take the woman hostage? And what about the rescue attempt? She decided to focus on that right now. She couldn’t leave without Daniel and Fiona. Her conscience wouldn’t allow it.

“How many of you are there?” she said.

“You want me to take my clothes off?” said the woman, ignoring the question.

“That dress isn’t yours,” said Angel. She clenched her jaw. It was a small thing, but it gave her a surge of confidence. “Now, how many?”

The woman shrugged nonchalantly. “Nine,” she said. “There were twelve of us before. That cunt downstairs killed one of us. Then the old man took out two more.”

“What did you do to him?”

Don’t go there. Don’t think about it.

But the mind is a slippery creature. It rarely does what it’s told.

“You knew him, yeah? You related?”

Angel said nothing.

“He your pa? Your grandpa?”

“Forget it,” said Angel. She tried to concentrate.

Nine bikers.

One up here, so eight downstairs. If she could take the woman out of the equation, maybe knock her out and tie her up, then—

“We fucked him up,” said the woman. “You shoulda been there. It was far out. We doped him up with acid. Say… you wouldn’t be Molly or Angel, would ya?”

At the sound of her name, Angel flinched.

“Angel, huh?” the woman said. “Pretty name. You know, he cried it out when we were fucking him. That’s pretty messed up, don’t ya think? I had his dick inside of me, he had his hands all over my tits, and he was calling out your name. You ever fuck your grampa, Angel? He ever come into your room at night? Maybe he smelled funny, liquor on his breath… he ever get into bed with you?”

“Shut up,” said Angel. The woman was sick. Disturbed.

“He ever touch you? He ever kiss you?”

“I said, shut up.”

“He ever ram his cock up your tight virgin asshole?”

Angel’s finger tightened over the trigger. She was sweating, the gun slippery in her hands.

“Don’t talk about my gramps like that. Don’t you dare.”

“You know what?” The woman’s smile broadened. “I bet you liked it.”

Do it. Shoot her. Kill her. Pull the trigger!

She wanted to. A part of her she never knew existed screamed at her to do it. To kill. To murder. Her whole belief system was a tower of cards, and the wind was picking up, shaking it.

Do it. End her life. She deserves it.

But she couldn’t. She told herself it was because the noise would alert the rest of the gang, but really, deep down, she knew she wasn’t capable of murder. The moment she pulled that trigger, Angel Hooper would cease to exist.

“Take the dress off,” she said instead. “Now.”

The woman looked unsure. Her eyes darted to the doorway. Downstairs, it sounded like a party was going on. There was laughter and music and singing, and hellish, tortured cries. She seemed to be considering making a break for it.

“Running won’t do you any good,” said Angel. “I’ll shoot you before you’re out the door.”

“They’ll hear you.”

“Maybe. Won’t matter to you, though. You’ll be dead.” Angel lowered the gun to the woman’s chest. There was less chance of her missing than if she aimed for the head. “Now strip.”

“Then what you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna tie you up. Might even knock you out.”

Was the woman buying this tough talk? Angel couldn’t tell. The smile had faded from her face, replaced by an unreadable deadpan expression.

“Fine,” she said. The smile crept back across her face. “Can I keep the garter?”

The idea that her grandmother’s garter was wrapped around the biker’s bare thigh appalled Angel.

“No, you can’t,” she said through gritted teeth.

The woman shrugged, and hitched up the dress. She locked eyes with Angel and put one leg on the bed, exposing the lace garter.

“Shame,” said the biker, her hands reaching slowly for the flimsy material.

“Hurry up.”

“It’s stuck.”

“What do you mean?” said Angel. Without realizing it, she lowered the gun and stepped forward.

The biker lashed out, a searing pain burning Angel’s hand.

She yelped in surprise, the gun clattering to the floor, and only then did she see the knife in the woman’s hand, the rusted blade dripping blood, her blood, onto the bedside rug. The woman dived for the gun, and Angel reflexively kicked the deadly weapon away. It slid noisily across the floor, disappearing beneath the dresser and striking the baseboard.

The two women exchanged glances. Angel hesitated. Should she go for the gun, or attack the woman?

Too late.

The biker lunged for her, swinging the blade recklessly. Angel dodged back, the sharpened tip slicing open her nightdress. The woman stumbled over the bridal gown, her momentum carrying her forwards, one lean shoulder connecting with Angel’s midsection. Angel grunted and fell, landing hard on her ass as the woman followed, scrambling on top of her. The knife glinted in her hand, and Angel grasped for it.

“Fuck you,” said the crazed biker, a wild look in her eyes, as she pulled the knife out of reach, then thrust it forwards. Angel parried the blow with her arm, the blade nicking her side, drawing more blood.

There was no time to feel pain, no chance to stop and consider what was happening. This was no ordinary fight. There could only be one outcome.

Death.

The woman roared as Angel backhanded her, a tight fist connecting with her nose. It burst, blood gushing from the ruptured organ, spraying over Angel’s face, getting in her eyes, her mouth.

It wasn’t enough.

The woman raised the knife again, twisting it in her hand until the blade pointed down like a miniature guillotine. Angel gripped her wrist, using both hands, her arms straining under the pressure.

“I’m gonna kill you,” said the woman, blood pouring down her face. She forced the blade down, the tip inching closer to Angel’s face until all she could see was the point of the knife hovering above her eye.

Closer and closer it came. She blinked, her eyelashes brushing the metal. Beyond it, the woman’s face was an indecipherable blur.

She had to do something. This was a battle Angel could not win. The last time she had been involved in a fight was in high school, and even that was over in seconds when Jessica Leonard pushed her down the stairs, giving Angel a scar on her eyebrow that she still carried.

Angel relinquished one hand, using it to claw at the woman’s unprotected face. She dug her nails into her forehead, scraping down the furrowed brow, gouging channels through the skin until she came to the eyeball. Without a second thought, she forced her index finger into the socket. The woman tried to shut her eyes, but it was no use. Angel jerked her hand, her finger slipping easily into the juicy goo of the woman’s eyeball. The biker tried to throw her head back, but Angel curled her finger, hooking it into the eye socket like a claw, latching on to the woman’s skull.

With her other hand, she kept her grip on the woman’s wrist, but the pressure had lessened. Using her legs, Angel pushed off the ground. The woman lost her balance, and suddenly Angel had the edge. She rolled the biker onto her back, getting on top of her, pinning her knife hand down to the floor. Her finger slopped free from the ruptured eye socket, and she dragged her nails down the woman’s cheek, leaving a sticky, filmy residue. The skin broke, blood spurting, pooling in the ruinous crater above the woman’s eye.

The biker never screamed. Instead, she emitted a low, rumbling gurgle, like some alien creature was trying to emerge from her throat.

Angel punched the woman in the face to shut her up. Once, twice, her fist connecting with solid bone. Adrenaline pumped furiously through her veins, a scarlet veil descending. She lost control, hitting her again and again, her knuckles coming away scuffed and bloody. The woman released the knife and, in a list ditch attempt to save herself, closed her hands around Angel’s throat, her one good eye wide and frenzied. Her grip was inhumanly strong.

Angel’s vision fogged. The woman had both hands on her throat, squeezing, squeezing. Angel hit her, tried to prise her fingers off, but the hold could not be relinquished.

“Let go,” she tried to say, but nothing came out except a deep rasping sound.

She couldn’t breathe. My God, she couldn’t fucking breathe! Thumbs clamped over her windpipe, a dark vignette encroaching on her vision like the end of a cartoon.

Th—th—th—that’s all, folks!

The knife.

It lay beside the woman, forgotten and alone.

Angel reached for it. It was inches from her fingertips, but those inches may as well have been miles. She looked down at the biker — at her red and bleeding face, at her ruined eye that bubbled gruesomely — and let her body go limp. She sagged down onto the woman, their stomachs touching, faces close enough to kiss.

It was the extra distance Angel needed. She grabbed the knife, fingers closing around the hilt, and pushed herself away from the woman.

