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Benny
sagged. Maybe the fuel line?
The
hair on the back of his neck crawled. He chanced a quick look.
One
of the creeps who pounded him were standing by the corner of the building. Not
doing anything. Just watching in the almost deserted parking lot.
Benny
showed his teeth in a mocking, wolfish smile.
The
dude just shook his head. He grinned at Benny and pretended to count money out
to someone. The man tapped a thumb on his chest and the grin got a lot wider.
Benny
jerked back around and gagged.
Grampa
Waya whispered it again.
The
Spider is coming.
He
had to split. Man, but if that old lecher caught him, he was a goner.
Uncontrollable
shudders took Benny. He slammed bloodied fists at the tank, battering it in a
screaming fury until the shame of aching dread faded.
He
stood, grim determination narrowed his eyes. Benny fought the pain with his
mind. He gathered power, drew it
from within himself, from earth and sky.
Seeing
the blue/gold explosion of raw POWER
roar through the boy, Two Swords winced in awe. If the kid would only let the
Eagle:Woman teach him how to use it . . . Two Swords shook his head. Benny was
too bull-headed. The brat. He wiped a tear out of one fist-sized eye and
raised his foot to kick some sense into Benny where, evidently, the kid stored
his brains.
In
the back of his mind Benny could hear Grandfather chanting the Brave-Heart
song. The persistent buzzing of the song grew.
“OK,
old man,” Benny whispered. He sang a few snatches, his voice rising and
falling.
Dizziness
swept over Benny. He shook it off in a curt shrug. Yanking a brown leather
pouch out of his back pocket, Benny took a leaf of delicate rice paper, dusted
it with a generous pinch of tobacco and built the smoke. He dug battered hands
carefully around in his pockets, praying he hadn’t lost it.
Then
he grinned around the badly rolled cigarette.
“Gotcha.”
Breathing
a sigh of relief he nodded, pulling out a lighter. It was Carl’s gold
Fiero, a souvenir from the war in Sud
America. He claimed he lifted it off the corpse of a certain drug lord.
Smiling
at it, Benny wryly admitted the old ways might have been better, but no
ancestor of his would have turned down an Eternal Flame, disposable or not.
To
a lowering sky, he said, “Adapt, Adopt, Survive,” unconsciously quoting a
motto of the People that was older than any one race of humanity. “And
never, never, back down.”
He
lit the cigarette. Holding it close, his eyes drifted shut. Benny made an
offering to the sun that in an hour or so would be peering over Wilkes-Barre
Mountain.
Dancing
a small jig, Creator Eagle-Mother gave a shrill and undignified “Yahooo!” Viva la Yu Diosa,
the Mother of all. Her name is Sweet Joy.
Fog
clinging to the Narrows, a place where the mountains caved in close enough to
build a bridge, swirled and parted .a well preserved Deusenburg knifed across.
Tiny river spirits pushed up from the water. They reached for the car, but the
bridge was too high. Slowly, they began their eternal gnawing at the
bridge’s supports. A hungry Great White shark bumped on support and it
shuddered.
The
bouncer scowled. He smoothed down the hair on the back of his head and cursed
chills running over his body.
“Spooky.”
He shivered, uneasy as the pre-dawn fog rose to tower above the lake. His eyes
shifted, gaping at shadows that seemed to move until he looked in their
direction.
“Way
weird.”
He
swallowed hard and peered at Benny.
The
kid was just sitting on his motorcycle, clothes in rags from the fight. Not
that they had been much to look at before. His lips curled.
Hands
up, smoke misting from the challis they formed.
To
the other man, he muttered, “What the hell is he doing?”
The
bouncer slipped forward a few steps. He froze and shivered, then retreated.
Slowly,
Benny twisted his aching body. His gaze was chilling and calm on the bouncer.
“Dude,”
he said with an iron, quiet voice, “I’m one of the ani:Wy:O:Ming,
and we ain’t taking no shit no more.” Benny turned back, finished the
rollie and snapped it away.
“No
man gives up till he’d dead,” Benny said through clenched teeth, echoing
Carl. “Not if he is a man.”
Benny
lowered his head in shame.
Carl,
my man, but you did quit.
