Burning

the God of Thunder

By

Christopher Schmitz

Burning the God of Thunder

Burn, Bernard Crowley, rolled off the mattress and tumbled onto the damp
floor. Fleabites itch. Mattress must’ve been there a long while. Burn didn’t
care; it felt better than the ground.
That was his name: Burn, Bernie after his grandfather Bernard. He shook
his lighter and tried twice to light it before success. Zippo is running low, but
it was enough to light a cigarette from his supply dwindled. Burn, that’s
probably what I oughtta do to that mattress. He momentarily played with the
lighter and it’s Harley Davidson crest as he debated the act of arson; wisps of
smoke curled around the rugged face lit red by cherry end of his cig.
Better not, he thought, I might come by this way again. Burn had no home,
no family, not anymore. He preferred his past to remain behind him: burnt. He
flipped the lighter shut and glanced at the scar left from a third degree burn
mark he’d gotten as a child from this same lighter—but he refused to think of
that dark day.
Absentmindedly scratching the bug bites, he reached for his gear. Like
usual, he’d slept in his clothes; he saw no sense in changing them. The other
set, which he kept in his saddlebags, were dirtier than these. He only took off
his leathers, his true clothing, at night.
Burn grabbed a handful of tarnished, black leather and pulled at the pile. A
bottle fell to the ground with a noisy “clink.” The biker didn’t give it a second
glance. The sound told him everything; the noise would’ve had a much lower
pitch had it been full. Besides, Burn knew himself. He rarely left enough
tequila in the bottle to moisten a worm.
He stepped in to his chaps, zipping the left leg from boot to hip. The zipper
got halfway up his right leg when it went stiff: fabric zipped into the teeth.
Burn yanked it and it broke. He shouted a string of obscenities at the garment,
as if it cared what he thought or about how hard his life had been.
His cursing finally quieted until futile words became an ambient noise
rumbling below his breath. Cussing had been his initial addiction, the first vice
to latch into him. He’d had a foul mouth ever since the third grade.
Burn exited his decrepit shelter; the leather on his right leg flapped like a
loose sail as he walked. This structure used to be a house. Nothing else on the
nearby block still retained a roof and four walls; the whole district was
condemnable. Last night’s mattress had probably been stashed by border
jumpers, illegals. He didn’t really care, it had rained last night and he didn’t
have enough cash to rent a room.
An old detached garage that used to stand nearby had crumbled in
dilapidation. It now leaned warily against the shanty house, partially caved in.
It was a perfect place, though, for him to stash his most recent ride.
Contrasting with the environment around, the glistening silver and yellow
cruiser seemed to glow with a magical aura. The Harley Davidson Screaming
Eagle Deuce reflected cheery morning sunlight as Burn pushed it from the
hole; it lit the yard like a beacon. Burn had recently stolen it outside a busy
biker bar populated by wannna-bes and yuppies that grew up reading their
uncle’s Easyrider magazines because of their nuddie appeal. He saw this bike,
wanted it, and so he took it.
Burn dug through his saddlebags and found several straps of leather. He
tied the lashings around his leg to hold the chaps together until he could
acquire a new set.
He swung his leg over the beast and sank into its comfortable seat. Burn
looked down at the ride and despised it for what it was: because of what it was
not. He scowled at the machine. It was too nice, too cushy and soft for his
preference. It was a beautiful rig, but a far cry from his dream ride.
Cussing at the bike and nearly dropping his cigarette, Burn fiddled with the
key. His fiercely coveted 1936 Harley Knuckleheads. He should own one too
—he often lamented when he was shoulder deep in tequila. It should have
been his, if only his life had not been ruined, burned to the ground. The first
bike he ever sat on was that Knucklehead, his grandfather’s.
The memory washed over him, hardening his heart into an emotional scar.
Anger and resentment stewed over the memory of his grandpa and father
fighting in the garage, with little Bernard sitting on that Knucklehead. It gave
him a feeling of power and control as the bitter fury rose from within his gut.
He clung to that memory despite the pain because it gave him a sense of
vindication and justification for whatever evils he chose to engage in. Burn
was just paying back the world for what it owed him.
At the age of fifteen, Burn ran away from his foster home in some
backwater Wisconsin town on a stolen 1950 Indian Chief. It didn’t last him
long and he’d wrapped the chassis around a telephone pole after fishtailing
down a country road. Burn was lucky to survive. Foster parents insisted it was
divine intervention that saved him: that God had something special planned
for his life.
Burn spat on the Deuce’s gas tank and cursed God with all the words he
knew. God owes me a 1936 Knucklehead! Foster parents were a bunch of
hypocrites. Two stolen bikes later, they sat idly by while the cops put him in a
juvenile detention facility. Where was God’s plan then?
He fired the engine up; the distinct chuffing noise drowned out the rest of
his wretched life. Burn angled the bike onto the asphalt and hit the throttle,
leaving behind the decaying haven where he had spent the night.
The whistling of the air filled his ears and the wind flapped around him.
The feeling of flying over the pavement was not one of his addictions; for
Burn, this was his life.
***
Burn accelerated through the afternoon heat, soaring across the hot asphalt
and leaving behind the town of Kenton Oklahoma. In Kenton, he’d padded his
pockets with a lifted wallet at the local fill station; some yuppie left his
window down with his wallet on the dash. Small bladdered idiot, Burn
mocked. He gassed up his own ride on a stolen credit card at a nearby pay-at-
the pump unit before discarding it.
Minutes later, the Oklahoma border was well behind his rear tire with State
Route 456 rooted firmly below his treads. As he cruised through the hot New
Mexico air he loosening his leathers with his clutch hand and let the breeze
blast across his chest and shoot through his sleeves.
Leaning back, Burn rocked his hips until he found a more comfortable
position. There were another eight or more hours before he reached his
destination. The roads here kept mostly free of traffic this time of day.
Working stiffs, don’t know how to live. Wasting their lives in the nine to five.
Barely curling his fingertips around the throttle as he leaned back, the wind
embraced his body in the relaxed pose—the only type of caress he cared for
any longer since...
He glanced right, distracted by the road sign. Folsom’s ‘bout fifty miles. He
saw a headlight in his rearview mirror. Another bike was coming up on him,
fast.
Burn’s pride welled up in him; he hit the accelerator, putting a cushion
between his stolen Duece and the newcomer. Pride, that had been Burn’s
second addiction: always getting in the last word, never accepting that
someone could take a perceived victory over him—no matter how minor.
Hugging the white line near the shoulder, the rear bike sped up and passed
Burn inside his lane. A legal road maneuver, but an unwritten rule regarded
this as an insult if done without permission from the lead rider.
