Hell to Pay

Janet Reid, a prominent agent, told me that Hell to Pay had a weak beginning.

I guess stories that start off in bed, dreaming, or driving tend not to do well. So . . . for your reading enjoyment. A new first chapter for Hell to Pay.

Side note - "Tim's Holy Hamburgers" has been accepted for publication by the Relief Journal. More information as it becomes available.

Side note II - Brainstormers - I will probably send this out late next week for editing.








Chapter 1

That damn storm’s chasin’ me, Mercy Tyler thought.

Mercy turned his Harley to the west onto blacktop. The two other directions yielded no distance between him and the dark clouds that rotated nearby.

He opened up the Harley as dust rose from cut wheat fields. Mercy leaned down and tried to go faster, but pressure from the wind did not allow it. Clouds covered the sun and drops of nickel sized rain pelted him as he drove.

Lightning flashed behind him and drew his attention. A large rain shaft hit the road, but as another bolt smited western Kansas dirt, a figure emerged from the rain.

Mercy slowed down and stared in his mirror.

The lightning illuminated someone on a cycle behind him. Mercy hit the throttle but soon the bike’s vibrations signaled he was full out.

In the rearview mirror a lone rider illuminated with another lightning strike. A large bald man on a matte black bike.

“What the fuck?” Mercy yelled through bug splattered lips. He reached back and got his sawed off double barreled shotgun out of the saddlebag.

Mercy pointed it behind him and waited for the lightning to strike. The next bolt showed the rain and his pursuer less than 100 feet behind him. Mercy fired. The recoil almost took him off the bike. He leaned forward, regained his balance, and rode. The rain came down harder making it difficult to drive.

Rain swirled behind him. No one pursued. A farmhouse or some structure would provide cover until this storm blew over, but on the western plains there was nothing out here but cows and farmland.
The wind stopped.

A large hailstone fell and shattered on the pavement in front of him. For once in his life, Mercy wished he had a helmet. The hail surrounded him. Mercy stopped his bike and looked at the sky, green and black clouds boiled overhead. All around hail pulverized anything it came in contact with, except for him.

He watched the ground turn white except for a small circle that enveloped him and his bike.

Lightning flashed and the thunder sounded like an incoming round. The large bald man stood beside Mercy on his black motorcycle. His red mirrored sunglasses reflected Mercy’s horrified expression, and this giant laughed. A roar that hurt Mercy’s ears and vibrated his bike, the sound reminded him of the tornado’s scream that hit his house years ago.

Mercy drove into the hail. Baseball-sized chunks of hail assaulted him as the wind picked up and pushed him along. A chuck of hail smacked him in the head, he lost balance but instead of falling over, hung in the air, his bike kept up underneath him. The wind around him accelerated, pushing him faster and faster down the road, until it stopped.

As Mercy Tyler fell to earth, he noticed a clear, blue sky overhead. There was no storm, no giant, and soon enough the leader of the Berserker's Biker Gang, would also be no more.

Three weeks later, a large man walked into Grady’s retreat, a shadowy ramshackle bar on the edge of town. He walked up to their new leader and shoved his head through the bar. The large man ripped the Berserker patch from the biker’s jacket, turned and calmly looked at the bikers surrounding him in the bar.

“I am your new leader, and from here on out, there will be change.”

Drive

A long time ago I used to gas my truck up, roll down the windows, and drive. It was the time I’d do my heavy thinking, work on problems and issues, or just drop out and listen to the universe.

It was also my muse. My mind came alive thinking complicated story lines and complex characters or just a good opening sentence.

It was time I loved, it was time I mourned.

I sold my truck after it cost $55 to fill up. Even though it was something I needed to do, it’s something I still regret. I had that truck for over 13 years, and those years were some of the most important in my life.

The truck only had two bucket seats and now my family had outgrown it. So like a man getting rid of his favorite dog, I interviewed the man who bought it. He lives in College Hill, retired cop, has two sons in the military, and a son that promised to rebuild the engine on the truck. Something I knew needed to be done but I couldn’t justify. He always wanted a truck, and he was excited about it. He even paid the full sale price.

I watched that truck leave and stayed outside until it turned the corner. It reminds me how I watched an old lover that moved away leave me for the last time.

Now, my little car holds my family well.

Driving is now about the destination and not the journey. The chaos of the city around morning rush hour and everyone driving home. Radio screams talk, bad news, or heavy metal.

Tonight, I rolled down the windows, turned off the radio, and drove. Listening to the whisper of bullfrogs and crickets in the early evening air and watching a storm slowly roll in from the west.

And there is a word echoing in the back of my mind . . . Drive.

temporary hold

It's storm season, so go look at my other blog.

B