No Time To Bleed Page 5

  The noise rose to a deafening pitch as both bikes sped past Austin’s position, one on either side of him. One of them stuck to the highway, speeding toward the far end of town. The other had swung off the road and passed between the sign and the motel buildings. It slowed somewhat as it approached the two parked bikes which had belonged to the late Cable Guy and Babyface, which were still parked between the motel office and the café. The rider appeared to be assessing threats. He slowed more as he passed the gas pump islands in front of the café, then swung around the corner, disappearing behind the building.

  The Harley’s engine fell silent.

  Austin looked farther down Route 66 and could barely make out the red glow of the other bike’s taillight as it sat motionless near the railroad crossing, the low rumble of its idling engine barely audible at this distance. Austin squinted to concentrate his vision, and thought he could make out a faint white glow just above the red of the bike’s taillight. His best guess was that it was a cell phone screen, and that the two Rattlers were talking or texting.

  Suddenly the faint white glow was extinguished, and the bike roared to full throttle as it swung back around toward Austin, gaining speed as it bore down on his position. Had one of them spotted his makeshift bunker at the base of the sign? Austin hunkered low behind the bricks as the single headlight washed over his position.

  The bike roared past.

  Austin shimmied around the sign’s enormous support poles, to the opposite side of the low brick enclosure. A brick was missing from the top row, forming a crenelation in the wall that he peered through. Austin watched as the bike came to a stop just beyond the farthest motel bungalow. The rider dismounted and swiftly moved to the far corner of the bungalow, slipping behind it.

  They had split up. Bad move, thought Austin.

  Suddenly a shot rang out from the direction of the first biker, followed by an enormous boom.

  Gene!

  Austin sprang from behind the brick wall, oblivious to the pain from his fresh wounds, and sprinted in the direction of the gas station. He risked a quick glance toward the far bungalow and saw no sign of the second biker. Perhaps that one was behind or inside one of those buildings and didn’t see him, though the sound of his huge Danners churning through the gravel could have woke the dead.

  Austin pulled up at the near corner of the café, breathing heavily, and moved quickly toward the rear corner of the building. He felt the sticky wetness of blood flowing under his pant leg, the dressings having been freshly torn from his wounds during his mad dash.

  Upon reaching the corner of the building, Austin crouched in order to peer around the corner at a level that would be below normal head-height, in case that spot was being watched. His heart sank as he saw Gene sprawled on the ground near a stack of empty root beer crates. There was no sign of the assailant.

  “Gene!” Austin whispered hoarsely as he hurried over to him, keeping an eye on the far corner of the building.

  The 870 shotgun was lying on the ground next to him. The tail of Gene’s shirt was pulled up to reveal blood seeping from a small hole in his side, forming a puddle in the gravel under him. But the old man’s eyes were open. And god damned if he wasn’t grinning.

  “I think I got the bastid!” Gene said through clenched teeth. “But he got me first.”

  Austin glanced toward the far corner of the café building, then back at Gene, who was struggling to sit up. Austin reached for the shotgun, racked a shell into the chamber and handed it to Gene, who grasped it weakly. “Wait here.”

  “Ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  Austin reached behind him and pulled the 9mm subcompact pistol from his belt, and cautiously approached the far corner of the building. He bent low, picked up a loose stone and tossed it around the corner.

  Nothing.

  Slowly, Austin peeked around the corner. He could make out the dark shape of a person, hunkered low, next to the same stack of pallets he had used for cover earlier in the night. He waited a minute. There was no movement, but he could see each of the man’s hands, splayed out from his body. Neither held a weapon. A black handgun lay in the gravel a few feet away.

  Austin kept his own gun trained on the biker as he slipped around the corner and approached. The Rattler was seated on the ground, leaning against the pallets, his head hanging forward, stringy black hair obscuring his face. Austin kicked him firmly in the side, rolling him over onto the ground, the front of his body now visible in the moonlight. The shotgun blast had torn a hole in the chest. Austin touched his wrist to check for a pulse. Nothing.

  Three down.