Furious, Burn glared at the older Sporty that passed him; it wasn’t unduly
special. An early seventies Harley Davidson Iron Head Chopper, it was
nothing like the custom, trendy choppers built on television shows. The
passing bike was a chopped out version of the traditional Sportster. Notably
loud, but altogether normal, it sported a drab paint job; the most standout
feature on the bike was its rider.
A behemoth of a man commanded the Iron Head. He wore cowboy boots
and leather chaps over blue jeans but was otherwise shirtless. His dark,
suntanned skin appeared weathered and his long hair flapped behind him. The
span of his back emblazoned the unmistakable jade green of old tattoo ink;
two ornately detailed eagle wings spanned from shoulder to waist in inked
glory. Fur trimmings and cattle horns customized his half-shell helmet. He
might have easily landed a role as an extra in a movie featuring Viking
warriors.
Burn’s temper flared up. He’d beaten tougher, larger men within an inch of
their life. He could be vicious when upset; slamming the throttle, he shot
forward.
The chopper didn’t accelerate as Burn overtook it. He nosed forward so his
machine rode slightly ahead. Then he pointed down with clear direction at the
spot on his right. His nonverbal communication was universal among riders. I
lead; you ride here by my side.
Complying with the command, the big man cocked his head and held back
just slightly, running parallel and just back from the lead. He was positioned
so Burn could get a good look at him in his mirror. The man’s jaw bristled
with stubble just long enough to call it a full beard; hair tinged by brown roots,
it flapped golden and sun-stained enough to make him a blonde. He looked
like Thor, if the son of Odin ever wore mirrored sunglasses.
The rider stayed with him, following for some time. Burn expected him to
veer off before they passed through Folsom, but the rider shadowed him a long
while, mirroring his trek through the town. Folsom, New Mexico, differed
greatly from Folsom, California, made famous by Johnny Cash. Little more
than a collection of modified, antiquated trailer houses, it could hardly even be
called a village.
Passing a scorched husk of a trailer, Burn remembered his last trip
through. He’d stayed a day to recover from an especially bad hangover. The
tentative duo drove past the ramshackle village, towards the Union-Colfax
border where they both pulled into a little café in Capulin.
It would be a late meal and the lunch-rush had long since passed. Burn
preferred it that way; he tended to avoid others. He hated most people. As his
bike came to a rest, he glared at his Asgardian shadow and guessed he’d
dislike him, too.
***
An older waitress with red hair and the attitude of someone who’d made
poor life choices poured two cups of black coffee. She eyed the horned helmet
which the tall rider placed on the table as he threaded his arms through a
leather vest so that he was in compliance with the abused “no shirt, no shoes,
no service” sign. She minded her own business and took the bikers’ orders
without a second glance.
Burn hadn’t gotten much information from the large man, only that his
name was Angus. Beyond that, everything else was far too vague for his
comfort. They were only eating together because Angus had volunteered to
pay.
“So, you’ve been all over the United States?”
“Yes,” said Angus. “I’ve met a lot of people and been down many roads.”
He spoke with an accent that Burn couldn’t seem to place. He looked
Scandinavian, but his accent was different.
Burn winced as he sipped the horrible coffee. The swill burned his lips. It
was neither too weak nor too strong, it tasted just plain awful.
Angus took a draught and grinned. Burn hated that. For some reason,
Angus seemed to enjoy everything; he was too happy.
“So where have you been, specifically, that you didn’t enjoy?” Burn took a
new approach.
“I’d bet I’ve been everywhere that you might’ve been, and then some. I
guess there’re some parts I disliked, but those’r all behind me now.”
Burn shook his head. This guy couldn’t give a straight answer.
After lunch, Angus left a wad of cash and the bill on the table. He left a
sizeable tip—more than the cost of the crappy meal, in fact. Burn scowled
back at the table. She doesn’t deserve a handout.
He saddled up his Deuce and sped across the street to a neighboring gas
station. He was relieved to see Angus remained at the diner, leaning up against
the exterior of the café. Angus spoke with their waitress as she smoked a
cigarette. She seemed to light up as the man spoke and listened in turn. She
smiled and her old eyes sparkled.
The smell of gasoline lingered in Burn’s nostrils. The God of Thunder looks
like a pansy. He topped off his tank with stolen plastic and then threw out the
rest of the lifted credit cards. Burn had a rule: use stolen cards right away,
never more than once, and only two cards from any one person. He figured he
was less likely to be tracked and arrested that way; the theory had worked for
him so far.
Ready to hit the road, Burn glanced over and saw Angus saying goodbye,
fitting his helmet. The redhead watched him earnestly. Burn hit the street and
turned sharply, watching Angus wave to the waitress with his clutch hand, the
other clung to the ape-hanger handlebars.
Sportster-sized peanut tank, Burn thought smugly. The Iron Head had a
smaller gas tank. Angus hadn’t gassed up; Burn figured he could lose the
chopper if he insisted on tailing him.
He sped around the corner and shot away. Good riddance, he thought. So
long, Thor. He went north, back the way he’d come. He had only detoured to
Capulin to eat; he now flew up state route 325 and Angus had disappeared.
The other biker’s most likely road would be Highway 64 west. He didn’t
really care where Angus was headed; the only thing that mattered was that it
would be a different road than his.
He meandered past Capulin Mountain and the visitor areas surrounding the
extinct volcano. Burn planned on taking state route 72 near Folsom. Twisting
and turning across Colfax County. He usually chose the more enjoyable rides
than the straight highways if they led to the same place—unless time was
pressing.
Reflected light flashed in his left mirror. He checked it and saw a bike
behind him, and coming up fast. Angus.
Burn cursed. I thought I’d lost that moron and his ugly little chopper. He
didn’t like the idea of sharing anymore road with someone so cheerful. He
half-expected Angus to be one of those religious motorcycle riders from the
CMA, except that he hadn’t tried to stuff a gospel tract into his pocket back in
Capulin. “You just need Jesus,” bible-thumping freaks. Burn had driven past
many of their rallies and tent meetings in the past—he’d even set one on fire,
once. He cursed again and sped up.
Angus was catching up. Burn accelerated even more and zipped around a
rusted, wood-paneled station wagon. The vehicle rattled and drove under the
speed limit. Burn noted the bumper sticker which warned him to, “Never drive
faster than your angel can fly.” As he passed, Burn flashed the young lady
driving it his middle finger and a nasty glare.
Despite his efforts, by the time burn had reached state route 72, Angus had
caught up and the towering blonde now rode by his side. Burn rolled his eyes
while Angus grinned. He’d never encountered someone this daft; Angus just
couldn’t take a hint.
