Oil to Ashes 2, "Truce" (Linc Freemore Apocalyptic Thriller Series)

release button on the buckle and let the belt slide away. He stomped on the accelerator pedal and threw himself at the passengers side. Fragments of plastic and glass exploded from the dash as bullets ripped above his head and the smell of burnt tire rubber filled the car. The door swung full open and knocked the rifle from the guard's hands and skittled him. He tumbled next to the accelerating car and his right leg was caught by the door. His hip popped liked another gunshot and the right knee flipped up to his arm pit. He thrashed and screamed on the road as the gearbox whined in reverse. A hail of new gunfire followed.

  Linc crossed the rise, spun the car around and accelerated, forward now, down the rise. He kept his head low until the gunfire ceased. The car hissed and sputtered and sweet steamy gasses spewed in through the smashed windshield. The car was dying but he couldn't stop here. A mob of Harley's would be on him soon. He nursed the car to the turnoff to Lone Tree Way, turned right and looped back west and then north toward the city. They would expect him to run, not double back. Unless he was wrong. Then they would catch him.

  The temperature dial was past the red line.

  The car steamed and lurched and stunk.

  He made it to Buchanan Road. The crazy guy was on the corner of Willow again.

  "Looting in Detroit is just the beginning, you will see!"

  "The book of Revelation says, and they that dwell on the earth shall wonder, whose names were not written in the book of life from the foundation of the world, when they behold the beast that was, and is not, and yet is."

  "The beast that was, and is not, and yet is!"

  Make peace with your maker now good people. Wait not until the beast loots your town, loots your street, enters your home and rapes your women!"

  "Judgment day is here. Embrace Jesus before it's too late!"

  People walked past a little less hastily today, looked for a moment longer as they passed. His message seemed a little less wacko than it did a week ago.

  Something under the hood started to bang. It was fast and loud, like a machine gun, but more defined. More of a clank than a bang. The sound didn't matter, his car was done. He may as well drive until it seized.

  He made a left onto Kirker Pass Road, heading south now. It was an arid place. A few gulleys where enough water lingered to create some green, but mostly brown hills dotted with parched trees. They seemed more desolate than usual under the smoke thick sky. It would be a long and thirsty walk if the car died here.

  But the vehicle made it over the crest of the hill and he steamed and clanked a little quieter going down. Maybe the car was working less hard, lasting a little longer. He turned left onto Clayton road and clanked through the township, made a left into Peacock Creek Drive. It had been a nice subdivision before the bikers moved in.

  One more left and he dumped the car on Pebble Beach Drive, next to a huge house with an excess of pillars and stonework, sweeping views of the valley and boards on most of the windows. He popped the trunk and took out a flat head screwdriver with a four inch shank, slipped it behind his belt.

  He walked across a block to Peacock Creek Drive in the quiet, past more run-down houses and a few that were not. The still afternoon air carried every sound up the valley. The faint hum of a single car on the highway, the hollow call of a quail, "chi-ca-go", a lawn mower in the distance. Somebody trying to be normal.

  It seemed too quiet for a street occupied by a bikers club house.

  The cull-de-sac was ringed with big houses, more stonework and pillars and overpopulated with expensive lawn ornaments. All but two on his right were abandoned and boarded up or trashed. The two front fences were fortified with plywood and corrugated iron. They looked deserted, at least from the outside.

  He crossed into a property on his left and waded through knee-high grass that was baked and smelled sweet as fresh hay. Seeds sprung from their stalks as he brushed past and dove back to their source. Something crunched under foot. A yellow toy dump truck, no longer required. A child had probably sat and watched developers, mimicking them as they carved neighboring land into homes.

  He jumped the back fence and found himself standing on browned off grass that stretched to the hills and horizon, the edge of the development. He worked his way around the backs of the neighboring properties. Most all of them had fenced off this peaceful view.

  The rear fence of the clubhouse was solid wood and six foot high, but unfortified. He could see how grasslands might seem less of a threat than the road, from rivals at least. Rivals would come by road.