He
scowled faintly, hearing Grampa Wya snap in a harsh shout, ‘Don’t mean you got to, does it, Grandson?’
With
a soft laugh, Benny gave his head a slight shake.
The
boot trembled on the starter. Benny groaned and stood on one leg. Giving a
little hop, Benny slammed his foot down.
The
Uohali shuddered and sulked.
Outraged,
Two Swords roared. He drew back his bare foot and kicked the rear end of the
motorcycle as hard as he could.
Startled
to life, the motorcycle heaved and bellowed.
Benny
blinked. He scowled darkly. “Must a been the fuel line.”
Rubbing
bruised toes, Two Swords’ jaws snapped shut.
“Stupid
kid. I ought to -”
He
growled and drew back again. The foot sagged back on the damp rocks. The aka:ki
muttered a groan.
“What’s
the use?” He threw his hands in the air and spat in disgust at a bold
rat-imp drawn to the sweet stench of raw blood.
Two
Swords stabbed the valiant Heart-a’-Fire down through the packed rock and
dirt. She grumbled at him.
“Come
off it,” he snarled. “Who wants to fly when they can ride?”
A-Heart-a’-Fire’s
grumbles turned to a snarling roar. She exploded in blue flames. Sparkling
mist drifted away. And then there stood a black and silver Uohali-Gold Sun, smoking with outrage.
A
light mist began to fall. Thankful for the numbing coolness of it, Benny
raised his eyes to a lowering sky.
The
bouncer ground his teeth and then gaped.
“No.
No friggin way. The little asshole’s too beat up -
“Damn,
Goon. Get the others.” He turned and hustled around to the front door.
“Friggin shit, Dujmbou. Move it. He’s getting away.”
Holding
busted ribs and gasping laughter, Benny tapped her into first and slid out of
the parking lot. Between set teeth he grunted at every bounce and pot hole.
The
Uohali-Night Sun muttered at Two
Swords for the ache in her rear and wobbled out onto Blackman Street.
The
bouncer pointed at him from the door shouting, “Give it up, kid. Come on
back. Maybe we’ll let you have a nice time earning us some cash in the back
room. Ain’t it, guys?” They laughed and moved out onto the parking lot.
“From
the looks of things, the kid won’t get far,” the bartender said. He
slapped Goon on the shoulder. “We do good work.”
Something
snapped in Benny. At the touch of a bitter rage, the pain and dizziness
vanished. His head tipped down. It cocked to one side and he gave the men and
sleepy, satiated kids on the sidewalk a chilling grin.
The
Guardian released the bars of his unearthly Ride. With a moan of frustration
he covered his broad, battle scarred face. Heart-a’-Fire/motorcycle offered
a muted roar of protest at Benny. In a gesture of fury, Two Swords threw his
hands up at a misting sky.
“Please,
God. Not again.”
Benny
swung in a tight loop, the rear tire squealed, the denim covering his left
knee shredded on the black top of the road and blood washed at the coal dirt.
The old charger rumbled eagerly, up, onto the sidewalk. Benny rammed the Night
Sun right at the crowd, routing the men and the drunken partiers.
Screaming
threats and curses, the three men tumbled back inside, leaving their patrons
to disperse like so many featherless, staggering quail.
Benny
whooped. He spat bloody saliva at the men and tilted the motorcycle, whipping
the Night Sun dangerously close to the white and black plastered front of the
cement block wall. The motorcycle tipped onto her front tire, the rear
screaming a wide black half-moon high on the wall.
Snarling
a grin, Benny spat at the bar and smoked a doughnut hard on the walk. The tire
screamed and kicked up a cloud of black gritty dust and squealed away.
They
leaped out, hands filled with snub-nosed Specials.
Benny
slammed past the red light. The taillight jounced once, hard and mocking and
he tilted into the right turn, out onto Route 309.
A
long, sleek car glided over the low berm and onto the sidewalk. Henri blasted
them with a look of pure hate and the men stepped back from it.
The
rear window slid open.
Staring
down his long nose, the Spider gave them a malicious smile. He crooked an
arthritic finger.
Scarce
daring to breathe, the men stumbled to the car.
Voice
a thready whisper of old age and dying, Ryan stared at each, saw their fear
and fed on it.
“Where
is he?”
©2002 StoriesByEmail.com
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