Forty miles later, the two riders came to the outskirts of Raton. Burn
reluctantly resigned himself to the riding partner when Angus didn’t turn off. I
can outdistance him, bigger gas tank. He still didn’t understand why the
Ironhead hadn’t needed to refuel yet—but it couldn’t last forever.
Burn did not stop for gas near Raton. He merged onto the southbound
Interstate and geared up. Not surprisingly, Angus stayed right with him.
Another hundred and twenty miles, I’ll lose him yet. Burn’s next planned
stop had been Hot Springs. Somewhere between Raton and Hot Springs,
though, he would need to gas up and give his seat a break. But not ‘til after I
lose him—no way he makes it that far without gas.
***
Only fifty miles later Burn finally pulled off for fuel. Infuriatingly, Angus
still hadn’t gassed up yet, despite the distance they’d traveled.
A few minutes into the stop, Angus walked out of the gas station with a
cold bottle of water. Burn leaned against the side of the building, drinking a
frosty Colt 45. The sweltering midday heat took a toll, but it had finally
broken and the heat waned but still wafted off the blacktop.
The horned biker joined Burn and leaned against the shady side of the
building; his bare skin beaded with sweat from the hot, arid climate. The
sound of traffic on the freeway mingled with the tink-tink-tink noises of the
cooling engines at the pumps. Burn did not speak; he silently drained his first
can of malt liquor before he cracked open another.
“You ain’t getting gas, Angus?”
“Nah. I’ll be fine for a while.”
Burn eyed him suspiciously. He glared at the Viking who curiously
watched him load up on an unsafe amount of sin-fuel. Who’s he to judge me?
He shook his head and guzzled the rest of the 45 before throwing the empty
cans against the building. Burn was only getting started for the evening.
***
A Screaming Eagle Deuce, paired with an old Iron Head Sportster, waited
outside a seedy bar and grill at the edge of Hot Springs, New Mexico. Several
other bar-hoppers sat curbside as well.
“You know, Angus, I got the feeling that you might not like this place. The
food here is terrible. Maybe you’d prefer to go up-road, somewhere else?”
“Are you kidding? This place is great.” He crossed his arms and grinned.
Burn took a swig of his beer. “You really don’t get it, do you?”
Angus turned to him; his demeanor had shifted to one of grave seriousness.
“Oh, I get it. It’s crystal clear to me, but I’m on a mission.”
“A mission? Right.”
“You don’t understand, my friend. My mission is more important than you
could comprehend.”
“Don’t call me friend.” Burn eyed him wildly.
“I know that you are aware of Truth. That’s why you ride, always driving,
and always running away...”
“Great, another CMA’er.” He cursed as vitriolic as possible, hoping to
offend his shadow. “I had you pegged right away.”
“You’re always putting your past further behind you.” Very matter-of-factly
he stated, “You refuse to acknowledge that a soul hangs in the balance.”
“Right. Well listen up, me and Odin aren’t exactly on speaking terms.”
“You mean that you are not on listening terms.”
“Whatever,” Burn sighed and chugged the rest of his beer. He signaled a
waitress for another.
Angus pressed his point. “This particular soul will do great things when its
time has come, but it hangs precariously over the pit—on the edge of a knife
so to speak. It could go either way. Only an individual can decide. God has
great plans for His chosen, but He does not force decisions. Soon, that poor,
afflicted being must decide its own fate.”
“Shut up, Jesus freak. I don’t care about your mission or your God. Leave
me alone. Next time I go left, you go right. Got it?”
“I can’t do that, Bernard.”
“Hey!” he put his finger in Angus’ face. “Don’t ever call me that. No one
calls me that.” How did he know my name? He panicked a little bit on the
inside, but the alcohol quickly suppressed it.
“I know everything that I need to know for my assignment.”
 “What, so Thor’s a guardian angel now?”
Angus leaned forward. “Yes. That’s exactly what I am.”
***
Burn’s words proved a self-fulfilling prophecy; the food tasted terrible. As
far as he was concerned, though, the company had been even worse.
He pushed his kickstand up with his heel and scowled at Angus. Burn
wanted very badly to shake this guy. He didn’t believe his claim to be a
guardian angel, but something wasn’t right about him, either. Hasn’t gassed up
all day. What’s that all about?
They neared the freeway, passing through the Las Vegas outskirts. A flood
of memories washed over Burn when he saw the exits—he hadn’t been
through that city in a long time. He regretted his last trip to Sin City—it might
be the only regret he really had. Biggest mistake of my life. Shoulda let what
happened in Vegas STAY in Vegas.
Burn glared over his shoulder at the rider by his side. No such thing as
angels... no such thing as God. Never seen evidence of a loving creator—and
if my life has been example of Him, then screw him—I’d pick Hell any day of
the week!
He hit the gas and merged sharply, dangerously. Spite and alcohol blurred
his peripheral vision. Bitterness flexed within his chest and wrapped itself
around his heart. I was heading towards Nevada anyway. I guess I’ll just have
to show this joker who I really am. Give him the personal tour of my inner-
demons. Bit of a layover in Silver City puts me in Vegas on the weekend. No
real angel could suffer alongside my life on a weekend bender in Sin City.
***
Blaring rock music infused the smoky atmosphere within the Buffalo Bar II
as the cover band played an AC/DC cover on overly-gained tube amps. The
Buffalo Bar, a local watering hole, catered specifically to bikers—the second
incarnation was a zealous expansion of the original, following something of a
biker revival after the success of reality TV chopper shows and Sons of
Anarchy.
Burn entered through the red door and quickly sat at a small two-person
table; he childishly kicked the second chair away to make his point. It clattered
across the floor and came to a rest just as Angus entered the establishment. He
nonchalantly grabbed a vacant chair and pulled it across so he could seat
himself across from Burn, who crossed his arms and sighed.
Rolling his eyes, Burn stood and moved through the crowded bar. Vaguely
recognizing a few familiar faces, he sat at a table that was nearly full and
immediately started making small talk. Burn looked back and scowled at
Angus, who smiled and waved back, but stayed put.
Burn recognized some of the guys from past rides, guys from different
motorcycle clubs and chapters from all across the area; he had lots of
acquaintances as he was something of a Ronin between different MCs. He
owed allegiance to no patch, but had worked with many groups as a freelancer.
 Scanning faces at the table, Burn raised an eyebrow at the weirdness. He
knew at least one of them was a member of the Hell’s Angels and another
belonged to the Outlaws. Normally, these guys would be killing each other
because of old gang rivalries, not sitting together.
The conversation soured Burn as he gave it an investigative ear. All of the
men at this table claimed to have found Jesus at a recent rally. Their faces had
changed from the hardened men he knew them as into something else entirely.
