By Peter B. and Art Intelli

Chapter 9

That first night after the fight, I barely slept.

I sat by the fire, my body aching from the beating Viktor and I had given each other. My ribs throbbed, my knuckles were raw, and my head was a storm of confusion.

“Stick with us, Rabbit,” Q-ball had said, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder. “You earned your place.”

And I wanted to believe him.

He handed me a battered leather jacket with the sleeves cut off, the gang’s insignia stitched onto the back. My hands trembled as I pulled it on. The weight of it felt suffocating, but I forced a grin. I had to sell this. I had to make them believe.

Q-Ball clapped him on the back. “Atta boy! Knew you had it in you.”

I glanced toward the dog cage, but Viktor was barely visible in the shadows. The firelight flickered over the bars, and my stomach twisted. Stay strong. Somehow I’ll get you out.

They led me to The Circle, where a large wooden table was littered with half-empty bottles and dirty shot glasses. One of the bikers — Fuzz, the ex-cop — shoved a metal tankard into my hands. The liquid inside was thick, a deep reddish-brown with a strange, almost medicinal scent.

“Drink up, fresh meat,” Fuzz sneered. “This’ll make you one of us.”

I hesitated, but couldn’t refuse. I lifted the tankard and took a sip. The taste was bitter, like burned herbs and spoiled honey, but I swallowed it down. The bikers cheered.

The warmth hit first, seeping into my limbs, dulling my senses. My head grew light, my thoughts thick and sluggish. I tried to focus, but my vision blurred at the edges. The world tilted slightly, and I felt myself swaying.  The firelight blurred, my mind softened, and all the questions I should have been asking started to melt away.

No. Stay sharp. Remember who you are.

But the drug worked fast. Faces around me distorted, laughter echoing strangely. Time became slippery. I blinked, and suddenly I was sitting around the fire, a half-eaten plate of food in front of me. Had I been talking? Had I been laughing with them? I couldn’t remember.

Q-Ball leaned in. “You feel it now, don’t ya?” His voice was smooth, almost hypnotic. “No past, no worries. Just the road ahead. You belong to the Baldies now.”

My heart pounded. No. I belong to Viktor. I belong to myself.

But the drug fought back, pulling me deeper.

The next morning, Q-Ball led me to another filthy tarp near the Barber Chair.  He pulled it aside to reveal a battered and muddy Harley.

“Your new ride, Rabbit!  What?  Not fancy enough for ya?  Well, if you prove yourself when we head down south maybe I’ll steal you a nicer Hog!  In the meantime, saddle up!”

I rode with the gang. The bike I was on was much bigger than the scooter I had rode that summer, but my body was moving on instinct, and it turned out I was great at riding a Harley.  I was a Baldy Biker. But no… my mind was struggling to hold on. The days were blurring together.

They taught me their ways — how they ride, how they fight, how to be ruthless. And I played my part all too well. I laughed at their jokes. I obeyed their commands. I let them believe they had broken me.  And in a weird way, they had.  We always rode at dawn. Engines roaring like thunder, tires spitting gravel as we tore down the highway in a black wave of leather and chrome. The wind against my face, the raw power of the machine between my legs — it was intoxicating. They taught me how to ride their way: fast, reckless, without fear.

Every day around noon, we found places to hand out and kill time — bars where we drank until our knuckles itched for a fight, gas stations where we bullied attendants into filling our tanks for free, quiet little diners where the waitresses kept their heads down and didn’t ask questions.

At night, we gathered around the fires in camp, passing bottles, laughing, talking about the next run, the next score, the next town that wouldn’t know what hit it. I was always “proving myself.” Q-ball told me he believed that I had real potential, that I could really be one of their Tribe.

I believed him.

I stopped thinking about Viktor.  I didn’t think about him when we rolled out before dawn, not when we pushed deeper into the night, chasing the next thrill.  They kept his cage covered with a tarp. Out of sight, out of mind.

I barely remembered he existed.

One afternoon we had been drinking in a bar, laughing and smoking and being total assholes, as usual.  The owner sheepishly came over and asked us if we could “keep it down a little.” The guy who had once been Viktor’s wagon boy pulled out a crowbar.

“Let’s see what the new guy’s really made of,” he jeered, thrusting it into my hand.

The handle felt solid in my grip. I could feel their eyes on me, waiting. The old me would have hesitated. The old me would have thought about Viktor, about what was right.

But the old me was gone.

I swung, smashing all the bottles behind the bar.  I smashed the bar mirror, and all the light bulbs in the joint.  I was about to smash the skull of the poor owner, but something that was still left of the old me deep inside stopped me.  I threw down the crowbar, and Q-Ball nodded approvingly.  The bikers erupted in cheers, slapping my back, laughing. I felt it too — the rush, the fire in my veins, the acceptance.

I was one of them.

That night I was fixing the chain on my Harley.  The tarp that covered the cage was pulled back slightly, and I saw Viktor in the darkness, curled up, unmoving.

A low voice, barely above a whisper, reached me. “Remember who you are.”

I stiffened. I turned, but Viktor’s eyes were closed, his body still. Had I imagined it?

It all came rushing back to me.  Who I was — or rather had been.  My actions of the past few weeks seemed like part of a never-ending nightmare.

No. I won’t forget.  I remember who I am.

That was the night I made my decision.

I had been watching Fuzz as he prepared the drinks every evening.  The base would always be whatever we had stolen during the day, but I would see the ex-cop empty a small vial into the concoction before passing it around to the Tribe.  There seemed to be no end to the small bottles of this powerful drug in Fuzz’s saddlebags. When no one was paying attention to me, I sneakily picked up a few of the vials and stuffed them into my jeans.

The next evening, after another long ride, I waited until again no one was watching me.  I emptied the containers of drug into the already spiked potion.  That night I pretended to drink, but never let the shit touch my lips.  The drugged drink sat in front of me, and I feigned a drunken sway, laughing along, but my mind was clear.

After an hour or so, the cackling and cursing and general horseplay started to die down, as one by one the bikers nodded off into a drug induced haze.

I slipped away.

Moving quickly, I made my way toward the supply tent. I grabbed a rusted pair of bolt cutters. My heart was pounding in my chest.

Just a little longer. Hold on, Viktor.

I crept toward the cage, keeping to the shadows. I tore the tarp from the cage.  Viktor was barely conscious, his breathing shallow.  I crouched down, pressing a hand against the bars.

“Viktor,” I whispered.

Viktor stirred. His eyes cracked open.

“I’m getting you out,” I promised.

The lock was old, but strong. I gritted my teeth and clamped the bolt cutters down. The metal groaned. The sound seemed deafening in the quiet night.

I froze. No movement from the camp.

Another squeeze — SNAP.

The lock fell away.

I yanked the door open. Viktor lay slumped on the floor of the cage, his body weak and frail from so many days without food or water. His once-mighty frame now seemed shrunken, his powerful arms barely able to hold him up as he pressed against the bars. Viktor barely moved.

“Come on, Viktor,” I urged, kneeling beside him. “We have to go.”

Viktor slowly lifted his head, eyes glazed with exhaustion. “I can’t. You go on without me.”

I shook my head fiercely. “No way. You never gave up on me, and I’m not giving up on you. You are my brother, Viktor. And a brother would never leave his other one behind.  Now, get up, BRO!”

I hooked an arm under Viktor’s shoulder and hoisted him up. Viktor groaned, but I held him steady.

I half-carried, half-dragged him toward the tree line.

A few more steps, and we were away from the camp.

The night swallowed us whole, and I didn’t dare look back.