  Gene had somehow made it to his feet, when Austin returned to him. He had his shirt pulled up, probing the bullet wound in his side. “Looks like it went clean through,” he said. “Hurts like a motherfucker though. Pardon my French.”

  “Let’s have a look-see.” Austin knelt before him and made a quick examination. Gene was right. Entry and exit, passed through the flab of the old man’s love handle. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “Better buy a lottery ticket first chance you get. Looks like your luck’s running rich.” Austin quickly tore two strips from the bottom of Gene’s shirt and mashed them into each end of the wound. “Hold that there. And find some fucking cover this time! I’ll be back.”

  Goatee

  There was still one Rattler out there. He had surely heard the gunshots and would be working his way toward its source. Austin hurried back to the corner of the café and peered around it, at the open space between his position and the motel office. Cable Guy’s and Babyface’s bikes were still parked out in the open. Beyond them was the big motel sign where Austin had taken cover only a few minutes before.

  Austin’s eyes caught movement and he quickly yanked his head back. Crouching low, he cautiously peered back around and scanned the scene. Austin spotted him, barely visible through the glass panes wrapping around the front of the motel office, moving stealthily across the front of that building. He watched as the biker worked his way to the near corner of the motel office. He appeared to be average sized, average build, middle-aged. His polished bald head shone in the moonlight; a long gray goatee hung from his face. Once again, Austin didn’t recognize him. Tillman seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of goons at his disposal.

  Goatee had taken up position at the corner of the motel office, surveying the open space between him and the café building where Austin was in cover, studying the two motorcycles sitting in the middle of the space. Distance and the dimness of the moonlight prevented Austin from getting a good read on the man’s face. But he could see the man’s head swiveling as he surveyed the space between them, finally settling on the the back corner of the café. He was staring right at Austin, whose head barely broke the plane of the corner of the building.

  Austin saw a sudden movement, instantly recognizing it’s deadly purpose as Goatee’s arm started its upward travel, the cold hard steel of a pistol coming up with it. He jerked his head back as a chunk of the corner of the café building exploded where his face had been, simultaneously with a loud report crushing the silence like a thunderclap.

  Austin stood from his crouch, reached around the corner and blindly sent two rounds toward his assailant. He heard glass shatter as he spun on his heels and sprinted back around to the far side of the café. “Hang in there,” Austin puffed as he hurried past Gene. He continued toward the front of the café, past the shotgunned Rattler and the stack of pallets, He pulled up just short of the front corner of the cafe building and peered around. Goatee was still in cover across the way, next to the motel office, still focusing on Austin’s previous location.

  Austin slipped from cover to firm up his stance and take aim at Goatee with a proper two-handed grip. He still wanted him alive so he didn’t aim for center mass. Instead he drew a bead on a meaty thigh, steadied his breathing, and evenly applied pressure to the trigger. Distance wasn’t in his favor, at about 40 yards. In the controlled environment of a range, with his favorite SIG
1911, he could manage a pretty tight group out to about 50 yards. But this subcompact 9mm with just a 3” barrel, wasn’t nearly as accurate at distances. So Austin wasn’t surprised when he squeezed the trigger twice and saw two puffs of dust as the rounds struck the ground, one just short, the other slightly beyond and to the right of his target.

  Goatee seemed unimpressed with his marksmanship, as he took off running straight at Austin, firing his own gun as he came. But his shots were also ineffective, wildly fired by a pissed-off, middle-aged biker, sprinting at full tilt, still too far out of range to be very accurate.

  Austin adjusted his aim as Goatee kept coming, and continued to fire. He didn’t know how many bullets Goatee had left, but he knew his own gun was just about empty, as the subcompact had only held 7 rounds.

  When the next shot whizzed past his head, Austin figured Goatee was getting too close. So he squared up and squeezed off his final two shots, no longer caring whether he maimed or killed. The first round found its mark, as a small red hole appeared just above the charging biker’s collarbone. His second shot went wild, thrown off by the recoil. But he saw a red mist sparkling in the moonlight just over Goatee’s left shoulder as the bullet exited. The charging biker hardly seemed to notice he’d been hit—his stride broke only slightly but he kept coming.