“The scruffy evangelist gave me a couple of these ‘biker bibles,’” one said.
He turned to Burn, “D’you want one?”
Burn jumped to his feet and stormed away. He glared at the angel again;
Angus smiled back him. He knew… Burn spouted a silent string of obscenities.
Wandering to the bar, he sat at a stool and smoked a stale cigar he’d been
saving in his breast pocket. Burn slapped a fistful of cash onto the counter and
within a few short minutes he’d consumed a large enough quantity of Southern
Comfort to make him invincible. He threw one of the shot glasses at Angus
who grabbed the projectile from the air like a shortstop.
The angel gave him a disapproving look as Burn turned back for another
shot. He struck up a conversation with the lady next to him. She was nearly as
loaded as the biker.
A clean-cut man entered the bar. He appeared out of sorts, but Angus
waved to him as if they were friends. The man waved back and joined him for
a few minutes. Glancing back, Burn saw him point the man in his direction.
As the man approached, Burn stood and stumbled back to Angus, giving
the unidentified man a stiff shove as he went by. The man left him alone, but
sat and spoke with the woman at the bar; gingerly helping her to her feet, they
left together as she leaned on him for support. The man placed his coat over
the woman to conceal the bare flesh that she’d left exposed in order to attract
guys like Burn.
Burn rattled off a string of slurred obscenities, each of them being very
specific and intended to take the Lord’s name in vain. He stood in front of
Angus who sat smugly in his chair.
“Now, why’d ya go and do a thing like that? She and I were really hitting it
off.”
“First of all, her brother had been looking for her all day. He was worried.
Secondly, my mission—“
“Yeah, yeah, I know. ‘A soul hangs in the balance!’ Blah, blah, blah.”
Burn’s footing wavered as he lit another cigar and he almost toppled. “Well
howz this fer balance? Huh?”
He fell into a chair next to the angel. “You spoil’d my fun. You know that?
Of course you know that, ya’omniscient as’trud.
“D’you know where we’re goin next, huh? Day after t’morra I’m headin
back to Vegas, baby. I haven’t been there in a while; I suppose you’ve never
been there, have ya? You bein a pretty liddle angel an all.”
“Are you sure you want to go back there,” Angus asked him seriously,
“especially after what happened last time?” His tone confirmed he knew the
story.
Burn looked at him, wild-eyed. “You don’t know nuthin!” He stood and
threw the lit cigar at Angus as he stormed off into the crowded establishment.
The cigar fell to the floor and the angel rubbed it out with the sole of his boot.
Nobody in the bar turned to pay any attention to the commotion.
Mingling with the crowd, Burn made it a point to seek out the seediest
lowlifes present in the bar. He made sure that Angus could see him as he
smoked, drank, swallowed a cocktail of various pills, and groped every willing
female.
Angus sighed and shook his head, observing from a distance. The biker
burned through several bottles of booze with his new friends. He grabbed one
lady by the wrist, herself barely conscious, and they headed for the exit. As he
passed by Angus, he leaned in close and asked menacingly, “How’z my
balance now?”
***
Bernard. Bernie. Burning.
Everything in his mind was black. And then he was eight years old again,
just a child, peeking out of the cardboard box that sheltered him from a harsh
world, the burning world. This is that night! No, it’s only a dream about that
night, a memory of what happened on that foul evening.
From the security of his impenetrable refrigerator box he watched them
screaming at each other, separated by Grandpa’s ‘36 Knucklehead mounted on
the ramp. Bernie’s box was on the floor in the garage at Crowley’s Custom
Rides—the shade-tree bike shop adjacent to his dad’s house. He’d stayed
hidden from them in his box, tried to distract himself with a tiny flashlight and
a short stack of old Marvel comics.
They were all in the garage. He didn’t want to be in the house; that was
where it had happened. Apparently neither Grandpa nor Dad wanted to go
back in, either.
An argument—a bad one. What was it about? Bernie didn’t understand it.
Mommy’s gone, never coming back, not ever. She was in the house; Mommy
was dead. He’d slept the previous night in the garage—in the box—he didn’t
want to go back inside where he’d found mommy two days ago.
His grandpa and father were fighting, raging, drunk. Something about his
mother: why or how she’d died… he didn’t understand. Why is Dad so mad?
A thrown wrench. Fingers pointed as if they were guns. Curse words,
another drink. Tempers flared. Dad pushed over Grandpa’s motorcycle!
Grandpa was stuck under the bike. More curse words—spittle and anger!
Spilled whiskey and then spilled gasoline—Grandpa’s lighter! Flames.
Screams. Smoke. More blackness.
He tried to stop it—dashed into the flames and grabbed the Zippo which
burned red-hot. Bernie clutched it desperately in his grip anyway—searing the
emblem into his skin—but it was too late.
 Bernie ran back inside his box where everything was black. He choked on
smoke and soot until everything turned even darker. Burn. Bernie burned.
He gritted his teeth through the nightmare and thrashed in his cold, sweat-
soaked sheets. Burn knew how it ended. He would wake up in the hospital
with the fireman. He saved my life, pulled me out... He shoulda let me die.
Wake up. Wake up!
***
Burn groggily came back to consciousess. Saliva mixed with the dust and
dirt of the ground and caked his chin. He’d blacked out in some RV park near
the edge of town.
His insides hurt: like he’d swallowed dry ice. He forced himself onto his
bare knees and searched for his pants and noticed them thirty feet away; a
puddle of mostly dried vomit had pooled where his head had lain. With glazed
eyes, he searched frantically for his boots. Pretty hard to ride the shifter with
naught but socks.
Staggering to his feet, Burn locked eyes with Angus who sat cross-legged
on the grassy berm next to the parking lot. Behind him, the Deuce and the Iron
Head tilted to a standing pose upon their kickstands. Angus patiently waited
for his quarry to fully regain consciousness.
Burn staggered across the gravel that he’d slept upon and winced as he took
a meandering approach so he could retrieve his boots from the edge of the lot.
His flesh prickled from the discomfort of the morning desert air and his knees
and back hurt from sleeping on the rocky path.
“Fancy seeing you here,” Burn growled, snatching his clothes up in a
bundle from where they’d laid scattered near Angus’s perch.
“Wow, it looks like you had such a nice time last night.”
The words pounded on his sensitive eardrums and Burn gave his stalker a
sharp look from the corner of his eyes. “Shut-up,” he hissed. The biker’s jaw
clenched tightly, though its stiffness might have been from Burn’s choice of
bedding. A dull pain roared in his head.
“I’m just saying… you sure seem chipper. It must have been a really
enjoyable evening.”