She raised the weapon — just long enough for the biker to see it, to understand what was coming — then thrust it downwards in one fluid motion. It entered her stomach just below the ribcage, slicing easily through the white satin of the wedding dress.

Shock overcame the biker. Her mouth opened, expelling a vile glob of blood, but her hands never left Angel’s neck. If anything, they grew tighter.

Angel drew the knife downwards. The skin was tough, so she sawed the blade up and down. Hot blood gushed over the floor, and a grotesque tearing sound assaulted her ears. Angel looked down, and realized she could see inside the woman, her guts squirming like maggots as Angel dragged the knife through them.

Still the woman’s grasp never loosened. Fog clouded Angel’s eyes. Why wouldn’t this bitch die? Why wouldn’t she just fucking die?

She tried to speak, to cry out in anger. In desperation, she raised a tired fist and plunged it into the woman’s open stomach. She wrenched a hand free, clutching a long, stringy intestine. She tore it from the woman’s abdomen, wet and oozing and gray, and wrapped it around the biker’s neck.

“How do you like it?” croaked Angel, her voice shattered and unrecognisable. She gripped the intestine in both hands, coiling it around her wrists, and pulled. The guts stretched… and then tightened. She pulled harder, convinced that the gross cord would snap.

But it didn’t.

It just got tighter and tighter, the woman’s face turning blue. Her remaining eye bulged, her tongue poking out the side of her mouth.

Angel leaned in close.

“How do you fucking like it?” she snarled, her voice unrecognisable.

The biker made a tired clucking sound. Her shoulders jerked, her body spasmed… and then it was over.

The woman was dead, and Angel had killed her.

Angel Hooper remained motionless for a long time.

The knife fell from her hand, landing in the woman’s open belly.

You killed her.

She had. It was undeniable. The woman’s blood was literally on her hands, staining them. She held them up, looking at them the way an archaeologist inspects a rare find.

But this was no treasure.

“God,” she whispered.

This isn’t the work of God, her mind replied.

“I had to do it… I had to.”

There was no response to that. No argument, no accusatory voices. Just an empty loathing, a putrid, spiralling hatred that burned deep within her.

How things change.

How people change.

She hadn’t just killed that woman.

She had massacred her.

A foul stench filled the air.

People don’t smell so good on the inside.

It was a mad thing to think, and she knew it. She looked down at her handiwork.

I did that, she thought. She expected tears. They didn’t come.

You can do it again.

“No,” she said. “Never.”

But she could.

Hell, she would have to.

23

They’re getting bored, thought Fiona.

There was nothing left to trash. The only downstairs furniture that remained unscathed was the record player, upon which currently spun a Leonard Cohen album. Most of the LPs in Sam’s collection were jazz or classical, which had not interested the bikers, so they had smashed them. A Rolling Stones record — Angel’s, presumably — had kept their spirits up for a while. The Beatles had a more muted effect, and Cohen’s Songs of Love and Hate LP was not going well at all.

Most of them were spaced out on something strong. Heroin? They were injecting it, whatever it was, all except the leader.

Marduk.

Since arriving, he had touched nothing stronger than liquor. He crouched in the corner, watching her. Fiona couldn’t read his expression. Part of her — a very small, hopeful part — thought that maybe he wouldn’t rape her and kill her. She didn’t seem to hold the same fascination that a young girl like Molly had. She almost felt like an afterthought.

That was good.

For the last while, they had mostly left her alone. They were more amused by Daniel, no doubt because he gave them the reactions they craved. He cried, he begged, he whimpered, his face dotted with tiny black stab wounds from the hypodermic like so many mosquito bites, each leaking minuscule trickles of blood.

They were disrobing him now, two of the girls, pulling his shirt over his head, unbuckling his pants and tugging them down his legs, leaving him in a pair of skimpy red briefs.

“Please,” he said, “Don’t hurt me. Please.”

One of the girls jabbed at the bulge in his underwear with the needle, and Daniel howled. The sound made the girls laugh, and they continued probing at his cock with the empty hypodermic.

Daniel started to cry as they pulled his underpants down. One girl took his penis between her fingers, while the other held the needle up to it.

“Think it’ll go all the way through?” she said in a dazed voice.

The other shrugged like a scientist performing a routine experiment. “Dunno. Wanna find out?”

“Could be a kick.” She pressed the tip of the needle into Daniel’s flaccid cock, smiling as it emerged on the other side. Daniel blubbered and shifted his body violently. It was a bad idea. The needle snapped.

“Look what you did,” said the first girl, as Daniel shrieked and cried at this painful new indignity.

Fiona could take no more.

“Leave him alone,” she shouted, instantly regretting it as all eyes in the room fell upon her. If she had been hoping they’d forgotten about her, then she had just undone a lot of hard work. But someone had to stand up for Daniel if he wasn’t going to do it himself.

“What’d you say, bitch?” said the girl holding Daniel’s penis. She flicked the needle, and he screamed.

“I said leave him alone.”

A male biker, who lay across the floor watching them, piped up. “You in love with him or something?”

“Yeah,” said one of the girls. “You jealous?”

“You want to fuck him?” said the other. This made them both giggle.

Fiona didn’t want to be the center of attention, but… fuck it. The chances of her living were slim-to-none, especially lying here trussed-up like a Thanksgiving turkey. She wondered if Angel had gotten away. How long would it take her to reach town and return with help?

“Come on,” said Fiona, in the calmest voice she could muster. “You’ve had your fun. Let him go. Let us both go.”

“Ain’t neither of you getting out alive,” said a bearded biker.

Marduk spoke up. “Don’t be so sure of that,” he said, running a hand through his dark hair. His followers — hell, his flock — looked expectantly at him.

“What d’ya mean, Marduk?” asked one girl in a voice thick with holy reverence.

“I mean, this scene is dead. Why don’t we liven things up, have some fun?”

Fiona didn’t like where this was going.

Marduk stood. “I think we should have a contest.” He pointed at Fiona, and then at Daniel. “Her against him. A fight to the death. Whoever lives… lives.”

Fiona looked at Daniel. The boy wiped away tears, staring at Marduk.

“What… what do you mean?” he sniveled.

“I say what I mean and I mean what I say. Whoever wins gets to live. We won’t kill you. Hell, we won’t even fuck you.” He snorted, then added, “Unless you want us to.”

“He’s lying,” said Fiona.

Marduk turned to her, his smile a chilling parody of kindness. “Don’t worry, baby. I think you’ll win. In fact, I’m so confident, I’ll bet my cycle on it.”

The gang perked up at that, all but one biker, who was so stoned he barely seemed to be breathing.

“We won’t do it,” said Fiona. “We won’t hurt each other for your sick—”

“I’ll do it,” said Daniel. He nodded, seemingly unable to stop himself. “I’ll kill her for you. I’ll do it. Just let me live.”

“Daniel!” snapped Fiona. “They can’t make us.”

He looked at her with the eyes of a man who thought he was going to die, but has now found a get-out clause.

“I know,” he said. “But I want to. This is all your fault. It’s all your damn fault. You brought them here. You and that… that little bitch in the diner.”

Fiona’s fists clenched. “Don’t you talk about her like that.”

“Why not? Why couldn’t you just let them have her?”

“They were going to rape her!”

“So? She’d get over it. It’s no big deal. Two minutes, in-and-out, then get on with your life. Why’d you have to turn it into something it’s not?”

He was crying, snot dribbling from his nose.

“You’re not a man,” she said. “You’re nothing. You’re shit.”

Daniel just stared at her. “Then let’s get this over with.”

Fiona looked up at Marduk. “Fine. Untie me and let me kill that little motherfucker.”

Marduk laughed, a gregarious sound like a demented department store Santa. “Looks like it’s on.” He turned to the nearest biker. “Switch that maudlin music off, man. It’s bringing me down.” He glanced at the sleeping biker. “And wake up Rat. He won’t wanna miss the fun.”

He rubbed his hands together.

“This is gonna be good.”

Upstairs, Angel wiped her bloodied hands on the bed sheets, leaving a smeared red mess on the yellowing fabric. She got down on her knees, reaching under the dresser for the errant gun, and found it.

