CHAPTER ONE
Ogre:
I pulled off the highway, onto a side road. I waved to Dr. Steele, who was still driving the Army bus, to follow. It was little more than a dirt road, and ended at an abandoned farm house. The bus was well hidden in what was left of the barn.
“Awright,” I said, “first thing we gotta do is get ridda that fuckin’ Army bus. It sticks out like a porn star’s dick. I still can’t figure out how we got this far without the cops showin’ up.”
“Most likely, Colonel Browne is reluctant to involve civilian authorities,” said Dr. Steele. “He wants to keep us as resource for himself.”
“Yeah, probably,” I said, “I still think it’s totally batshit for you guys to try to do two hundred miles in that thing. We passed a dive bar about half a mile back. I saw a whole bunch of motorcycles out front. It’s probably a Bandido hangout. Maybe they can help us find a chop shop.”
“Bandidos? Chop shop?” asked Powerboy.
“The Bandidos own this state, at least as far as biker clubs. With any luck, they’ll take this fucker off our hands,” I said, pointing at the bus, “and give us at least a few bucks. They’ll take it apart and sell it for parts, maybe some of it for scrap. They might even throw in a replacement vehicle or two for us.”
“We should all go,” said Nemesis. “It’s not a good idea for us to split up.”
“I dunno,” I said, “this is pretty unlikely crew to show up at a biker bar with.”
“Yeah, well, too bad,” said Nemesis. “It’s not like we can’t handle ourselves. What are they gonna do? Kick our asses? Good fuckin’ luck with that.”
“Yeah, awright,” I said, “don’t start any shit,” with a nod toward Nemesis.
“Who, me? Am I some kinda psycho?” said Nemesis, grinning.
“Izzat a trick fuckin’ question? Just keep it cool.”
About an hour later, me and my Misfits walked into Pancho’s Palace, past the fifteen or so Harleys parked out front, all in a row. We had scared up a trench coat and hat for Steele. Shoplifting is way easier than most people think.
“Well, I shouldn’t draw too much attention, wearin’ this,” said Steele.
“We hope,” said Nemesis. “Man, what a dive. I half expect Chuck Norris to walk in and just kick everyone’s ass.”
“Lemme do the talkin’,” I said, “I understand these people, and you don’t.” I met with one of the senior Bandidos, and we sat at a booth, discussing terms, while the other Misfits shot pool, ordered food (I ran a tab); and Powerboy found an electrical outlet to plug himself into. He, Steele, and Nemesis gawked at the unfamiliar sights; none had been in a real outlaw biker bar, before.
Nemesis won a few bucks betting he could beat big hardass bikers in arm-wrestling, which he could. He hadn’t gotten strength anywhere near my level, but he was still way stronger than almost any normal man. I don’t know how he got the guy to accept the first bet, since he started with zero; I didn’t really want to know. He’s a teenage boy, and the Bandido he had picked was gay, so I could guess what he offered if he lost – which he didn’t.
The kid was a psycho, but managed to avoid starting any fights, which took me by surprise, while relieving me of some of my anxiety. This is all goin’ too easy. Ahhh, maybe I should just accept that we’re gettin’ a break, for once.
A few hours later, the plan was laid out. Me and my Misfits reassembled back at the bus. We drove it to the little garage on the outskirts of Amarillo that the Bandido leader had specified.
We got out of the bus, and congregated against one of the walls, waiting for the Bandido mechanics to check the vehicle out.
“How long is this gonna take?” asked Nemesis. “I have a bad feeling about these wetbacks.”
“Goddamn it, kid,” I said, “watch what you say around these guys. Man, you gotta quit startin’ fights all the goddamn time.”
“Ahh, they didn’t even hear me,” said Nemesis, as he looked around, becoming visibly more wary by the second. “But I’m startin’ to get a really bad feelin’ about this.”
Hyper had granted Nemesis all the abilities of a master martial artist, at a cinematic level. Martial arts was more than punches, kicks, and ju jitsu holds; it also included increased levels of perceptivity, with regard to threats. When someone was planning some kind of attack, there would be subtle clues in body language, tension, eye movements, and tone of voice. He kept glancing at the dozen or so Bandido bikers, moving his eyes from Bandido to Bandido, showing more and more trepidation with each passing second, until…
“It’s a fucking trap! Everybody take cover!” he yelled, diving behind one of the vehicles.