“Save it. I do the sarcasm, here. Besides, don’t you need to go shoot star-
crossed lovers with your magic Jesus arrows, or something?”
“I would, but I’ve already seen the fallout from that kind of reckless love.
Remember Vegas, Burn?”
“I told you to shut up about that!” He threw a boot at the angel. Angus
caught it with cold precision and set it down.
“I’ve watched you for a long time, you know. I am only sticking with you
now because of the importance that even a single soul can make in the grand
scheme of things. If I didn’t know that the Father’s will was perfect and
infallible, I would not be here. Honestly, I would have given up a long time
ago on you… on her.”
“Yeah, whatever. Just don’t talk about it… and don’t you ever bring up
her.” He scowled fiercely at Angus. “I swear to God I’ll kill myself. What
kind of guardian angel lets that happen?”
Angus merely stared. “Now that’s an interesting prospect.” The angel
paused and mulled the thought over.
“Don’t you test me.” Burn strapped a hunting knife to his boot and
glowered for emphasis.
“That’s pretty typical.” Angus bobbed his head. “You’re thinking about
running again. You used to run, Burn: from everything. Now, you only run
from her, from what you did. That’s the real reason you haven’t gone back to
Vegas… whatever else you might tell yourself, you’re too scared to go back
because it’s the last place you saw her.”
“I said,” Burn stood and fumed, “I DON’T want to talk about it.”
***
The second evening in Sin City proved more debauched than the first as
Burn took up the personal challenge of offending Angus. The weekend crowd
poured into the area and bikes of every make and color congregated around
the Buffalo Bar.
As second nature, Burn scanned the lot, but none of the machines matched
his classic Knucklehead. Angus followed only a few paces behind, but Burn
ignored him.
All day Angus tried to speak with the biker. Burn made it a point to act
nonresponsive, as if Angus were a figment of his imagination.
He meandered through the dense crowd wreathed with tobacco smoke and
the occasionally pungent taint of reefer. Finding two of the party crew from
last night, they resumed binging exactly where they’d left off.
The angel stood back, stalwart. With his arms crossed, he stared, focusing
only on Burn. Everyone was aware of Angus’ presence, but Burn sidestepped
any questions.
Burn was reckless and intentionally out of control. The combination of
drugs and alcohol began to take their toll, bringing Burn’s eccentricities out.
Off color remarks and cutting digs soon alienated his new friends. As he acted
out, revelers distanced themselves from the madman as he slipped further into
surreality.
For his part, Burn felt as if he lived under a strobe light. Events flooded his
brain in a choppy haze. Self-control vanished, time blurred.
Somebody crashed against him, knocked him over. From the floor, Burn
scowled at Angus, cursed him as if the angel had caused it; he kicked at the
man who’d stumbled into him and lashed out at him like an animal.
Strobe-flash. He reached for the knife at his boot. I’ll show this guy to
knock me over! His fingers fumbled and he couldn’t properly grip the knife; it
clattered away and he couldn’t find it—he could barely see at all without
concentrated effort.
Strobe-flash. Burn was suddenly outside, sweat and blood on his chin, dirt
in his eyes. A man kicked him in the ribs. The man who knocked me over.
 The biker howled in rage. He saw Angus watch him from a distance, arms
still crossed, disapproving grimace plastered to his face; he was reluctant to
help. Burn blocked a steel-toed boot with his forearms and kept his face intact.
Just one man… I must be really drunk’f he’s got me down.
Spotting a discarded tire iron, Burn reached for the tool and lashed out.
Screaming with rage, he broke his assailant’s shin with the metal rod section.
The cracking noise and howls of pain indicated that his attacker wouldn’t be
back on his feet anytime soon.
Strobe-flash. He was still here, the man still screamed. Strobe-flash. No
time passed—but he wanted to puke.
Burn crawled to his feet and began beating his attacker with the lug-end of
the iron. The other man sobbed like a child. Burn couldn’t stop; he could only
scream and continue administering blows as the gathering crowd at the edge of
the lot watched with mild interest.
Angus grabbed the tire iron and Burn collapsed in a heap and retched his
guts all over the pavement. Booze, mixed with partially digested pills and
chewed up hot wings, pooled in a wheel rut.
Strobe-flash. Staggering to his feet, Burn saw the man was badly wounded.
He looked beaten and bloody, but he lived. Burn took the man’s wallet and
staggered to his bike; a small collection of his enemy’s teeth crunched
underfoot. Crawling onto the Deuce, Burn smiled lasciviously with a vomit-
moistened grin at trio of ladies who exited the club. They scowled at him and
so he peeled out of the parking lot.
Everything blurred, wrapping around whatever he looked at: tunnel of
vision. The scenery around him seemed to move at super-speed and everything
he focused his eyes on moved super-slow. He howled with excitement as he
wove through traffic with a brain addled-high.
Angus chased him to a rundown motel. Burn glared at him through the
office window as he registered for the night. He paid the clerk for his room
with stolen cash and inquired after entertainment with a lecherous nod. The
clerk gave him three room numbers to call from his in-room telephone.
“They each got different rates, what’re ya looking fer?”
Burn almost blacked out, snapped back to attention and paid the pimp. He
recognized him, too. Maybe he’d paid him before? He didn’t know for certain.
Probly th’same girl, too. Burn stumbled outside; shambling past the doors he
searched for his room.
Angus called out to him. “This won’t make you forget her, you know.”
Burn refused to look at him, batting the comment away. Go away. Leave
me alone.
Angus watched the biker enter room 124 and close the door. The angel
remained in the parking lot, watching the door. Sorrow filled his eyes.
Moments later, Burn opened the door for a redheaded call girl wearing badly
scuffed high heels and a second-hand coat. Just before he closed it again, Burn
glared at Angus and whispered, “How’s my balance now?”
 The angel mouthed back, “Heather.”
Burn spat and slammed the door behind him.
***
Bernard. Bernie. Burning.
He tried to resist the falling shadow, the comfort of the saggy, sex-tainted
bed overwhelmed him. Burn’s equilibrium spun and his eyes rolled back as
sleep took him.
With a hand permanently branded with the Harley logo, fourteen year-old
Bernard unconsciously stroked the blooming peach fuzz upon his upper lip as
she walked in: Heather. The constant, tumultuous world of the junior high
delinquent always seemed to slow down whenever she entered the room. He
couldn’t take his eyes off of her as she glided across the room.
Heather lived across the street from his foster family and he’d watched her
for the last couple weeks before some local benefactor had donated a
scholarship to the tiny private school in their community. This was the first
time that their eyes had met, although Bur’s eyes were more drawn to the
pleated skirt of her uniform than anything at that else.