What about the knife?

She doubted she’d need to use it, not when she had a gun… but it would be good to have. It was still lying in the dead biker’s chest cavity. Angel brushed aside the entrails and plucked the knife free, tucking it into her belt. A pain jabbed at her side, and she winced. She was bleeding. She inspected the wound. Not too deep. Just a cut. It would heal, if she managed to get out of this alive.

She wandered over to the window and looked out.

There was her gramps’ pickup. And beyond that was the man himself, minus his head. What gave her hope were the pants around his ankles. There was a chance — however small — that the keys to the pickup were still in them. She would have to go out there and search him. The idea horrified her. Well, that wasn’t quite true. The idea would have horrified Angel Hooper… but Angel Hooper was dead. She was someone else now, someone who had always lived inside her, the bleak fantasy version of herself who took no shit from bullies, who stood up to people… who killed indiscriminately.

Focus, dammit.

She went back to thinking about her plan. If she found the keys, then she would take the pickup into town. They would follow her, she thought, but it was only ten miles. She could make that in no time, get the sheriff, and rescue Daniel and Fiona.

Were they still alive? She hadn’t heard anything in a while. What if they—

No, don’t think that. Not yet. Go find out. But be careful.

Holding onto the gun, Angel left her grandparents’ bedroom. She didn’t take a last look at the corpse, for she had no need to. The vision of the dead woman in her grandmother’s wedding gown would be imprinted on her retinas until the day she died.

She heard voices downstairs. They were fainter now, less raucous than before. Leonard Cohen spoke-sang in that familiar gravelly voice, and it made Angel well up with tears. She had given that record to her gramps for his last birthday as a way to get him to appreciate modern music. It was a great album, Cohen’s best yet. She wondered if she would live long enough to buy his next one.

On the landing, she waited by the staircase and listened. The bikers were betting on something. In lieu of chips, they were wagering cigarettes.

The music stopped, the needle scratching across the grooves of the record. Some of the bikers cheered. What the hell were they betting on? She heard the thump of fists on flesh. It brought another cheer, and laughter, more laughter.

She peered over the landing. The hallway was empty. Another brutal impact resounded through the house. Someone was fighting. That’s what they were betting on. But who?

Daniel. They’re making him fight.

She shook her head. Her fiancé wouldn’t stand a chance. They’d beat him to a pulp. He was many things — a sensitive soul, an attentive lover, a connoisseur of fine arts — but he was not a fighter.

Not like you, huh, killer?

“Shut up,” she whispered.

Another thud, then a body hit the floor. Angel started down the steps, clutching the gun to her chest.

They’re going to kill him. You took too long.

Or maybe it was Fiona?

No. She was probably already dead.

Someone screamed. It was shrill and girlish. Fiona? Or Daniel? As much as Angel hated to admit it, it could be either of them. While in Rome, a week before the engagement, they had caught a movie, a horror film called L'uccello dalle piume di cristallo. It had been in Italian, a language neither of them spoke, but Daniel had still shrieked at the scary parts.

She was almost at the bottom of the stairs now. A floorboard creaked beneath her, but she didn’t care. It would be inaudible over the noise of the roaring, cheering biker gang.

Run… run for your life.

But she couldn’t. She had killed a woman, and would live with the consequences for the rest of her life, but it had not robbed her of her essential humanity.

Someone was in trouble. Someone needed help. She couldn’t abandon them. She couldn’t abandon Daniel, her one true love. The man she was going to marry.

Her soulmate.

If she could get to Daniel, rescue him, and flee together… maybe then she could put her life back together, and forget about the awful events of the last few hours. The chance remained they could still escape with their lives and sanity intact.

Angel strode towards the front room, the gun in her hand growing heavier with each step. She heard a soft sound, wet and terrible, and one she was now intimately familiar with.

A knife entering flesh.

She looked at her own scarlet hands.

Daniel’s dead now. You were too late.

The sound continued, over and over, gaining in intensity. What was the point carrying on? Everyone she loved was dead. Life was meaningless.

Then go out on a high. Step into that room and blow them away. Blow every last one of them away, and save the final bullet for yourself.

It wasn’t a good plan, but it was her only plan.

As Angel Hooper’s mind deteriorated, she held the pistol at arm’s length.

“You bastards,” she said, and then she wiped away a tear, stepped into the doorway, and took aim, fully unprepared for what she would find.

24

Fiona lay on the floor, her face a white death mask streaked with bloody scars.

One of the bikers kneeled between her spread legs, his back to Angel. He was naked, his muscular ass flexing as he raised the knife high, the blade dripping with gore. He brought it down, revealing the source of the wet smacking sound in all its foul glory. Fiona’s vagina was a torn and bleeding mess, her inner thighs scarred and ripped, strips of flesh hanging from them, exposing the gleaming sinew and muscle beneath.

“It’s just sex!” shouted the naked biker, as he plunged the knife into Fiona, using the motion to punctuate his sentences. “It’s no big deal!”

Fiona’s body shuddered as the blade penetrated her.

Angel’s stomach somersaulted… and then settled itself. She wasn’t disgusted, or horrified, or shocked, or appalled… she felt nothing but sheer, seething hatred.

“You fucking bastards!” she screamed.

They looked at her, the men and women, the red paint on their faces now dripping and faded. Her finger hovered over the trigger. She had the element of surprise, and needed to use it.

The naked biker released the knife, leaving it jutting out of Fiona’s crotch, and turned to face her.

If Angel thought she could no longer feel, then she was wrong.

Dead wrong.

For when she stared into the face of her fiancé, she suddenly knew pain the likes of which most people would never experience.

“Angel,” said Daniel, wiping Fiona’s blood from his face.

“Who the fuck is that?” shouted someone.

A female biker was the first to make her move. She rose, charging at Angel, rummaging in her pocket for a weapon. She never had time to find it. Angel pivoted, training the gun on the woman. For the first time in her life, she pulled the trigger on a firearm. The report was shockingly loud in the small room, the bullet slamming into the woman’s sternum. Her body jerked like she had been attached to the wall by a cord, and then she collapsed.

More of them were coming, coming for her, knocking Daniel out of the way, trampling him underfoot.

Angel fired at the biker nearest to her, a snarling woman with an eyepatch that failed to hide the scar that ran from her hairline to her lips.

The bullet hit the woman square in the forehead. Blood and brain matter squirted out the hole in the back of her skull, and the remaining bikers — only now sensing the danger — dived for cover.

“Get her!” shouted one of them, but Angel was already heading for the front door. As she fled, she caught a last look at Daniel. He lay still, naked as the day he was born, curled into a fetal position alongside the grisly remains of Fiona. She wanted to shoot him, to shoot him dead, once in his disgusting dick, and once in his lying, murdering face… but there was no time.

She ran, stumbling over the splintered front door, and hit the porch. The bikers followed — she could hear them — but more cautiously than before. As she took the porch stairs two at a time, she turned and fired another shot into the ranch as a warning.

Careful, you don’t know how many shots you have left.

Yeah, but being careful wasn’t gonna keep her alive.

She reached the pickup.

Maybe the keys are in the ignition?

And maybe not. Did she have time to check? She glanced back at the house, at the vacant space where the door used to be, the hallway light creating a strangely welcoming glow, a space soon filled by a dark figure, watching, waiting.

She held the gun up to him, lining the man up in her sights. Could she hit him from here? Doubtful. The previous two shots had been close range flukes.

Two more dead bodies, huh?

“Yeah,” she muttered. “So what?” The voice in her head had no answer. So many questions, but never any solutions. She wondered why she had spent her life listening to it.

Angel threw open the pickup door and looked inside.

No keys.

No problem.

With the gun aimed at the doorway, she ran to the corpse lying face-down in the dirt. Well, face-down wasn’t quite accurate. It had no face, no head, unless you counted the flaps of skin and fragments of white bone that littered the ground in a six-foot radius.

Gramps.

It had been him, once upon a time. Her grandfather, who she had loved dearly despite his faults. But that life, the life she had known, was nothing but a dream, and now the dream was over.

