The Biker

By Zorin Florr

Imagine The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, sprinkle in some Mad Max, and add a dash of The Terminator; so what’cha cooking? THE BIKER! Oh, and I almost forgot. The garnish. Yes. The Biker is garnished.

Unlike the three a fore mentioned films the Biker delivers a little more, it has that extra touch that makes the difference between a good dish and a gourmet delight. It is not simply an exciting calorie filled action desert, but a well balanced feast consisting of a hardy amount of dramatic nutrients capable of causing even the most hardened tough guy to shed, if not a full tear, at least a half.

Are you hungry yet? So what am I talking about here, food, film, or an engrossing novel? It is neither food nor film, or film in food, nor food on film, but it is definitely food for thought. The Biker is a fast paced action filled thriller that reads more like a movie in your mind than a book in your hands.

The action in this tale is about a mysterious lone Biker who seems to suddenly spring forth from the desert dust like a lost horseman from some other apocalyptic time unleashing a murderous rampage on the outskirts of Las Vegas. Bruce, a decorated detective and his protege, John, arrive on the scene and come face to face with the horrific devastation unleashed by this single man. Both detectives make it their mission to take this mad man down, but instead, embark on a journey of personal devastation blurring the lines between right and wrong, or good and evil, beyond their most terrifying nightmares. Who is this man that seems more powerful than anything Bruce and John have seen before?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zorin Florr
• Release date: May 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476345734

Zorin Florr

A television and film screen writer now turned author, Zorin Florr has many creative projects under his belt. His strength is in character development and complex story lines with unpredictable twists and turns. If you are looking for a fast paced story, that reads off the page like a film in your mind, than read Florin's books.

Book preview

The Biker

by

Zorin Florr

Copyright © 2014

All Rights Reserved

3rd Edition

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INDEX

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 1

They were far and few between. Miles apart, and distorted by hot columns of rising air. The distant towers of stone seemed to undulate like ghosts under the scorching desert sun. It was hot, it was dry, and the endless expanse of the American desert West looked abysmally eternal. The only disturbance in this forsaken land that barely gave a semblance of civilization was the unnatural black asphalt slithering over the infernal expanse like a quiet dark serpent on another world.

It was all that seemed to exist in this place of dust, dirt, and unbearable heat. Yet there was something else; a peace, a beautiful quiet peace that seemed to have the power to even destroy time. After what could have been a moment, or then again an eternity, a buzz crept out of the deep horizon. The first hint that the peace was about to be broken.

It was gentle, hardly noticeable at first, but minute by minute it inflated and grew, from a barely audible distant buzz to a persistent annoying hum. More minutes passed, and it spread, bellowing, until it roared like the mighty thunder of the gods. Now so hard and loud it was shaking that big dessert at its core, and then suddenly; WOOSH! The sound doppler-ed past, thunder-hammering the ancient quiet peace away from that lonely snaking road.

The roar of the old Harley’s engine sliced the desert in two along the man-made asphalt seam. Sitting on his bike, like a king on his monstrous throne, the Biker cruised along following the slithering seam into the deep horizon of this endless desert sea. Wearing no helmet to protect his nearly hairless stubby scalp, the large muscular man on the Harley seemed unconcerned of any possible danger, as if his wrap-around silver sunglasses were all the shielding he would need; that is, besides the sawed-off shot gun he had strapped to his right thigh, a pistol on his left, and an M16 machine gun strapped vertically to the back of his bike.

*****

The stillness. The stillness makes the desert seem dead, but there is life. There is life because there is wind. A soft warm breeze gently rustling the dry dust up into the air, forcing it between the few ramshackle old buildings at what seems to be the loneliest junction in the whole wide world. It is no more than a dusty desiccated dirt track, crossing the sun baked black tarmac in a place where some lost souls long ago abandoned the few shacks in three of the lonely corners. The fourth is the only one that looks to have endured the desert. It's a decrepit little filling station for both automobile and man, with two fossilized old pumps still standing stout since 1975. Past them a disheveled dry carcass of a diner seems to be still huffing and puffing amidst this desiccated dirt. There are even a few recently parked cars in the gravel space masquerading as a parking lot out front, yet it is a sign… Life!