She smiled at him. The way she scrunched her nose ensnared him. Burn’s
next addiction. At lunch she’d even sat next to him, breaking the growing
loneliness he’d not realized existed in his life until she chased it away.
He didn’t talk much and mostly listened. She had a cat; her busy daddy
didn’t pay much attention to her; she loved music. She was gorgeous, but
simple—and all the boys watched her because of that.
From the first conversation at that school lunch he knew two things. He
wanted her. She needed protecting.
For weeks they were inseparable—an eternity to an eighth grader. An older
boy teased her about doing charity. Another harassed her about a bad boy
phase. The older boy, with a lusty gleam in his eye, tried to cop a feel and
stumbled in close, faking a fall in order to grab a handful of boob.
Heather laughed innocently. The boy laughed nervously—but when he
locked gazes with Burn, both boys knew what had happened and Burn
grabbed the nearest number two pencil and repeatedly stabbed the larger boy’s
midsection.
Burn ignored the screams of the boy and Heather’s stifled shrieks until a
teacher wrestled Burn to the ground. He roared and glared at the predator he’d
wounded and only lamented that the pencil had not been sharpened.
Try as he might to explain his actions, his expulsion was guaranteed. The
sting of that paled in comparison to Heather’s father forbidding her to see the
rogue. But she was his world and no words of a parent could block them.
In his hotel sheets, the dreaming biker thrashed as he tried to ward off the
memory boiling to the surface. Wake up!
Under the elm tree in Heather’s back yard, concealed by the black leather
of his first thrift store biker jacket, Heather gave him his first real kiss. Not
since before his mother’s death had he felt like love existed until that moment.
 I was a stupid kid! Wake up, wake up!
***
Burn’s eyes rolled back to their place in his skull. Someone rummaged
through his stuff. He couldn’t function properly, only accuse from his location
in the rutted bed adjacent to the bare-cheeked redhead.
“Angus!” he slurred the name.
A pair of eyes glared back at him in the dark. It was not the angel, but
rather some other woman, many years older. She swiped the wallet laying on
the nearby end table and stalked out like a cat.
Burn shrugged with his eyebrows. It was the wallet he’d stolen from his
tire-iron victim in the parking lot, so he wasn’t worried. It had less than ten
bucks in it anyway.
He grinned shrewdly at the nude and nameless woman beside him. She was
probably in on the scam, but he wasn’t out anything.
The evil mirth in his heart kick-started his eyeballs and they began to flutter
like horizontal pistons as sleep took him again. His mind ran suddenly lucid in
the brief hypnagogic state and he vainly hoped to relive the memory of that
night when Heather gave herself to him—trying desperately to fix him before
Child Protective Services moved him away again.
Burn’s stomach lurched sickly, however and he plummeted into a
despairing memory. His face flushed with the sudden heat as the vision
became real.
***
His skin burned from the unforgiving sun; it smelled like hot asphalt and
desert wind. Burn’s mind had gone back to only a few years ago. No…no! Not
Vegas! Not this memory.
He was scorched and had ridden longer than he should have through the
arid highway roads at midday. She sat behind him. Heather… she sported a
fresh, black tattoo on her wrist that read Bernie in curling script.
Bernie, she used to call him. Only one ‘cept my mother who I ever let cal
me that.
Heather hadn’t pursued her dreams of becoming a doctor in college. After
Burn slipped off the map while incarcerated, she’d found her own addictions
and other bad boys.
She was a barroom hoar! Burn argued with the facts in his own mind. Get
out of my head, Angus! We both know what she was!
Burn’s mind wouldn’t relent. Either he had no control of his inner voice, or
that mental narrator didn’t give a damn what Burn’s consciousness wanted and
forced him to relive his joy—and anguish.
Heather had graduated valedictorian and at the top of her class, small
though it was in a town of three thousand, and she attended a good college.
Perhaps she moved too far away, beyond a sphere of her healthy influences,
and wound up pursuing diamonds and gold in the black pit of Nevada. No--
there wasn’t nothing in that town; nothing for nobody—of course she went to
Vegas.
He’d bumped into Heather a dozen years after high school while working a
courier job for a shady crew of tweekers. They’d insisted on treating him to a
steak buffet at Caesar’s Palace where he’d spotted his long lost love working
as a waitress.
Throwing off her apron and walking off the job, she rode on the back seat
of his most recently pirated motorcycle where she wrapped her arms around
Bernie’s chest. She only wanted to be with him—but she wanted him to pull
over, to stop for a while. It’s what happened in the memory… how it
happened.
No, no. Don’t stop.
You did stop, Burn. And you knew. You saw the signs. You knew the whole
time why she wanted you to pull over. You pretended she was still that
innocent valedictorian.
Not this time. This is MY dream, Angus, and I ain’t pullin over, you hear
me, Angus!
Burn squeezed the clutch and shifted to neutral, coasting the bike to a stop
on the shoulder.
I don’t know what you’re trying to pull! Make me think love conquers all or
some crap! I never loved her—I only used her. Now get out of my mind before
I take back control—you know what I mean!
You are not in control here, Burn. When have you ever been in control?
Besides, I thought you hated her for what she did.
I do hate her! She was a piece of barroom furniture! There for anyone to
use! I knew she was no good. I swear to God, I’ll wake myself up and eat a
gun barrel—some guardian angel you’d be then!
The narration refused to swerve around Burn’s threats.
You married her. You inked her name on your body. You loved her. But this
isn’t where we need to be. Let’s go back further, to your wedding night, when
you first suspected her addiction.
No! We’re not going anywhere… I’m not letting you control me. Stay out of
my mind.
Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.
***
Burn snapped awake. He jumped straight up, scared sober. The crimson
glow of the motel alarm clock read 4:37 am and bathed him in scarlet light as
he checked the patch of scarred forearm where he’d burned off Heather’s
name after… that night.
He looked over at his bed. His must have been the last service call of that
evening; the hooker still slept in a nest of ratty blankets. For some reason, he
felt guilty about her.
The redhead wasn’t really sleeping, more like comatose: completely blissed
out by whatever drugs she’d taken. Burn peeled an eyelid back. White
crisscrossed with bloodshot lines, her brain was nearly burned out. Stupid
junky…
He rifled through her belongings, figuring turnabout was fair play. He
tossed out the discount condoms, drugs, lubricants; Burn found her money.
Of course, she wasn’t supposed to spend the night. Red must’ve intended to
leave before her mind melted down in the early morning. Maybe her friend
had just snuck in to check on her well-being—not a wise move, stealing from
a john when your friends out like a stone.