It had been fun while it lasted.

The smell from the body was overpowering, like the stench from the old Dennyville slaughterhouse. She avoided looking at it, kneeling by the ankles, rummaging through the pockets of the bloodstained jeans.

The bikers were heading out the door.

“Stay back!” she shouted. She didn’t want to fire again and risk missing. For all she knew, there were no bullets left. In the first pocket, she found a quarter and a used tissue.

“Come on,” she whispered.

She located the second pocket, watching the bikers, keeping her gun trained on them, trying not to look at the blood-soaked corpse just below her line of vision. Her fingers brushed metal.

The keys.

She had them!

Getting quickly to her feet, Angel ran towards the pickup. The sun was already threatening to come up. What time was it? Three? Four? She had no clue. It didn’t matter. Soon, she would be in Dennyville, and she could get the cops, and then… what? They would return to the ranch and rescue Daniel, her fiancé, who was last seen naked and stabbing a woman to death between her legs. The memory hit her like a sledgehammer. She arrived at the pickup and stopped, seconds away from a meltdown. Perhaps sensing weakness, one of the gang spoke from the safety of the porch.

“You can’t get away,” he said. “We’ll follow you to the ends of the Earth. Beyond, if we have to. Bitch, we’ll chase you all the way to Hell.”

She panted against the pickup door, great sobs wracking her body.

Daniel… oh Daniel, what did they do to you?

They freed him. They unleashed his inner beast. They’ve done the same to you. You just can’t see it yet.

“You come after me, and I’ll kill you,” she said. “All of you.”

She heard a familiar sound. A window opening on the second floor. She looked up, saw the reflection of the moon shifting, and realized where her gramps’ shotgun had gone.

Move!

Forcing her body to act, she flung open the door and stepped into the pickup as the shotgun blasted through the night. Angel jammed the keys into the ignition. It had been a few years since she had driven the old truck. Dammit, she couldn’t even reach the pedals! She adjusted the driver’s seat as another shotgun roar echoed across the land. The windshield exploded, showering Angel and the interior of the vehicle in minuscule shards of glass. She screamed, and then the engine sputtered into life. Struggling with the ancient gearshift, she put the truck in reverse, released the clutch, and took off, heading backwards towards the old highway. The bikers were filing out of the ranch, running in all directions. Where were their bikes? Maybe she should have taken one of them? She used to go dirt biking with her friends in her teenage years, and she was sure she could remember how. Shit, it was too late for maybes.

At least she had a head start.

A light shone from inside the house, illuminating the porch. The light grew brighter. What was—

The motorcycle that had originally been used to gain access to the ranch now came roaring through the doorway. It flew over the porch steps, landing on its back wheel, and then it was coming for her.

The pickup was almost at the road. As the tires found purchase on the asphalt, she spun the wheel, skidding the vehicle around until it faced Dennyville. The stench of burning rubber filtered through the half-open windows as Angel slammed the gearshift into first and pressed her foot to the accelerator. The tires screeched, the pickup lurching forward. She glanced in the rearview. The motorcycle was catching up. Back at the ranch, more lights were coming on. More bikes. The whole gang.

Bitch, we’ll chase you all the way to Hell.

She hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

And if it does?

Angel gritted her teeth.

“Then so be it, motherfuckers.”

25

The first bike drew level.

Angel glanced through the passenger window at the rider, his greasy hair flapping in the wind. He turned to her, the velocity distorting his features, drawing his lips back in an animalistic sneer as he pulled up alongside the pickup. Angel stamped her foot down, the truck picking up speed. The needle nudged seventy, the interior of the cab rattling.

“Come on, Betsy,” said Angel in an unconscious imitation of her grandfather, unable to hear herself over the violent thrum of the motorcycle engine.

The biker edged his vehicle closer. In his left hand he clutched the biggest knife Angel had ever seen. He held it up for her to see, then moved it to his neck and mimicked drawing the blade across his throat. He grinned at her.

Angel smiled back. She leaned towards him, and shouted over the roar of the duelling engines.

“You should get a gun!”

The biker looked at her in confusion.

Keeping one hand on the wheel, Angel raised the pistol that sat in her lap.

“Eat shit,” she muttered, and fired through the passenger window.

The glass shattered, catching the brief light of the muzzle flash and sparkling in the empty blackness of the desert. The biker’s hands shot to his face, the front of the cycle wobbling, veering to the side. It left the road, hitting a divot, hurtling through the air before crashing back down to the desert floor. She saw his body crumple, crushed by the weight of the cycle, but there was no time to celebrate.

More lights behind her, gaining on her.

She couldn’t outrun them for long. But she didn’t have to. It wasn’t far to Dennyville. She could keep them at bay. They couldn’t exactly run the pickup off the road with their bikes.

Of course, once she got into town, she didn’t know what she would do. It was the middle of the night. The station was closed. Everyone would be asleep.

Don’t think about it.

And so she didn’t. Simple as that, like flicking the switch from on to off. Later, when all this was over, she would have time to dwell on matters. Like, for example, who she even was anymore. But not now.

Not when she was racing for her life.

Two bikes tore up the road behind her. They split from each other, flanking the pickup. The guy on the left pulled up alongside her window. She swerved the truck towards him, and he moved with her, expertly dodging her attempt to ram his bike. For a moment Angel lost control of the pickup. She turned the wheel, trying to correct herself. The gun slipped from her hand, landing somewhere beneath the seat as the tires spun uselessly on the poorly maintained road, kicking up loose stones and plumes of smoke. She whirled the wheel back, somehow keeping on the road, now driving down the center, the scuffed and faded white lines shooting by like bullets. She glanced left, coming face-to-face with a bearded man, his crooked nose busted all out of shape. A woman clung to his waist. The man edged the bike closer to her. He let go of the handlebar, drew his fist back, and punched straight through the window.

Angel turned her head to avoid the glass. Shit, the inside of the cab was already carpeted in the stuff. It glistened on the floor, on the seat, on her lap. Every time she moved, tiny pieces dug into her skin. She pulled away from the biker, the pickup knocking into the other motorcycle.

They were on either side of her, and that was no use.

Angel slammed the brake, letting the two bikers pull away, then accelerated again. The move surprised them. They looked back at her, then slowed, allowing her to catch up. At the last second she turned, ramming the fender into the back of the bike on her right-hand side. The bike wobbled precariously, almost toppling, then the rider righted himself, pulling out of reach.

Something landed on the pickup. Angel heard it, felt the impact. In the rearview, she saw a woman. The crazy bitch had jumped from the bearded biker’s motorcycle onto the truck.

Fuck! Now they had her surrounded. The speedometer hit eighty. Any faster, and the engine on old Betsy would probably die.

She had to lose them.

The woman clambered along the bed of the truck, inching closer. A hand suddenly wrapped around Angel’s throat.

The bearded biker.

He was leaning over into the cab, holding onto the bike with his other hand. She veered right, once again almost knocking into the other rider, but taking the bearded man with her.

“Shit!” he shouted, as the bike slid out from under him. It fell, crashing to the road and sliding on its side, sparks cascading from the screaming metal as it kept pace. The only thing stopping the man from going with it was his grip on Angel’s neck. His other hand appeared on the window frame, grabbing onto it for dear life. Broken shards of glass pierced his hand, but he didn’t seem to notice.

The woman on the truck reached the cab. She kicked the glass panel behind Angel, sending slivers of razor-sharp glass down the back of her nightdress. Angel barely noticed. The man clung on to her, almost pulling her from the vehicle. She released the steering wheel and groped for her seatbelt, snapping it into its socket. Behind her, the woman had started to climb into the cab with her.

“Fuck off!” screamed Angel. “Get the fuck away from me!”

Her fingers brushed the metal of the door handle. She pulled at it, but at the speed they were traveling, the door wouldn’t open. To her right, the female biker was halfway inside the cab. Angel could see the knife she was holding as she struggled through the narrow gap of the broken window.