  Austin was out of bullets. Who knew how many Goatee had left? Time slowed as he watched the black hole at the business end of Goatee’s handgun grow larger.

  Austin heard the weapon click! loudly, then Goatee scream “FUUCCKKK!!” Austin could now see was the gun was a six-shot revolver, probably a .38 special. Goatee chucked the weapon at him, missing miserably, and kept coming. He was now twenty yards out and charging like a bull. Now fifteen. Austin saw him reaching for something hanging in a sheath from his belt.

  “Knives! Oh hell yeah!” Austin yelled as he reached for the folding tactical knife clipped into his pocket, pullied it out and deployed the Tanto blade with a flick of his thumb. Goatee was almost upon him, when he saw him give the black cylinder in his hand a quick shake, extending an expandable steel baton to its full length. “Oh hell no!” Austin corrected himself.

  They say to never bring a knife to a gunfight. But Austin knew the same was true for short knives in a baton-fight. Even though his weapon was razor-sharp and Goatee’s was blunt, he simply had a disadvantage in reach.

  Goatee didn’t slow down as he descended on Austin’s position, continuing past him with a flick of his wrist which brought the weighted end of the baton down against Austin’s ribs. Good thing I’m well padded, Austin thought as he thrust with his knife, barely inflicting a superficial cut as Goatee passed by, probably only cutting leather or denim, not flesh.

  Austin spun around to see that Goatee was already turned, now in a fighting stance, his wild charge ended. He switched the knife to his left hand, extended in Goatee’s direction. The biker wasted no time wading back in. He was moving forward while bringing the baton around in a wide arc, the weighted end heading straight for Austin’s head. Austin didn’t have time to move out of its way, but instinct propelled his knife hand up to block the onslaught.

  Pain exploded at the end of his left arm as the baton connected with the Tanto blade. The greater inertia of the baton won, sending the knife spinning away. But Goatee’s swing had been massive, his entire body following through the motion, leaning him forward and off balance. Despite the pain in his hand, Austin had the presence of mind to bring a knee up into the man’s chest. He heard a satisfying Umpfff! as the wind was knocked out of his opponent.

  Goatee staggered backward, gasping for air, and Austin used the opportunity to quickly check his hand. It felt like it had been slammed in a car door, but it didn’t look too bad. All of his fingers seemed to be pointing in the right direction, though it was already starting to swell and he could feel it painfully throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

  Goatee was quickly recovering, still breathing hard but standing up almost straight now. Sweat glistened off his bald head, his face contorted with rage. But he still hung onto that god-damned baton, and Austin’s knife was laying in the gravel somewhere out of reach, probably broken.

  The two opponents circled each other. Austin, now empty-handed, was at an even greater disadvantage. But Goatee had apparently learned his lesson about charging in blindly. He kept moving warily, sizing Austin up, plotting his next move with more discretion this time.

  Austin reached down to his wallet with his right hand, finding the wallet chain that terminated there. The smooth stainless steel links were cool in is grasp as he slid his fingers along the chain, He kept his eyes on Goatee as his fingers followed the links to the loop on his belt, where the chain was fastened. He unclipped it.

  The reach advantage of Goatee’s weighted baton came at a cost. Like a pitcher preparing to throw a fastball, a wind-up is needed in order to pre-load some energy into the strike. Austin saw the visual cues a second before the baton was heading his way—Goatee’s body beginning to twist; his face screwing up with the effort; his wrist tilting the baton backward even as his arms and shoulders started their forward thrust—which gave Austin the time to react. He suddenly yanked his right hand upward until the chain reached its end, popping the other end out of his wallet, along with the sharpened hunk of tool steel that was attached to it.