Remember the Golden rule, sweetheart. It’s comin back atcha on the
flipside. The biker pocketed his own cash, plus hers. She had a sizeable wad.
Must’ve been moonlighting on her pimp.
He grabbed his stuff and headed toward the door, hoping to clear his head.
The dream disturbed him to the very core of his being; he needed to run, to get
away.
Burn lashed his loose leathers together where the zipper had busted and
flung the door open. Angus already sat on his chopper, staring at the biker and
ready to follow. Burn saddled up and popped his clutch.
Zipping through the looping, late night streets, the Deuce laid down black
skids as the biker put on every move to separate himself from the angelic
shadow. As long as he headed west he seemed to have success and the blonde
lagged in the distance, but he closed the gap if Burn deviated at all.
Fine! Sin city it is! Burn throttled up and hit the highway with cash in his
pocket and bad intentions in his heart.
The angel fell noticeably behind him. Roads remained clear at the late hour;
the night air cool. At this hour, it was unlikely he’d pass many vehicles except
semi-trucks.
Burn kept his heading and figured he’d arrive in the morning at current
pace. He didn’t really want to return, but he felt compelled—and if it was the
only way to ditch Angus, he would endure anything. Burns emotions knotted
themselves into a wretched tangle as he saw the next mile marker to indicate
his distance to the American Mecca of deviancy. Burn sensed the irony in his
flight; he still ran from what he’d done so long ago, and yet all his running
brought him back to where it had all truly began.
Far behind him, he could barely see Angus’ headlight in his rear view. He
pulled the remainder of action on his throttle and pulled decisively away,
putting even more distance between them.
At insane speed, he stared into the mirror until Angus’s headlamp was no
more. Burn glanced up and his vision flashed and blurred; headlights of a
loaded Peterbuilt blinded him. He steered the bike straight ahead and kept a
grip on the handlebars even as the high-beams sent his mind reeling
backwards in time, heralded by the blaring horn of the massive truck…
***
There stood his bride in a pawn-shop wedding dress at the threshold of a
Las Vegas wedding chapel. It was everything he’d ever wanted since high
school: to marry that naïve little blonde who’d made him feel special.
 It was also the perfect place for Burn to receive the package he’d agreed to
ferry for the Crystal King, a bigshot meth dealer operating out of the Vegas
Heights area. Everyone knew what the brown-wrapped boxes contained, but
they knew better than to ask questions; opening one of his boxes meant certain
death if he found out, and the only markings on the brown wrapper was a
precise weight measurement.
Before Burn planned to make his drop at some remote Montana location, he
planned to make it official, even if he’d just reconnected with his high school
sweetheart mere days ago; he’d imagined this countless times on the long and
dusty roads since she’d left for college. Burn had many other women since,
but he’d never found another Heather.
Bernard had to show his identification to get a marriage performed, but the
fake priest agreed to call him Burn. Still, he let Heather call him Bernie—but
it was a special privilege.
Following the Billy Idol recessional music, Burn caught up with his
contacts who offloaded the wrapped cube that smelled like ammonia. Each
gave him obligatory congratulations and slipped him a twenty before he
peeled out of the parking lot and swept Heather away for their honeymoon at a
mid-level La Quinta.
The night following their departure from Las Vegas Burn, noticed it.
Heather kissed him awkwardly, her mouth too dry to perform. He didn’t want
to believe it. It had only been a few days; how many times since the wedding
had she been out of his sight? He racked his memory, trying to rationalize his
concerns away.
Burn knew what caused dry-mouth. He couldn’t have married a junky! Not
his little sweetheart—she was the only thing he was certain had any goodness
left. But the symptoms damned her. The bitterness of betrayal sudden coiled
around his heart. Not you, Heather!
***
The Peterbuilt’s wind shear called him back to attention. The airy wake
blasted him with sand, a whiff of diesel, and a dose of reality.
Darkness cloistered Burn. Only the pinprick of a headlight far behind
accompanied him. Las Vegas. It’s never dark in Vegas, neon lights and starry
eyes, he mused sardonically... It’s always dark in Vegas.
With a full gas-tank the cool desert embraced him as a child of darkness.
Burn gloated inwardly as he pushed even further away from the guardian
angel.
Long moments passed as he overran his headlights; it felt as if he could
truly fly as he hurtled through the night with an eerie sensation of
weightlessness. No oncoming vehicles passed; Angus’ headlight had long
since dimmed completely.
Only the rushing wind and the low growl of the stolen Harley filled his
senses; it drowned his focus and dulled his perceptions. Burn slipped through
the haze and into another memory.
 ***
They had pulled well off the beaten path and parked a considerable distance
from the actual road. Given Burn’s cargo and the hatred in his heart, he wanted
to do his best to avoid eyesight.
Between the blanket of a starry night sky and a flickering campfire, he had
sufficient light to smash her face in if necessary. Burn had earlier pulled over
and wandered off to urinate on a cactus. He watched over his shoulder the
entire time--suspicious.
He’d been right; Heather used him. Burn watched her slip a hand into his
saddlebags; she stole from me—I trusted her.
Burn stared at her over their small campfire now that they’d parked for the
night. His eyes flickered as baleful as the flames as they met hers. Heather’s
bloodshot eyes spasmed randomly at the corners.
“We need to talk,” he said in an ominous voice as he laid the brown, paper
brick in his lap. The neatly wrapped package had obviously been opened and
closed a few times, discreetly, and a small bowl had been gouged out of the
compressed block of powdered meth.
Heather’s eyes wilded. “It’s not what it looks like, Bernie!”
“It’s exactly what it looks like! God! I can’t believe I married a junky
whore!”
Hot tears streamed down Heather’s face in the cold, desert air. “I’m sorry!
I’m sorry. I can quit. I promise!” Her voice trembled and her eyes body fear,
but her eyes fixated on the brick with jealous desire.
“Liar!” he spat a string of expletives at his once-beloved. “Admit it. You’ve
been using me this whole time! Everything, everything has always been about
getting your next fix off of me.”
“No!” She shrieked. “I love you! I’ve always loved you.”
He glared daggers at her, letting his hate fill the empty, long silence. As it
stretched onward, longer, longer, her twitching eyes darted briefly to the cube
of crank.
“You don’t get it, Heather. You’re dead—or I’m dead. Nobody crosses the
Crystal King! Someone’s got to pay for what you took!” He shook the brick in
her face to emphasize the point, brandishing the weight written in sharpie.
Heather was spellbound by the proximity to the drug as he waved it in front
of her nose. “We could just take the brick and disappear,” she tried to say
innocently. “Nobody would ever find us.”
His eyes narrowed to slits.