Angel twisted her body, putting one foot against the door, and kicked it open, pushing the bearded man away from her. He lost his grip on her neck, moving both hands to the window frame. His boots scraped noisily across the asphalt. Angel straightened her leg against the door, keeping it open. Surely he couldn’t hold on much longer?

She turned to the female biker. The girl squeezed her ass through the window and landed in the passenger seat. In the cramped confines of the cab, she came at Angel, thrusting the knife in front of her with a gargled scream of fury. Angel swerved the vehicle left, knocking the girl off balance. She fell, her hand striking the dashboard, dropping the knife. As the girl scrambled between the seats, Angel yanked her backwards by her ponytail.

“Let go,” she spat, but Angel had too strong a grip. The girl was heading towards the open door, where somehow the bearded biker still clung on. Wind howled through the cab, the girl twisting her body to face Angel, scratching at her. Angel tugged her hair, slamming her face against the wheel, then she grabbed the waistband of the girl’s jeans and hauled her out of the vehicle. The girl fell forwards, her trailing hands catching Angel’s seatbelt. Her upper torso hung halfway out of the cab, but she held on, legs frantically kicking. With one hand on the wheel, and one leg desperately keeping the pickup door open, Angel tried to push the girl onto the road. There came an awful scratching sound, like a gravel pit screaming.

It was the girl’s face against the blacktop.

Far ahead, Angel saw the shimmering glow of Fiona’s Diner, the sign an oasis in the darkness.

Where it all began, she thought.

The female biker’s legs thrashed. Her face had to be a shredded mess by now, but she never gave up. The bearded man, too, remained on the door, blood pouring down the leather interior from his cut and slashed hands.

I’ll have whatever they’re on.

Angel laughed at that, but it wasn’t a normal laugh. It was the sound a crazy person makes when they’re locked in a padded cell.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you, bitch!” shouted the bearded man. Angel’s legs were tiring. She couldn’t hold the door open forever. How the fuck had he not let go yet?

They were nearing the diner. The neon sign loomed over the desert on its twenty-foot-high pole, and Angel smiled.

She veered onto the wrong side of the road, flooring the gas.

“Fuck you!” she screamed. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!”

“You’re gonna die,” the bearded man yelled back, unaware that he was heading for the neon sign.

“We’ve all gotta die,” Angel said, pulling her leg back into the cab, and then the door — and the bearded man — smacked into the pole at full speed. The impact was devastating. The biker seemed to burst like a water balloon hitting the sidewalk, his whole body flattening. Angel tucked her legs in as the door slammed shut on the girl. There was a revolting crunch as the female biker’s ribcage shattered, and the resultant spray of blood drenched the interior of the cab as the door cut the girl in two.

“I got you, motherfucker!” screamed Angel. “I got you both!”

She watched the girl’s torso in the wing mirror, pirouetting along the road like a tumbleweed, the limp arms twirling like rotor blades before disappearing into the darkness.

The remaining bike thundered alongside her, the rider watching through the broken window. He started to pull away. Sensing defeat?

“Damn right,” she said, and spun the wheel hard, the pickup swerving across the lanes. The biker had no time to react. His vehicle vanished under the wheels of the pickup. Metal cracked and bent, the truck jolting over the motorcycle with a bump. Angel slammed the brake, the pickup skidding, throwing her forwards into her seatbelt, whipping her neck. It came to a stop facing the side of the road.

Wasting no time, she unfastened her seatbelt and tried to open the door. It was severely dented from hitting the sign, and wouldn’t budge.

No matter.

She could get out the other side. First, though, she hefted the lower half of the female biker up. Loose guts spilled onto the floor of the cab, the white bone of her cracked spine protruding. Angel deposited the legs out the window. They landed with a firm splat on the road. Then she bent, picked up the knife, and exited through the passenger door.

It was a warm night, the moon red and bloodshot in the sky. Angel lumbered back along the road towards the downed motorcycle. For the first time since back at the ranch, she had a chance to think about what she was doing.

She chose not to.

Her body cried out in pain. She was still bleeding. Her legs felt like she’d run a marathon, and her whiplashed neck sent waves of agony shooting through her head.

It’s okay. It’s almost over. Almost over…

The biker was trapped under his ride, his leg crushed beneath the weight. He saw her coming. In the scarlet light of the moon, he looked like a child.

“Help me,” he said in a thin voice. He pushed at the bike, trying to rock it. “I’m… I’m stuck.”

Angel stood before him, looking down at the pitiful sight. The biker noticed the knife in her hand. His eyes widened, a look of terror dawning like the heroine in one of those old black-and-white monster movies on late night TV.

“Don’t,” he blubbered. “Please. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, me too,” she said.

He tried to move the bike again, desperation in his eyes. She saw a carton of cigarettes in the pocket of his scuffed leather jacket.

“Hey,” she said calmly. “You got a smoke?”

He stared at her, perplexed.

“Huh?”

“A smoke,” she repeated. “You got one?”

He nodded. “Yeah… yeah I do.” He fumbled for the carton with twitching, restless fingers, and tossed it at her feet. She stooped and picked them up, removing a cigarette, stuffing it in her mouth.

“How about a light?”

He searched his pockets, locating a lighter. He held it out to her, and she snatched it from his hand.

“Please, lady. It wasn’t meant to be like this. I swear.”

“Tell me about it,” said Angel.

She flicked open the lighter and lit the cigarette. It was the first time she’d ever smoked tobacco. It tasted sharp and somewhat unpleasant. “Thanks for the light,” she said, then walked past him, heading in the direction of the diner, the neon sign a lighthouse in the hopeless dark of the desert.

“Where you going?” the boy called after her. About thirty feet down the road, she stopped, turned back to him, and kneeled, the lighter in her hand, the tall flame illuminating her face.

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I know where you’re going.”

She touched the lighter to the ground. The trail of gasoline ignited, scurrying across the road towards the motorcycle.

“No… no!” shrieked the biker. “I hope you fucking—”

He was cut short by an explosion that almost knocked Angel off her tired feet. When she looked back, she saw the flames dancing in the night, the bike — and the boy — a raging inferno. In a burst of lunatic strength, the kid managed to free himself from under the bike. He stood, spinning, his flaming arms flailing in front of him. She could still hear him screaming as he dropped to his knees, then fell flat on his burning, melted face.

“And then there were none,” whispered Angel. The cigarette dropped from her lips, smoldering on the asphalt.

It was over.

Finished.

She had—

Wait.

What was that noise? A car? She looked down the road, at the approaching light that grew larger with each passing second.

She tried to think.

The girl upstairs. You asked her how many of them there were. Nine, she said. Nine of them. You killed her, and that left eight. Then you shot two of them. Six left. Then the first man on the bike. The bearded man and his girl left three of them.

She looked at the boy, his body aflame.

Two. There’s two left.

She heard the unmistakable sound of a motorcycle rumbling towards her.

“Shit,” she said, and laughed a little.

It wasn’t over yet, but it soon would be.

26

Angel ran for her grandfather’s truck, smiling as she did so.

She didn’t know why, and she wanted to stop, but dammit, she just couldn’t wipe that smirk off her face. She felt a little crazy, a little unhinged, but that was okay. That was understandable. She was crazy. For now, at least. Maybe, when all this was over — and it would be, no doubt about that — she could regain her composure. Hopefully, her sanity would follow suit. But that could wait. She needed many things right now — strength, courage, stamina — but sanity was not one of them.

The passenger door hung open. She paused a moment and looked back down the road. The bike was there, stationary, the engine growling. He was waiting for her. Why?

She already knew. She nodded, not sure if he’d see her, but trusting that he would. Angel climbed into the cab. She brushed the broken glass off the driver’s seat and shuffled into position. The engine started first time. Jeez, her grandfather had taken good care of ol’ Betsy. She remembered the day her gramps told her the pickup’s name. Angel had thought it was a dumb name for a beat-up old truck. Now she gently patted the steering wheel, running her hands over leather which bore perfect finger-sized indentations from years of use.