The Bandidos had my crew on one side of the garage, while they were lined up on the other. All of the Bandidos grabbed well-hidden weapons and attacked. It was obviously a well thought out ambush. The ambush didn’t go quite as they had planned…
The very first one cursed as Nemesis dove for cover, even before he started to snatch up his weapon, which was a wicked looking machete. “What the fuck? How the hell did you know? Well, it won’t fuckin’ matter, gringos! There’s no other weapons in here for you assholes to grab!”
“Who said I needed one?” replied Nemesis, as he easily disarmed his foe, and swept the Bandido off his feet. He swarmed over the Bandido a moment later, applying a hold that would have elicited a submission in a UFC fight. This wasn’t a sporting event, though, and the sound of bones cracking mixed with screams. “You picked a fight with the wrong gang, you dumbasses!” shouted Nemesis.
Two of the Bandidos each pumped six .357 magnum revolver rounds at their chosen targets, but neither Steele, nor Dr. Steele were even mildly annoyed, except perhaps, by the noise. Steele marched toward his attacker, laughing over the sound of gunfire, and through the scent of burnt gunpowder. He grabbed the weapons, crushed them, then tossed them aside, followed by tossing the Bandido aside—hard.
“That was an unwise decision,” said Dr. Steele to his dumbfounded attacker, “my protective armor layer is able to withstand over five times that much kinetic energy. I would suggest that you surrender.” The astonished Bandido did just that.
I was tagged by two shotgun rounds, but my flesh was tough enough to ignore double-00 buckshot, even at point-blank. Almost.
“You motherfucker! That fuckin’ hurt!” I screamed, as I threw a half-ton chest of tools at the unfortunate Bandido, knocking him into the opposite wall, pinned under the rolling cabinet.
The last Bandido had chosen the nerdy high-school kid as his target; the other nerdy high-school kid; the one without the mouthy attitude. The gang-banger had been in his share of firefights, and ambushes, and had seen the victims react in every conceivable way: screaming, begging for mercy, negotiating, cursing back, and even once, praying.
This time, however, he was to see a new reaction.
The pellets from his shotgun didn’t seem to hurt the kid, nor did they bounce, as from armor. Instead, the pellets stopped dead as they struck the boy, falling to the ground with a tinkling sound, robbed of every bit of kinetic energy. And then Powerboy…smiled.
“Oooh! That tasted good! Do it again!” Normally, Powerboy could not absorb kinetic energy perfectly. However, fortunately for him, the physics of buckshot were great for his powers. A slug would have been problematical, but the Bandido had had no idea that he had had to prepare for shooting at someone with super powers.
To Powerboy’s delight, the hapless Bandido, unwilling to believe what he was seeing with his own eyes, emptied the eight round tubular magazine at his target, with identical results. Powerboy then grabbed the barrel of the weapon. None of Powerboy’s abilities included any kind of enhanced strength, so the Bandido kept it easily, at least until Gary applied a few hundred volts to it.
I picked out what appeared to be the surviving leader, who was on the ground, moaning, surrounded by the scattered tools from the chest that I had thrown. I picked the Bandido up with one arm, and pinned him against a wall, like a cat would with a mouse.
“What the fuck’s the matter with you dirtbags? We had a deal goin’! We was gonna play fair with you!”
“What did ya expect? You think we wouldn’t notice that Angels patch on your jacket? Any friend of the Angels is an enemy of ours!”
“Izzat what this was all about? A fuckin’ patch war? You sorry piece of shit.”
The Bandido looked around at the carnage of the short skirmish; all four of his soldiers were down, while their erstwhile unarmed targets were unharmed, except for minor wounds to me; and the bleeding was already slowing.
“What kinda people are you?” wheezed the Bandido, nursing several broken ribs.
“The kind you don’t want to fuck with, shit for brains. Where do you keep all the cash? And don’t try to hold out on us; we’ll know if you’re lyin'”, I said. We don’t really have anybody who can read your excuse for a mind, asshole, but I doubt you’re gonna wanna take any chances now.
“We also want a workin’ vehicle; somethin’ the other four guys can ride in. Snap to it.”