  From the tips of his toes he could see the garden had been immaculately landscaped, was overgrown and strewn with beer cans, bottles and cigarette butts. Next to the garden was a large paved area with a curved pool, shaped around the house and garden and the garage on the far side. At the head of the pool sat a spa and a huge built in BBQ, next to it a large wooden outdoor table with a tan sun umbrella. A blow up doll was handcuffed to the umbrella, eyes wide and mouth open, ready.

  Seated next to the doll was a guy in a leather Jacket, his blue bandanna on the table next to him. He was alone, probably on guard. His attention was on a magazine on the table and his hand was in his pants.

  They'd built the fence to look its best from the inside. The rails were on the outside which made it easy to climb. He slipped quietly over, behind a tree and through the lingering scent of spent cigarettes and moldy beer. He padded across the grass and took his time crossing the pavers, silently, to the table.

  He cupped his left hand over the mouth and his right forearm across his throat. A choker hold would knock him out in a few seconds. He applied pressure and held him still while he struggled in vain. He waited for the struggle to weaken. It did.

  Then he saw it. What are they? It was a string around his neck. Threaded with, with what? He released the pressure from the throat and whispered hard in his ear, "the necklace, what are they?"

  "Keep it quiet asshole or you die, here and now." Linc uncupped his hand from the mouth and let some air in.

  "Fingers," he gasped. "From all the bitches."

  They were dried and odorless but still he gagged. His stomach wretched and tried to rid itself of its lining.

  Linc pulled the screwdriver from his belt. It was the same one Angie and Ryan had used to assemble the shelf unit in the garage. He'd wanted to put it together for them, or at least help or show them how. But they had wanted to do it themselves and he could not steal their satisfaction no matter how much he'd wanted to take the problem away. He'd counted his blessings that the shelf lived in the garage and not the lounge, but to this day it was his favorite piece of furniture. And his favourite screwdriver.

  He wondered if using this screwdriver would make it easier to sleep at night or harder.

  He spat the bitter bile from his mouth and fought the convulsions in his gut. No point swallowing, it would just come up again.

  He slipped the screwdriver between the ribs and rammed it in with the heel of his hand. The guard gasped for air but all he got was his own blood. Linc slid him under the table and he gurgled and twitched and exhaled the sweet coppery smell. Let him to drown in it.

  "That's for Janie. And everyone else you've done this to."

  It felt good, the revenge.

  And then it didn't.

  He wished there was a better way. Justice, not revenge. What if this guy was only here because he had no other options? Who was he to choose who lived and who didn't?

  But there was no justice, only what he made. The necklace was proof of that. He would live with it and he would sleep like a baby, knowing he'd prevented another family from having their daughter worn on a necklace. Focus on the life saved, not the one taken. The life worth saving. Like Rachel. A young life given back, filled with infinite possibility and potential. She had seemed to calm down remarkably quickly following her ordeal. Dropped at a friends house like it was any other day. But in his rush he'd not given it a second thought.

  There were others here and perhaps they make necklaces too
. One of them had written Ryan's name and Angie's name. He would lose no sleep over their end either.

  He crossed to a window on the nearest wall of the house and checked inside. An empty hall, it might be a good entry point. He tested the window but it was closed and bolted from the inside. Too noisy to get in that way.

  To his left was the corner of the house. He glanced around. The driveway was clear.

  The neighboring fence had been knocked down to connect the yards of the two houses. At the rear of the property next door was a large courtyard filled with two rows of motorcycles facing each other. A neat formation, ready to peel out onto the street.

  Both yards were deserted.

  He checked each window in the next house as best he could from across the yard. There was no sign of anyone but it was still best not to linger here, he was a sitting duck. He moved along the wall toward the street and checked each window. The bathroom was frosted and locked. Bedroom, clear and shut tight. Then the lounge. He counted six people, some kind of meeting. But he could hear nothing but distorted murmurs through the double glazing.

  He crawled across below the window and made his way to the front of the house. A faint thumping grew louder as he turned to the right around the corner at the front of the house and approached the next window. It was a bedroom, a head-board. A couple going at it on the bed. The thudding waned as he approached the