“Good girl, Betsy,” she said. She adjusted the rearview mirror and faced a woman she had never met. Angel smiled and tipped the stranger a wink. The woman winked back at her. Then she threw the truck into reverse and turned a full one-eighty. Behind the wheel she felt powerful, a goddess of destruction.

Unstoppable.

She hit the brakes and waited, facing the biker. Betsy purred contentedly. They were far off, a speck on the horizon. Behind them the first rays of morning light spread across the sky, drenching it a stomach-churning blood red.

The biker made no move, and neither did she. The downtime allowed her mind to wander. She pictured Daniel, plunging that knife into—

Best not to think of that.

She remembered the girl in the bedroom, steaming viscera wrapped around her neck, the wedding dress—

No, not that either.

She thought of her grandfather, his head gone, pants at his ankles, his—

Oh, come on!

“It’s been a day,” she said to herself.

The headlamp on the motorcycle turned to face her.

It was time.

“Happy birthday, gramps,” she whispered, and pressed her foot down on the pedal. The truck moved forward, Angel switching gears, first, second, third, the landscape blurring by.

The bike kicked up dust as it came for her.

“Good luck, asshole,” she said. The dumb bastard didn’t stand a chance. Oh, he had guts, she’d give him that. Might as well go out in a blaze of glory.

Who are you?

She blinked away the question.

Who even are you?

She kept her eyes on the road. At this rate, they would collide right outside the diner. She shook her head. There was no way he wouldn’t chicken out. The pickup would annihilate the bike. As for the rider, well… she would scoop up what was he left of him afterwards, if she was feeling charitable. After all, the trash cans were just around the back of the diner.

She laughed a bitter, crazed giggle.

She could see the biker now, his face hard and set, his short hair slicked back. The red paint had been mostly wiped from his skin, but none of that mattered. What did matter were his eyes. Narrowed, cold, and full of conviction.

He wasn’t going to turn. No way. As a form it suicide, it would be undeniably spectacular.

Ten out of ten for theatrics. Pity there’s no one around to see it.

He suddenly leaned his body to the side, keeping the motorcycle on a collision course with the van.

There was somebody behind him on the bike.

A woman.

Of course! The final biker of the twelve. Well, so wha—

The woman, her hair blowing across her face, held something up. Angel squinted against the reddening sky.

It was the fucking shotgun. She leaned it on the rider’s shoulder.

The idea of swerving to avoid them — of being the ‘chicken’ — never even entered Angel’s mind.

“Bring it on,” she said.

The gun fired. Buckshot slammed into the pickup’s hood, denting it in multiple places.

“You missed, bitch.”

They were one-hundred yards from each other now, the distance closing. The woman on the bike seemed to aim lower this time. What was she doing? Angel’s foot pressed harder on the pedal. The collision was imminent, but she kept her eyes open. She wanted to see them as they died, to witness the look on their terrified faces.

The woman fired, the pickup’s front tire popping like a firecracker. The truck swung right, changing course, metal rims shrieking along the road. It was out of control. The bike swerved, handlebars kissing the side of the truck as they passed each other, the pickup bouncing off-road, heading for the diner, too fast to stop.

Angel raised her hands to shield her face as the front of the vehicle crashed through the wooden exterior. It plowed into the building. Tables and chairs splintered beneath the heavy wheels until the pickup rammed into the counter and came to an abrupt halt. The impact hurled Angel into the steering wheel, her head striking the leather, her vision exploding in white incandescence.

Chunks of wood rained down onto the roof of the truck. The ceiling was collapsing. Angel sat back, dazed and bleeding.

Hurry. They’re coming.

She tried to move, willing herself to action. Her body cried out in torment.

Give up. It’s over. It’s all over.

Never. She had come this far. She wasn’t dead yet.

The handgun.

Of course! It had to be here. The last time she had used it, she had shot that biker through the window. Then the other man had reached in and grabbed her throat, and she had dropped it. It had to be on the floor, buried under shards of glass and biker intestines…

The whole thing was preposterous, an unbelievable dream. And yet it had happened, and she had overcome it all. Killing was difficult, but not impossible. It got easier the more she did it.

Like learning a new hobby.

“That’s right,” she breathed, shimmying between the seat and the dashboard, kneeling on the glass, raking through the tiny fragments that stabbed into her legs and hands. The female biker’s guts lay amongst the pieces. They were cold, like raw chicken straight from the refrigerator. She pulled them aside, plunging her hands into the glass, raking around for the gun. Every time she did so, more and more minuscule shards embedded themselves in her skin. Blood flowed freely from her palms, her fingers, her knuckles, until the glass looked like crushed ice slathered in raspberry sauce.

“Where’s that fucking gun,” she said, as she thrust her hands into the razor sharp splinters once more.

The bike pulled up outside, engine bellowing.

“Come on, come on.”

She needed a weapon. She had to kill them.

Listen to yourself!

No time. People to kill.

Something hammered into the pickup door. The noise was deafening. It took Angel a moment to realize it was another shotgun blast. The door had protected her… for now.

“Don’t kill her!” she heard the man shout, followed by footsteps treading clumsily over scattered debris.

Don’t kill her?

That was good news. They wanted her alive… and she wanted them dead.

The footsteps drew closer to the vehicle. Angel gave up on the gun — it was nowhere to be found — and leaned against the door. Someone was right outside, inches away, the shotgun-damaged door the only thing separating them. Her tender fingers curled around the handle, and she winced in pain. Her hands were raw and blood-soaked. Glass coated them like breadcrumbs.

“She’s in here,” said the woman, her voice close.

“Is she dead?” said the man.

The truck door slowly opened. Angel braced herself, planting her feet near the gearshift. Using it for leverage, she swung the door open, hard, and sprang out. The metal collided with the woman, knocking her backwards. She stumbled over a broken chair and fell flat on her back, the shotgun falling from her grasp.

Angel leaped out of the pickup. She aimed for the woman, bending her knees in mid-air, landing on the biker’s stomach, knocking the wind from her in one huge whooshing gasp.

“Fuck you,” screamed Angel, as she raised her ravaged fists above her head and brought them hammering down on the woman’s face.

The shotgun lay by her side, and Angel reached for it. She heard the man coming and knew her time was almost up. She lifted the weapon, pressed it to the underside of the woman’s chin, and fired.

The top of the biker’s head blossomed like an obscene red flower, splitting open in wet crimson petals, disgorging plumes of chunky gray brain matter like ruinous pollen.

Angel swung the shotgun towards the man. He was running towards her, and froze when she turned on him, his feet skidding on the detritus.

She smiled a crazy smile at him.

“You’re the last one,” she panted, her heart racing, pounding so hard it was in grim danger of bursting.

Like that woman’s head?

Yeah, like that. What’s your point?

The man looked down at the gun, then his unflinching gaze met hers. He was handsome, in a cruel sort of way. His windswept dark hair hung over his forehead, and he casually brushed it back. Under his leather jacket he wore nothing, his frayed jeans hanging low beneath the taut V of his abdomen.

“The last one?” he said, and shook his head. “Not by a long shot, sister. I’m one of many of Satan’s legion. We grow stronger by the day. Soon, our time will come, and Satan’s Burnouts shall inherit the Earth, and all—”

“You talk too much,” she said, and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

They looked at each other. It seemed to go on forever, time ceasing to have any meaning, the minutes drifting into infinity.

It’s empty, she thought. The gun is empty.

She tried again, and the man just laughed.

“Put it down,” he said. His voice had lost the hard edge. He sounded almost soothing.

She turned the gun in her hands, gripping it by the barrel, pressing the loose glass fragments further into the palms of her hands. Blood poured down the weapon, dripping relentlessly onto the checkered floor.

“Put it down,” he repeated. “And join me.”

She glared at him. “What?”

Blood pooled around her knees, soaking through her jeans. Wood split above them, the roof crumbling, disintegrating.

“I like you.” He smiled at her, the sort of smile that could melt teenage hearts at twenty paces. “You’ve got moxie, baby.”

“What are you talking about?”

It’s a distraction. Don’t listen to him.