The hot wind blows soft and gentle, hardly audible, unlike the gentle rhythmic squeak that is haunting that lonely junction. Maybe it's a shutter, or just an old broken door, or maybe something else entirely. Whatever it might be, its rhythm seems to be dancing with the wind, holding the beat to the breeze’s melody, until the maddening rumble swallows up the symphony.

The Harley's roar is muffled by the distance, barely echoing out from the endless horizon, but moment by moment, the rhythmic squeak of that shutter, or door, or whatever, is swallowed by the vibrating rumble that is quickly becoming a roar. The roar grows, tumbling into thunder, pushed forth by an abysmal echo that seems to want to swallow that infinite desert whole, when in the distance, like an insect crawling on the back of a snake, the Biker gradually comes into view, growing in size, getting closer and closer… and closer, until he gently turns off the black asphalt snake into the grungy parking lot in front of the diner. He pulls up next to the parked cars and then; silence!

The Biker turns his head looking left, and then right. His large hard face is strong. Even covered by silver shades his cold and distant eyes somehow cut trough. He does not just look intense, he is intensity personified. His neck is thick, his jaw hard and accented by a stubby pointed goatee hanging stiff a couple of inches from of the tip of his chin.

The Biker’s foot stomps the ground, kicking up a puff of dust, pushing his bike onto its rack. He is wearing black leather boots with four belt buckles each on the outward sides. His worn and faded leather pants are tucked into his boots. On his right thigh he has a makeshift holster, that looks like he made himself, holding a sawed-off shotgun. Strapped around his left thigh, he has an old fashioned WWII style closed brown leather holster for a pistol.

The Biker steps off his bike and slides off his worn out leather jacket exposing his massive tattooed shoulders and arms. He hooks the jacket over the M16. All that is now covering his torso is a black wife-beater. Around his waist he is wearing a bullet belt with two more makeshift bullet belts around his forearms. They look like two huge bullet covered wrist guards. The homemade leather guard on his right forearm is loaded with shotgun shells, while the other one spirals around his left forearm with rows of bullets for his pistol. Above his bullet-belted wrist guards, his arms are covered in tattoos. On his right shoulder, he has a rough looking tattoo of the earth with the word or in the center, while the word Predator curves above, and Prey, curves up below.

On his left shoulder he has a fresher looking tattoo of a clock-face with both the big and the little hand pointing at noon. Above the clock, he has the words Zero Hour and below it, Point Of No Return.

The desert is once again as silent as it ever was with only the rhythmic creak of that old shutter singing in the breeze. The Biker causally walks up to the entrance of the old diner. Sunlit from behind, his silhouette appears in the doorway casting a dark shadow inside. He pushes the fragile old door open revealing himself in his full glory. He stops for a moment and stands in the doorway as he drinks the interior view.

Directly ahead, there is a cash register on a tall counter with a ghost of man looking back at the Biker from beyond the ends of time. He is a wiry, thin, crow-faced Old Man who looks as if he has been dried out like a mummy by the incessant desert winds. He has a full head of white hair shading his little round crow’s eyes, which are now locked onto the Biker and waiting with anticipation.

The Biker stares the Old Man down, right through his silver covered eyes, but the Old Man seems immune to the chill in the Biker’s glare. He waits patiently without a word for the Biker to step up to his register, but instead, the Biker turns his head and follows the line of the counter on his right. Further down, behind the counter, there is an old waitress in her fifties, too absorbed fiddling about with something behind the counter, to look up at her new client. She is thin and her face is smeared in makeup as if all that colored goop could bring back those younger, prettier years.

There are six stools in front of the counter, all empty. Across the aisle, all along the wall next to the large windows, there are five tables with four chairs each. Only two of the tables are occupied, with a young couple at the third, and three men at the first, by the door.

The Biker steps into the place, allowing the door to noisily slam behind him. A shattering echo from its old and wobbly panes of glass cuts the room to silence. The young girl at the third table looks up while her boyfriend looks over his left shoulder. The same happens at the first table. The two local looking older cowboys facing the entrance look up, while the Man sitting across from them looks over his left shoulder. They inspect the cause of the noisy entrance, and all immediately react the same. They go suddenly silent, staring bug-eyed and nervous at this man, this Biker, and his menacing entrance. The Old Man’s eyes finally move as he looks the Biker up and down, and only now notices the Biker’s guns on his thighs. Careless and unconcerned, the bird-faced Old Man begins to speak, but with an accent and inflection even stranger than his features. It might be Cajun, but maybe not, but it is definitely weird sounding.