Heather didn’t notice. She began to absentmindedly scratch at her forearms.
“I… I had a plan… I just can’t quite remember it.” She stared at the King’s
package. “I’m sure, if I could have just a little taste, I would remember it.”
Burn snarled and flew into a rage. He snapped ahold of her by the wrist and
smacked her around; tossing the brick harmlessly into the soft mound of sand,
he screamed obscenities at her and denounced his love for her by all the gods
that ever existed, real or imagined.
 Heather bawled and tried to block her face as she collapsed to the ground.
She looked up and spotted the brown brick and began crawling towards the
block, enthralled by her need for it.
Burn screamed at her and stomped her into the Mojave sand. He refused to
let her have one more bump of the Crystal King’s junk—he’d have to pay for
every gram she imbibed.
Heather screamed and went ballistic when she couldn’t reach her prize. She
broke down into an ugly, impotent combination of begging, crying, and
attacking.
He snatched up his package and spat at her. Burn felt no sorrow for her
anguish and watched her violently thrash and pick at her itching arms.
Meth bugs driving her crazy! Burn mounted up on his bike and stomped on
the kick-start. He glanced angrily over his shoulder and saw her collapse
tearfully in the sand, screaming for him. Bernie! Bernie… Burn calloused his
heart and drove off, leaving her to die, abandoned and lost in the Mojave
Desert.
No water, no food, meth bugs crawling in her skin—burrowing through her
brain. How much did she steal? How much did I have to pay for her
selfishness? My whole life has been a ride from one disappointment to the
next. He cursed God for the part He played in all of it.
***
Burn blinked back a tear. He was alone, flinging himself through the night
at intense speeds. Even after slowing, he could no longer locate the distant
light from behind. Angus had given up on him?
The bike cruised into a small desert town and Burn coasted down to a
reasonable speed. No businesses or shops were open; there were streetlights in
the distance, though. One building appeared open. In the distance, though,
things were still a blur.
As he closed the distance between, he saw a single motorcycle coming
straight at him. Burn could not mistake it: a 1936 Harley Knucklehead. The
machine glowed pristine and perfect; it had the same custom detail work as his
grandfather’s. He hit the gas and rocketed towards the oncoming rider.
He passed the building, but focused only on the headlight. Through a
fleeting moment of clarity inside his tunnel vision, he recognized the tall,
blonde rider: Angus. He rode straight for him—Burn tried to turn away, but
Angus guided the Knucklehead like missile—locked on and guaranteed to
intercept the rogue.
In a splinter of a second, the two met and collided. Motorcycle parts
crashed, scattered and bent in every direction. Burn launched over the
handlebars and skidded across the pavement, shredding both clothing and skin.
His vision flickered like a road-flare when his head struck the pavement with a
sickening thud.
Twisted Knucklehead chassis metal had wrapped itself around and between
the Duece’s handlebars and trim. Burn’s most coveted ride was destroyed. A
small pool of gasoline burned and sputtered in the night.
His ears didn’t work, aside from the shrill ringing, and he could only lay
there on the asphalt. He couldn’t move, could barely keep his eyes open—
though something compelled him to do so.
A red smear led away from his body, painting a path from his bike to where
he laid on the pavement. Sudden clarity of vision seized his mind and he could
see everything around the carnage-strewn highway. Angus could not be found;
the broken Harley remained, but the man—or angel—had disappeared.
Burn suddenly saw her! She was there! Staggering out of the ditch, Heather
stumbled onto the highway, drawn to the light of the open building nearby—
from which Burn was vaguely aware people were rushing to his aide from.
He didn’t care about that—he could only see her. Heather twitched and
ticked like a strung out clock under her poison’s influence; her now-sunken
face marred by the chemical addiction and scarred by her picking at the
imaginary crawling of meth bugs.
Slowly, his hearing returned. He heard music over the sounds of rushing
feet. It was church music. Heather did not see Bernie, or the accident, or
parishioners who performed first aid upon his crumpled body; she focused
only on the open, lit church. Some kind of all-night prayer meeting?
A man in a cheap suit stepped out of the church doors. It was Angus,
looking like church regular! He walked down the steps and embraced Heather
who trembled under the sheer weight of her life.
“We’ve been praying for your safety, ma’am, praying that you’d find your
way here. The world is a dangerous place, and we’re so glad you found us.”
Burn realized what Angus had done. Had they not collided, Burn would
have run her over! Where had she been all this time? Living in some kind of
shake-and-bake meth trailer in the desolation?
“I’ve been in the desert for so long,” she wept onto Angus’s shoulder. “I’m
too far gone!”
The huge blonde man squeezed her tightly; tears leaked from his face.
“Nonsense. You’ve arrived just in time.”
Watching the embrace, Angus looked directly at him and met his gaze. Just
as Burn’s eyelids fluttered and his vision went black he had a revelation. He
was never my guardian angel… he was hers.
***
beep…beep…beep…
Unfamiliar noises, sterile smells. Burn awoke. He couldn’t move, couldn’t
speak; wires clamped his jaw shut and a pair of handcuffs forced him to lie
impotently in his hospital bed. Pain coursed through his body like fire.
A large form loomed above, drowning out the harsh fluorescent lighting.
Blonde hair and shirtless, his unmistakable features came into focus: Angus.
“I know you cannot talk, Bernard. You can only listen. I told you before
that a soul hung in the balance, but Heather’s, not yours. Had I not taken you
down, you would have killed her in your stupid, drunken pride and only
further entangled yourself in the enemies’ camp. I’m sorry, Bernard Crowley;
you left me no other choice.
“Had she died, Heather would have never heard the speaker. She would not
have found the ability to forgive others, to forgive you—to forgive herself and
learn to hope. Yes, there is even hope yet for you.
“I would have liked to ride by your side as your friend. Our trip together
might have ended so much better if you’d let me take the lead.”
A tear welled in the corner of Burn’s eye. He trembled and heard the rattle
and clink of metal on metal as the manacles clattered against the gurney frame;
his past had finally caught up with him. The Golden rule… it finally got me.
“You won’t see me again, Bernard. But, I hope that one day we can ride
together on the other side of life.”
Angus turned and stretched. His tattooed wings peeled away from his body
and shone with radiant glory. As Angus blazed in the brilliant, holy, white
light, he confirmed a thought to the biker, “You are not beyond hope, Bernard.
A chaplain will visit soon; listen to him.”
Angus vanished and the room fell eerily silent. Only prison and tears
waited in Burn’s future. But for the first time since ditching Heather in the
Mojave, Bernie felt his ever-present rage relent. A deep sadness replaced it…
an overwhelming sorrow and perhaps a shred of hope?

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