“I say what I mean and I mean what I say. You’ve wiped out my gang. Every one of them. Well, all except me, of course.” He shrugged like none of that mattered. “You’ve had your revenge. They’re all dead. So join me, and together we will start a new chapter of Satan’s Burnouts. Me and you, king and queen. Equals.”

“You must be crazy,” she said.

The man laughed again, natural and easygoing. “Come on. Look at you. On your knees, covered in blood, a gun in your hands. What do you think, that you can go back to normal after this? That everything’s cool, everything’s a trip? You’re one of us, now. The outsiders. We don’t answer to the man. We write our own rules, live by our own laws. You’re a killer, baby. You’re a foxy, motherfucking killer.”

He took a step towards her, and she swung the shotgun like a club. He caught it and wrenched it from her hands. God, she was weak. Weak and tired. She took deep breaths. Her head throbbed mercilessly.

“I’m nothing like you.”

But was that true? She looked at her torn and frayed hands. There was no coming back from this. The carnage, the devastation, the killing.

“We’re more alike than you think,” he said. “Unholy blood flows through you. I can smell it.” He licked his lips. “I want to taste it.”

“I’m a good person,” she said shakily.

“You don’t sound so sure anymore.”

She looked down at the female biker, at the flap of skin that used to be her head.

“What about Daniel?”

“That boy?” said the man, with a hint of amusement. “Is he your…”

“Fiancé.” She sounded apologetic.

The man smirked. “You… and him?” He shook his head. “I’m surprised. We stand as gods amongst puny mortals like him.”

“I love him,” she said.

“Maybe you did, once. But the last time I saw him, he was—”

“I know.” She remembered it, clearer than anything else over the last twenty-four hours. The look on his face after he had stabbed, and stabbed, and—

“You would choose him over me? You would choose him over Satan? Why live a life of servitude? Ride with me, and we take what we want. Don’t you want to be free, to throw off the shackles of oppression, of the patriarchy?”

“You kill people.”

“So do you.”

“But not for fun,” she said, shaking her head.

The corner of his mouth twitched in a half-smile. “I don’t believe you.”

She could offer no argument. Something inside her had awakened, a primal force, a fury, a rage.

“Why did he do it?” she asked.

The man looked momentarily confused. “Why did who do what?”

Angel swallowed. Even her throat hurt. “Why did Daniel kill Fiona?”

“Oh, that.” He chuckled. “He said that rape was no big deal, she disagreed. They fought, and he showed her his side of the argument.” The smile dropped from the man’s face. “What a charming fiancé you have.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” she said.

“Only once we shed our old skin are our true selves revealed. You have revealed yourself to be a killer, and a very good one at that. And, if I may say so, you are quite beautiful too.”

She ignored the compliment.

“And Daniel?”

“We exposed him as a fraud. A snake who shed his skin and became a worm.”

“Is he still alive?”

The man nodded. “I imagine so. So make your choice. Him… or Satan.”

She tried to stand, pressing her hands against the floor. Pain shot through her arms like bolts of lightning.

“You killed my grandfather,” she said.

“The first time I met your grandfather, he pointed a gun at me. He threatened to kill me. When I had the chance to kill him, I let him live. But he came back.” He took a beat, then said, “In life, there are no second chances.”

She managed to stand. Blood dribbled down her forehead, dripped from her fingertips. The wreckage of the diner spun, the lights from the jukebox rippling across the wall.

The biker took a single step towards her.

“So what’ll it be? Will you accept my invitation to sit by my side as we ride into the sunset in the name of Satan?”

She looked him over.

“You got a quarter?” she said.

For a long time, he said nothing. Then, he stuffed a hand in his pocket, and produced a coin. “You want some music?”

She nodded. “Number one-nine-seven.”

The man shook his head and smiled. “I really do like you,” he said, and turned his back on her. He slammed the quarter into the machine and punched in the numbers. A familiar drumbeat pounded from the speakers, signalling the beginning of The Ronettes’ Be My Baby.

Angel half-shut her eyes and clapped her hands together, rubbing them, grinding them, shoving the razor-sharp particles further into the palms of her hands. The pain was simultaneously excruciating and exquisite. When she unclasped her hands, the glass sparkled ruby red.

She thought of Daniel… and then didn’t.

The man turned back to her, and smiled.

“The name’s Marduk, by the way.”

“Angel Hooper,” she said.

His grin widened. “Angel Hooper… no, that won’t do. That’s your civilian name. You will leave all that behind. You may be an angel, but…” he laughed with pleasure. “…from now on, you shall be known as… The Fallen Angel.”

He stood there as if waiting for applause.

“Do you ever shut up?” she sighed.

His eyes narrowed, the mask briefly slipping.

She stared back. “I’m tired. I’ve killed a lot of your friends today.” She took a step towards him and licked her lips, tasting blood. “Now, let’s just get this over with.”

He looked curiously at her.

Angel strode up to him as best as her aching body would allow. She traced a fingernail down his stomach, then crouched and unbuckled his jeans. Seemingly lost for words, the biker pushed his hips against her, and she felt the hardness in his pants.

Men are too fucking easy, she thought, as she slid his jeans over his ass. He wore no underwear, his erection right there in front of her face. It stank, the rancid odor of public bathrooms and adult movie palaces. She looked up at him, trying not to gag on the stench.

“You’ve made the right choice,” he smiled, putting his hand on the back of her head. “Satan’s divine seed flows through me. Drink from his cup, Fallen Angel. Drink and forever sate your thirst.”

Angel took a last look at Marduk and put both hands on his hard cock. She pressed them together, squeezing tightly. He gasped, surprised at the sensation… and why not? Hundreds of tiny glass pieces were now lodged in his penis. All Angel had to do was twist, and—

That’s exactly what she did. She jerked her hands clockwise. There was a thin tearing sound, and Marduk’s body tensed.

“Oh… you don’t need this, do you?” she said, and then she wrenched her hands away from him, ripping the flesh from his cock, gouging ragged troughs in his swollen member.

The resultant fountain of blood was extraordinary to witness, and Marduk’s screams could be heard for miles, had there been anyone around to hear them.

27

The walk home was hard, but she managed.

By the time Angel arrived at the ranch, the sun was hot in the sky. She plucked another shard of glass from her palm, letting it fall, invisible, to the ground. Two motorcycles stood sentinel by the barn, black and ominous. She ignored them and trudged up the porch stairs. The birds were singing, and the wind-chimes tinkled delicately in the soft summer breeze.

Did she blame her gramps for all of this? Partly. His own foolish masculine pride had wrought unimaginable havoc. Of course, if those bikers hadn’t started it…

They were all to blame. They had looked down upon women for too long. Making their decisions for them, running their lives, telling them what they can and can’t do with their bodies, their own bodies, for Christ’s sake. Using them, abusing them. Raping them, killing them.

It had to end.

Black tire marks scorched the hallway floor, and she followed them to the front room. The corpses were still there. Two of the female bikers lay sprawled with Fiona between them.

“I’m sorry,” Angel said to her. “I’m sorry for what they did to you. What they did to all of us.”

Fiona had understood. Angel figured that deep down, all women did. The time for silence was over. The subjugation ended now.

One of the women choked up a mouthful of blood. She was still alive. Angel went to her. The biker looked up with glassy, lifeless eyes, and Angel smiled in response.

“You thought you had no choice,” she whispered. The woman was dying, and Angel cradled her head. “They’ve gotten away with it for so long, we’ve forgotten we have a choice.”

Angel stayed with her, holding the woman until she died. Then she closed the biker’s eyes, laid her down, and headed for the stairs, taking them one-at-a-time, her poor legs crying out for respite.

Soon. We can rest soon.

At the top of the stairs, she entered the bathroom. Inside, she turned on the faucets and poured herself a bath. As the hot water filled the tub, she stripped, peeling off her torn, blood-soaked nightdress. It was useless now, so she bundled it up and tossed it in the corner. She kicked off her sneakers, then stepped out of her jeans, standing naked before the mirror.

“He was right about one thing,” she said to her reflection, inspecting her cut and bleeding face, the bruises across her breasts, and the deep gash in her side. “You are beautiful.”