Aye there, buddy, you cain’t in bringing all-em guns in this here establishment. But the Biker turns and starts a slow studied walk down the isle ignoring the Old Man. The Biker stops and looks to his left over the counter. The Waitress has finally stopped doing whatever she was doing and looks up at the Biker with a hint of worry from beneath her layers of makeup.

I ain’t gonna tell you twice. The Old Man snaps at the Biker as the beast slowly walks on and away. You’d better go’to leave’em guns ot-there, else I’m-a have to-oto call the sheriff. The Old Man makes his point final and reaches for the grungy old 1980’s style phone receiver on his counter.

Continuing to ignore the Old Man, the Biker comes to a stop, still studying his environment. He turns back and looks at the first table by the entrance, at the Man facing the cowboys. He looks to be in his forties, is wearing a cheap suit, and somehow obvious he is trying to sell the older cowboys something. Their table is covered in a disorderly spread of papers and documents. The Biker turns his gaze down at the table next to him, at the young couple. They look about nineteen or twenty, young, attractive, and vulnerable. The Biker is standing just slightly behind the young man who is now sitting in quiet distress, looking down at the table top between his elbows, too nervous to look back at the Biker looming over his left shoulder. The Young Blonde is still looking up until the Biker catches her pretty blue eyes in his hard silver-glazed gaze. She instantly snaps her face away, matching her young boyfriend’s stare at the table between them. The Biker runs his eyes trough her pretty straight blond hair when suddenly the Old Man’s odd voice severs the eerie quietude of the diner again.

I warnd you. The Old Man’s odd accent cuts through the tension of the Biker’s scrutiny. He turns to the Old Man who is slowly, one by one, punching the buttons on that old fossil of a phone on his counter. It is the 21st century, yet this place, these people, this diner; all seem lost in another world and time.

The Old Man is mumbling to himself displeased as he dials and dials. The Biker swiftly, but casually, draws out his sawed off shotgun and BOOM! blows the base of the phone to dust leaving the Old Man hanging with a dead receiver in his hand.

Moans and groans of fear echo through the diner for a moment, but very quickly everyone freezes still after the Biker silences them with a sweep of the seating area with a wave of his gun. He turns completely around to face the crack-head looking Waitress and snaps her into attention with another wave of his gun.

I’m hungry. The Biker’s statement is final, strengthened by his deep guttural voice that is even harder and colder than his glare. But the Waitress is shaking, her face contorting, while her eyes are reddening with tears. She is too scared to move. The Biker encourages her with another wave of his gun pointing towards the griddle behind her.

Hey! Get to it, The Biker orders her one more time with his crunchy harsh voice.

The jittery Waitress turns around and starts banging and clanging the griddle as she nervously throws a hearty American bacon and eggs breakfast together.

The Old Man is still standing frozen with the dead receiver hanging in his hand. The diner is quiet, aside from the Waitress’ fidgety cooking technique. Everyone is silenced by fear. The Biker walks to the last table and forcefully drags it away from the wall, knocking its chairs about, and then places it in the middle of the aisle. He takes a seat dead center on the other side, facing into the diner, now with everyone is in his view. He casually drops his sawed-off on the table, and takes off his silver sunglasses, revealing a stone cold glare that could petrify even Medusa. He is face to face with the Young Man, and the sales rat in the cheap suit, both of whom hide their eyes by locking their glare to the table in front of them. The Biker places his elbows on his table, clasps his left fist in his right hand, leans forward looking over his clenched knuckles, and waits for his feast while slicing and dicing his prey with his icicle cold eyes.

