Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(52)

The girl was dropped, and she ran in Rider's direction before he could process what had been said. The inside of the tavern was suddenly too quiet. Ten bikes still sat in a row, undisturbed. When she came to Rider, he pushed her behind him, driven by instinct. He backed up, keeping her an arm's length in back of him. His motor was still idling. He couldn't turn away. He saw something in his peripheral vision that made him stare at the broken window, but he also kept the bus driver in his sideline view.

What appeared to be two gleaming red eyes flashed past the window. The metallic taste of death scored his throat. He shoved the young girl. "Get on the bike!" She ran ahead of him, and then leaned down for the guitar. "Leave it!"

She picked it up anyway and slipped the strap over her shoulders, and elbowed it to cover her back. More of those glowing orbs appeared in the window. The old folks were smiling, laughing, walking toward the tavern. Rider jogged backward, half hopping, half jumping, his eyes never leaving the window as he slid into his seat in front of the girl while still blindly pointing the barrel of his weapon in the direction of the bus driver's head. Instantly, he snapped his arm back, revved the engine—the gun affixed as a part of his hand—and left dust.

His chopper tore up dirt road, making everything on either side of him a blur. He could feel his heart beating a hole out of the center of his chest, and hers thudding through his back. She'd buried her face so hard against his shoulder that it felt as if she were one of his shoulder blades. He could barely breathe, her arms were wrapped so tightly around his waist. That didn't matter, just as long as she took every lean and pivot with him and didn't make them wipe out. He wasn't sure how fast they were going; that didn't matter, either, until his engine coughed. Gas!

"No, baby, be good to Poppa. Please, girl, not now. Stay with me."

"Find a church," the girl clinging to him yelled. "We have to find sanctuary!"

He'd kidnapped an underage church girl? God, just make his bike keep eating up road. He'd give up drinking, smoking, making love to women whose names he didn't know… just one small act of mercy, that's all he asked.

"I'll take you to a church, and that's where you get off, love. You never saw me, cool?" And a church out here would have some vehicle he could siphon for petro.

He could feel her nod in agreement against his back, and his eyes scanned the blur of horizon. Everything was flat. It was pitch-black on the open road. Not a steeple in sight. His engine was beginning to knock. This was supposed to be God's country, Middle America, where was a damned church! Then his black and chrome baby sputtered, gave up the ghost, and simply died.

Tears of frustration stung his eyes as he coasted to a gentle stop. "Oh, screw me!" He jumped off his bike, made the stand come down with the heel of his boot, and did something he'd never done—kicked the front tire hard and pointed the gun at his engine. "You lousy, good for nuthin' whore! I'll kill you for dying on me like this! No, baby, not when I need you most!"

Then he dropped his arm, closed his eyes, raked his fingers through his hair, and walked in a circle. Trapped.

"We can't stay out in the open," a soft voice said.

He heard the girl dismount, her sandals hitting the ground as she neared him and touched his arm. He nodded, went to his bike, and spat.

Shoving his gun in the back waistband of his jeans he walked his bike into the tall grass. With his luck, some farmer had put up an electrified fence he wouldn't see until it was too late. What did it matter? He was going to prison sooner or later to fry, anyway. The only thing that helped was the fact that she seemed to be assisting, or at least had offered a good suggestion. But everything was just too damned crazy to sort out. Suddenly, he couldn't breathe.

Rider put both hands on the leather seat of his bike and heaved in air. Two soft palms rubbed his back. His road dogs had been butchered. He'd seen something that looked like it had slithered out of a horror movie. Not just one, mind you, but several. Old people were in on the deal, somehow… a young woman had been a temporary hostage, was gonna be sacrificed. He looked up fast, spun on her, making her back up. He only had one question.

"What the hell is going on?"

"It's hard to explain."

"Who are you to them, and what ambushed me and my squad?"

"The undead."

He blinked twice, drew his gun and leveled it at her. "Stop this crazy bullshit, and talk to me! In a minute, every highway patrolman in the state is going to converge on a scene where a bunch of bikers are gonna take the weight. We were just stopping for a drink and some grub. Whatever they find—"

"I know," she said, seeming unafraid of him. "That's why we must run."

Her eyes held such empathy that he couldn't stop looking at her. It took his brain a moment to transmit the command to his arm to put the gun away, but finally he did. She had knowledge of something he couldn't wrap his mind around. She'd seen it, too. So, if they both had the same story, then maybe they wouldn't put him away with the criminally insane.

"We have to find hallowed ground," she said again more firmly. "Soon."

He wasn't sure why he trusted her, but she was the only alibi he had at the moment. More than that, she was the only one in the world who'd been an eyewitness to the unthinkable. Neither said a word as they found a small path. She was at his side looking straight ahead. His eyes scanned everything, but he kept his gun hidden. All he needed was for some farmer to see a silver barrel, then shoot first and ask questions later.