She picked up the knife, turned off the faucets, and lowered herself into the tub. The water rose to her wounds, and she gasped in agonized delight. Her hands were the worst. They immediately turned the clear liquid a deep red. She smiled. Men had always feared the blood of women. That was why they were so quick to spill it.

She lay back and closed her eyes. The water washed over her and it felt good. She heard someone stumbling across the landing. They were heading for the bathroom.

Good. Let them come.

“Angel?”

She recognized the voice.

“Come in, Daniel,” she said without opening her eyes.

“My God,” he said. “The blood…”

“It’s okay. They’re all dead now.”

He said nothing, made no move. She opened her eyes and turned to him. He was dressed in some of her grandfather’s clothes, a comically oversized suit jacket and matching pants.

“Come on in. It’s all over now. Mommy killed the bad men.”

She giggled at that. Daniel just looked at her.

“What have you done?” he said. “What in God’s name have you done?”

“I told you,” she said simply. “I killed them. The same way you killed Fiona.”

He broke down.

God, she hated him.

“They made me do it,” he said.

“No, they didn’t.”

He looked shocked.

He didn’t expect you to say that.

“I had to,” he said, like she gave a shit about his explanation. “They were going to kill me. One of us had to die.”

“I know,” she said. “Come to me. I’ll make it all better.”

“The blood,” he said.

“Never mind the blood.”

He removed his clothes and stepped into the tub. Angel pushed herself up to give him room. She gently patted her chest.

“Lie here.”

He did. They lay alongside each other, Daniel’s head resting against her breast. It hurt, but she didn’t mind. It wouldn’t be for long.

He sniveled and wiped tears from his eyes. “Oh Angel, they did terrible things to me. Sex things.”

“I tore a man’s foreskin off with my bare hands,” she said coldly.

That shut him up.

“He never saw it coming. Stupid men. Tell them they’re gonna get some pussy, and they just stop thinking. They’ll believe anything you say. Anything. After that, I bludgeoned him to death with a shotgun.” Daniel looked up at her, and she smiled reassuringly. “Then I cut what was left of his dick off, and shoved it down his throat.”

Daniel blanched. “You… you what?”

“Killing is easy,” she said. “It’s like you said to Fiona… it’s no big deal.”

Her right hand left the water. In it, she held the knife. Pale red liquid dripped down the four-inch blade.

“I didn’t mean it,” said Daniel.

“They never do,” said Angel, as she brought the knife screaming down into Daniel’s neck.

She left him floating in the tub, only his ass cheeks and shoulder blades visible above the thick bloody water. She put on her jeans again, cleaning the wounds on her palms as best as she could, then went downstairs. In the front room, she removed one of the biker’s leather jackets. It fit her perfectly, like she knew it would.

Some things are just meant to be.

After, she wandered into the kitchen to make herself a sandwich, and wondered if anyone had discovered the bodies yet. Doubtful. Fiona’s Diner didn’t open til twelve, and it was still only ten. There’d be no one on the road into Dennyville for a couple of hours. When she opened the trash can to empty the crumbs from her plate, she found her grandfather’s war medals looking up at her.

“Why not,” she said, and pulled them from the garbage, stuffing them in her pocket. Then, she left the ranch and stood on the porch, listening for the last time to the haunting melody of the wind-chimes.

The leather jacket felt good on her arms. The knife — the one she had used to butcher Daniel — rested snugly in her belt. She grabbed some gasoline from the barn and drizzled it from the porch into the hallway.

As she touched the lighter to the liquid, she felt the tiniest pang of regret at the passing of her old life, the straight-A student, the peaceful protestor, the blushing bride-to-be… but it didn’t last.

She watched a while as the ranch burned, but when the black smoke started to billow into the clear blue sky, she knew it was time to move on.

The woman who had once been known as Angel Hooper hopped astride one of the remaining motorcycles. It had been a while since she had ridden one, but it was like people said — you never forget.

She kicked off the stand, and with her grandfather’s ranch — and all her memories — blazing in the desert wind, The Fallen Angel rode into the sunrise.

She never once looked back.

Coming soon

Angel will return in

THE FALLEN ANGEL MUST DIE!

Afterword

Satan’s Burnouts Must Die! was written during the 2020 lockdown, along with Maggie’s Grave, The Perfect Victim, an as-yet unreleased novella, and a novel that should hopefully be coming out in 2022. It’s interesting that of the five, only Maggie’s Grave is set in Scotland. I guess that being cooped up indoors for almost a year, and unable to even leave the city for a large part of that, made my mind wander abroad. If I couldn’t physically travel, at least I could live vicariously through my writing.

Plus, I’d always wanted to write a story about a biker gang, and the idea does not work so well when transplanted to Scotland, which is the about the size of South Carolina and has no deserts or — to the best of my knowledge — satanic biker gangs.

I hope you dug the book. There are two more planned in the Fallen Angel series, which will go off in different directions as a sort-of all-encompassing homage to exploitation-action-revenge cinema of the 1970s and 80s. Part two should be out in 2022, and the concluding chapter in 2023, presuming the world hasn’t ended by then.

As usual, I’ll leave you with my writing playlist, a mixture of surf and desert rock.

Huevos Rancheros — Surfadelic Collection!!!

The Phantom Surfers — 18 Deadly Ones

Ry Cooder — Music by Ry Cooder

Yawning Man — Rock Formations

Acknowledgments

A big thanks to Heather for her support and help. Love you!

Thank you to Boris the pug, for being so heckin’ smol.

Cheers to Steve, John, and Emily for their thoughts.

Thanks to Connor Leslie for another terrific paperback cover. Here’s to many more!

And thanks to you, dear reader, for supporting truly independent horror. The genre is thriving at the moment — it seems every week there’s another great read being published — so I really appreciate you picking my book up.

Suggested watchlist

If you enjoyed Satan’s Burnouts Must Die! and wish to check out some of the bikersploitation films that inspired it, here are a few I recommend, most of which are even available on Blu-Ray!

Satan’s Sadists (1969, Al Adamson)

The Peace Killers (1971, Douglas Schwartz)

Werewolves on Wheels (1971, Michel Levesque)

Wild Riders (1971, Richard Kanter)

Bury Me An Angel (1972, Barbara Peeters)

Snuff (1975, Simon Nuchtern, Michael Findlay, Roberta Findlay)

The Northville Cemetery Massacre (1976, William Dear)

Hell Riders (1984, James Bryan)

Punk Vacation (1990, Stanley Lewis)

About the Author

David Sodergren lives in Scotland with his wife Heather and his best friend, Boris the Pug.

Growing up, he was the kind of kid who collected rubber skeletons and lived for horror movies.

Not much has changed since then.

Since the publication of his first novel, The Forgotten Island, he has written and published a further five novels, from slashers to gialli to folk horror to a weird western co-authored with Steve Stred.

Also by David Sodergren

THE FORGOTTEN ISLAND

“A blood-drenched love letter to Lovecraft, handled with impressive authority and confidence."

James Fahy, author of The Changeling series

NIGHT SHOOT

"Night Shoot is wildly entertaining. If you’re not laughing, you’re scared out of your mind.”

Sadie Hartmann, Mother Horror

DEAD GIRL BLUES

“It takes guts to write a book like this and nail it in the way Sodergren does.”

Matt Redmon, Night Worms

Also by David Sodergren

MAGGIE’S GRAVE

“Just when I think Sodergren can’t possibly go any further, can’t go any darker, he does. And I love him for it.”

Johann Trotter, Let The Right Book In

THE NAVAJO NIGHTMARE (with Steve Stred)

“Absolutely, positively brutal. If you're unfamiliar with the western horror genre, The Navajo Nightmare is a perfect starting point.”

Michael Patrick Hicks, author of Mass Hysteria

THE PERFECT VICTIM

“Another fantastic offering from inside the head of David Sodergren. A must-read for fans of comedy books, or horror books, or just books in general.”

Andy Marr, author of A Matter of Life and Death