The minutes start dragging like hours, yet no one utters a word. The only sounds come from the sizzling symphony of the bacon and eggs on the griddle. The Biker sits at his table like a mad sentinel without moving a hair, except his eyes. His eyes are gently scanning the room, going from person to person reading them as if they were open stories. The Old Man is still standing in the same spot, still holding the receiver near his face. The young couple are both staring down at the table in front of them, when; DING! the sharp sound of the metal spatula hitting the hotplate sends a shiver down the Young Man’s spine. He seems agitated, on the verge of rage. Across from the Young Man, the Young Blonde is gently sniffling, struggling to mask her tears and cries.

The fresh smell of scorching bacon permeates the room. At the last table, the two Cowboys are frozen stiff, but the Salesman is fumbling with his tie, loosening it, twisting it, adjusting it, while squirming in his seat and sweating up a storm, nearly in rhythm with the sizzling sounds of the bacon and eggs.

After another eternity, the Waitress finally smashes the dreaded tension as she runs out from behind the counter with a big plate of food. She clumsily drops it in front of the Biker and then stands there like a contorted wounded soldier waiting for her next order.

The Biker looks at his plate. He seems satisfied. He looks back up at the Waitress with his dreaded hard eyes. She immediately looks at the ground in front of her feet as his gaze cuts her soul to shreds. She is shaking, sniffling, nearly hyperventilating, and her smudged eyes are dripping tears. The Biker holds his deadly glare on her for a moment longer.

Where’s my drink? He finally makes a sound in a deep, but civilized tone.

Wa-wa-water? The Waitress barely manages to produce the sounds from under her sniffles.

Beer. A pitcher. The Biker responds politely, but still holding her hostage with is killer glare.

The Waitress bolts back around the counter, and just as she makes her turn, the Salesman stands up and begins to spastically gather his papers.

The Biker watches calmly as the sweaty, nervous man noisily fumbles and shuffles them chaotically into his briefcase with hands trembling, all the while mumbling unintelligible words to himself.

Sit down! The Biker’s sudden thundering voice blasts through the diner. The man instantly drops back on his seat as if controlled by a puppeteer, but an instant later starts to moan and groan like a three year old having a constrained fit, and then suddenly jumps back to his feet.

But-but, I-I-I have-have to go. I... The Salesman starts mumbling louder while waving his head side to side and continuing to messily stuff his briefcase.

Sit... Down! The Biker snaps with a harder louder tone.

I-I can’t-I can’t stay. I-I have to go… I... The man mumbles, shutting his case, and starts moving away from the table just as the Waitress pops out from behind the counter with a large pitcher of beer.

With lightning speed, the Biker picks up his sawed-off of the table and; POW! blasts a shell full of pellets across the Waitresses’ path peppering the cheap suited Salesman dead center in the middle of his back. Some bits of blood splash in the Old Man’s face, yet he does not even flinch, remaining standing in the same spot behind his register.

The Waitress, on the other hand, freezes in mid-motion on the spot, but the pitcher of beer continues on its momentum right out of her hands, arching downwards into an explosion of glass and beer on the greasy floor, a mere second after the Biker’s blast.

Squeals, shrieks, and the Waitress’ hyperventilated sobs momentarily fill the diner with sounds. The Biker’s hard eyes scan the room forcing instant quiet once again. Everyone is struggling with their mourning and fear, moaning and squealing, each in their own way trying to be as quiet as possible. Satisfied, the Biker waves his sawed-off towards the Waitress, getting her attention. With her back hunched, and face scrunched, she looks up at the calm monster sitting at her table. The Biker twirls the tip of his barrel at her in a circular motion. The Waitress bolts off her spot. Apparently, she got the message.

The Biker casually places his sawed-off next to his plate and starts eating his food, while the Salesman with the shotgun pellets in his back is convulsing in slow motion on the floor, dying. No one dares move, except for the Waitress who rushes back from behind the counter and slams a different pitcher of beer in front of the Biker, then stands on the spot awaiting her next order.

The Biker momentarily stops his chewing and looks up at her as if, ‘what the hell are you still doing here?’ but the Waitress is locked on the spot, staring at the ground in front of her feet and does not react to the Biker’s glare. He dismissively shoos her away with a wave of his right hand. She immediately steps back up against the counter and retakes her ‘ready to serve at any moment’s notice position’.

The Biker turns his attention back to his food. He sloppily eats bite after bite, mostly using his