  Austin’s sling-blade was shaped to fit into his wallet like a credit card. A stainless steel swivel attached the chain to an eyelet in the upper corner of the blade. Razor sharp on the leading and bottom edge with a thick spine for weight, it tapered to a thin, fin-like tail at the opposite edge. Like a weather vane, its shape and weight bias was designed to keep the sharpened edge of the blade pointing forward as it traveled in its arc at the end of the chain. Plenty of practice, testing and refining with the help of a local knife-maker had perfected Austin’s design. And he’d become adept at its use.

  As Goatee started the forward movement of his baton swing, Austin’s chain-hand circled his head, winding up the sling-blade as it picked up speed at the end of the chain. Goatee either didn’t know what it was or didn’t care, as he stepped inside the blade’s arc just as it passed in front of him, his body continuing its motion as his arm brought the baton forward in its own arc.

  The baton slammed into Austin’s shoulder with an audible crack. There goes my collarbone.

  The sling-blade had continued it’s orbit, coming full circle to where it had been a moment ago—to where Goatee’s face was now located. It sliced through one cheek and exited his mouth, a small piece of pink flesh tumbling out with it. Austin recognized it as the tip of the guy’s tongue.

  Both men staggered backward once again, reeling from fresh wounds. A gout of blood was now pouring from the slice in Goatee’s cheek, and from the raw meat at the shortened end of his tongue. But the sling-blade still swung from Austin’s right hand. This time he wasn’t going to let Goatee set the pace.

  Austin moved in once more, determined to deny the biker time to wind up for another devastating blow. As Austin came forward, and the blade swung around for another cut, Goatee thrust out his left hand to block it.

  The sling blade didn’t even slow down as it sliced through flesh and bone, taking off Goatee’s index, middle and ring fingers at the second knuckle. The severed digits flew away like an exploding can of Vienna sausages as blood began to well up from the three stumps.

  Tillman

  Goatee dropped the baton and grabbed his shortened paw with his good hand as he sank to his knees, screaming. His newly widened mouth and shortened tongue morphed his screams into something that sounded like a feral cat in heat. He looked up at Austin, tears streaming from his eyes, snot flowing from his nose.

  Austin kicked the baton out of reach and looked down at the biker. Tears and snot mixed with the blood pouring from his ruined mouth and ran down his goatee, dripping from its end in slimy ropes. “By han! By fugging HAN!!” he whined, blood and snot slinging from his face as he spoke.

&n
bsp; “Say it, don’t spray it, champ,” Austin said as he hunkered down in front of him. He looked at the defeated biker as he pulled a bent, frayed stogie from his vest pocket and popped it’s end into his mouth. “Smoke?”

  “Fugyoo!!”

  Austin shrugged as he lit the cheap cigar. “Suit yourself.” He took a long drag and courteously blew the smoke to the side, as he studied the last of the Rattlers who had been sent to kill him. “So what’s your name?”

  “Fugyoo!” the biker cried again, though it sounded like his heart was a little less into it this time. No matter. Austin reached out, grabbed the loose flap of flesh just above the new slice in Goatee’s cheek, and began to twist. He could feel flesh ripping as he widened Goatee’s smile a little further for him, coaxing out another tortuous caterwaul. This was followed by a string of unintelligible garble. The biker’s speech was impeded by Austin gripping his ruined cheek like a trophy bass. Austin turned loose. “o-gay! O-GAAY!” the biker managed.

  “Name?”

  “Fuh…F..Frank,” The biker said between sobs. “Frank N-n-nithkey. They call me Dythe.”

  “Dythe? What kinda name is that?”

  “DYTHE!!” the man repeated, his left hand weakly mimicking trying to roll seven-come-eleven.

  “Dice? No shit? Is it because you’re so god damn lucky, Fuh-Frank N-n-nithkey? Well you’ve hit the fucking lottery today! I suppose a lucky name like that suits you then. Turns out you’re probably not gonna die after all. Now give me your fucking phone!”

  Dice drunkenly patted his pants and vest with his remaining whole hand, and seemed to settle on a bulge in one of his pockets. Austin swatted his hand away. “Get those dick-beaters out of there. You’re getting blood and snot all over everything.” Austin fished around in the man’s pocket and came out with another burner phone, identical to the ones they’d found on the other Rattlers.