Bomber wheeled the carriage out of the Super Wal-Mart, the only place that was open after 11 pm. Snow was falling, but he’d ridden in snow before. It wasn’t that difficult, just cold. But he no longer had to worry about the cold.
For looks, he still wore his heavy leather jacket anyway. He pulled up the collar, pausing at the entrance, and slipped on his shades. He started pulling on his gloves when he heard a commotion behind him.
“Stop him!” he heard someone yell.
Bomber watched as a young kid in a hoodie ran past him, into the snow of the parking lot. Bomber abandoned his cart and gave chase. He could easily have overtaken him by utilizing his blood, but then that would break the Masquerade.
The kid took a sharp turn, not realizing that the parking lot was slick. He fell sideways, skidding on the ground. He slid toward a parked car, and ended up half under it. Bomber also slid to the ground, like a batter sliding home. The kid tried to dig himself further underneath the car, but Bomber caught his ankle. He easily pulled him out from under the car.
“Hey, man!” the guy yelled. Bomber grabbed him by the front of the hoodie and threw him against the trunk of the car.
Bomber heard the gunning of a car’s engine, and turned to see that someone had stripped his cart bare and was peeling away. Bomber looked at the kid, who raised his hands in surrender, even though Bomber still had the front of his hoodie.
The car waited at the end of the parking lot. Stupid, stupid, Bomber thought.
“Are they waiting for you?” Bomber looked at the kid.
“Look, man, they put me up to this. They said I hadda run –“
“You didn’t expect me to catch you, did you?” Bomber grinned suddenly. He punched at the kid, barely missing him, and putting a hole in the top of the car’s trunk. The kid suddenly had a look of total fear on his face, and Bomber could smell urine.
“You’re pissing on my boots,” he said with a snarl. Bomber grabbed the kid by the throat and lifted him from the trunk. “Nobody pisses on my boots.” He whipped him like he was throwing a rag doll, his body going one way, and his head staying relatively still. Bomber could hear the snap of the kid’s neck even as he let him go. The kid’s body skidded across the icy parking lot a good hundred feet. Dead or paralyzed, he didn’t know.
Bomber turned to face the car. The kid’s body was between him and the car, the kid lying motionless next to an island. Bomber stepped out into the middle of the parking lot’s aisle. Snow came down harder now, covering everything in a gentle white blanket. The car turned slowly to face him.
Smiling, Bomber made a “come on” motion. The car gunned. “Toro, toro,” Bomber whispered. He crouched. The car came at him, just as he expected. First he was there, then he was on the other side of the aisle, and the car was careening, trying to stop—
As it slammed into his bike.
The bike was knocked down and the car rolled on top of it, its axle caught on the bike’s lower chassis, where the kickstart and engine were. However, Bomber didn’t see that. Bomber didn’t see how they were trying to get off the bike, but their driving wheel was punctured. Bomber only saw one thing: Red.
He ran at the car and tore the driver’s side door off. The person behind the wheel – another kid in a hoodie and a ski-mask, came out along with the seatbelt. Bomber grabbed the hood so hard that he grabbed hair as well, but couldn’t get him untangled from the seatbelt, since he wasn’t thinking.
Gasoline, I smell gasoline.
That was a small voice, as Bomber reached in through the driver’s side door and pulled the passenger – who wasn’t wearing a seatbelt – out through the driver’s side, over the shifter on the floor between them, snapping it. He threw him to the ground and kicked him hard enough in the nuts to not only shove them into his body, but break his pelvis as well.
Gas gas gas gas…
The kid got himself disentangled from the seatbelt, and then Bomber was on him. Bomber tore the man’s throat out.
“Oh, my fucking God!”
Bomber turned, his mouth full of blood, to see another hoodie with a baseball bat, ready to crash it down on him. Bomber hissed at him, fangs out, blood all over his face. The man dropped the bat in terror and ran.
GAS GAS GAS GAS
Bomber turned again to the body he was feasting on and was ready to dive in again, when there was an explosion right behind him.
The hood of the car blew off, a fireball beneath it. Bomber whirled around and backpedaled furiously, slipping on the wet snow, his eyes wide in panic.
FIREFIREFIREFIRE!
He finally gained some footing, and using both hands and feet, he hauled himself up and took off at a breakneck run across the parking lot, headlong into the main street – which was luckily empty at this time of night – across the street…he kept running. He ran like hell was after him.
The fireman shook his head. “Nice bike.”
“It was,” said the policeman, looking at the smoking wreck that was uncovered when they towed the car off of it.
“Did you run the plate?”
“Yeah. He must be still in the store. I had him paged.”
The firemen started putting away their gear, when a man in a black leather biker’s jacket came around the fire truck. He walked slowly to the smoking hulk of the motorcycle. “My bike,” he whispered, his voice full of pain.
The cop and the fireman looked at each other. The cop came over, “This your motorcycle?”
He looked down at it, not getting too close to it. “1947 Indian. Newly restored.”
The fireman came over. “Look, man, maybe the chassis is salvageable.”
The biker shook his head. “Maybe this is God’s way of saying I need to upgrade.” He looked around. “What happened exactly?”
The cop motioned to the tow truck who was taking the car away. “That car slammed into it. Must have slid on the snow.”
“It must have been going pretty fast.”
The cop nodded. “We think he meant to hit it.”
“Did you ask him?”
“He’s dead.”
“Dead?” The biker stared at him. “What do you mean, dead?”
“Well, the guy got out – tore the door off somehow, maybe a hero got him out. But something else ripped his throat out.”
“Don’t you have it on video?” The cop couldn’t really tell, but the biker looked slightly worried. Maybe it was a trick of the dim lights.
The cop leaned in. “Those cameras are for show.”
“Oh,” the biker stated quietly.
“Yeah,” the cop looked disappointed.
The biker looked down again at the wreck. “I’ll call the tow truck.”
“It’s on the way. Want it towed to your house?”
“Why? It’s junk now.”
“Okay, they’ll bring it to the salvage yard. Your insurance company can find it there.”
The biker nodded slowly, and pulled out his wallet, rifling through the cards there. “Yeah, I got a special rider on it since it’s a classic.” He pulled out one card, pocketed his wallet, and then got out his cell phone. He walked away from the cop, dialing on the phone.
The cop went back to his squad car to get warm, but couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever had torn that kid’s throat out was still out there…watching.
Words: 1296
Inspiration: Wanting Bomber to get a 2011 Harley Fat Boy. In black and red. Also another “moment of frenzy”.
Music: Purring cat.