Lone Wolf’s Run

Chapter 1 - Alabama Black Belt

Assume you’re invisible to others; be prepared with an escape plan.

—M.S.F.

It was the kind of morning predators love. Victims went about their tasks without fear, unaware of the dangers around them. When the screams of one were heard, the peaceful bliss changed into mindless panic.

A dense fog hung just above the ground before slowly dissipating, burnt off by the rising sun. Small whirls of mist appeared like miniature tornados above the pond next to the open field. Small creatures fed in the fields and woods nearby, lulled into a false sense of security by the shroud of mist. Coyotes, birds of prey, and other natural hunters searched for a final victim before heading back to their lairs to sleep and wait for the next darkfall.

This early on a weekday, there was no traffic on the isolated, unpaved road deep in the black-belt of southwestern Alabama. The humidity was making Big Jim sweat profusely as he finished changing the tire on the toy-hauler he was pulling behind Wolf’s truck. The musty smell of the surrounding landscape he usually enjoyed was overwhelmed by his own body odor. He would have preferred to limp along until he reached a paved parking lot, but he knew it was miles away outside the state park where he had spent the night.

Big Jim had known his friend, Wolf for decades. They had spent a lot of time on the road together, not only on motorcycles, but also in Big Jim’s truck pulling a bass boat. Lakes known for abundant large-mouth bass were numerous around his home and exterminating business in central Florida. Over the years they took advantage of this when Wolf was in the area, catching hundreds of healthy fish and even placing in several small tournaments.

Big Jim lived up to his name. Standing six-foot-eight with the stature of the football lineman he had been in the past, he spoke in a true southern Alabama manner. As good-humored as he was big, he was now a salesman who charmed customers with his wit and big-hearted generosity. Women were disarmed with his deep voice, pleasant laugh, and big smile. Most felt comfortable disclosing their innermost secrets and desires. He was an engaging listener.

His buddy would be distraught if anything harmed his prized motorcycle, protected inside the toy-hauler. His biker brother had spent over 150 thousand miles in the saddle of his faithful two-wheeled horse, a chrome-encrusted full bagger he had named Beast. The cruiser, a Vulcan Nomad 1600, had carried him all over the country with few mechanical issues. It even had some warrantee left. Big Jim’s own bike, a Harley-Davidson Road Glide, was secured inside alongside Beast.

Wolf, however, was already home. After acquiring a used 1999 Honda Valkyrie Touring Edition, he had taken it on a long check-out ride. The 1512cc bike was the first cousin to a Goldwing, but several hundred pounds lighter with a lower center of gravity, and chrome instead of plastic. The stock flat-6 engine generated almost 100 ft/lbs of torque with about the same horsepower. The bike was similar to his Vulcan in its paint scheme and overall appearance, leading him to name it ‘Super Beast’. If it had a fairing, it could easily pass for the Vulcan to unenlightened citizens.

As Big Jim stood up to stow the tire and jack, another truck pulling a similar sized toy-hauler went by. As he stood watching, the driver hit the brakes hard, turned into the cotton field along the road and began a tight u-turn. Big Jim heard the four-wheel drive being engaged as the truck bogged down in the loose dirt common in Alabama’s black belt. Being wary due to the past year’s experiences, he saw nothing good about the wanton destruction of crops in the field. He jumped in his truck and started the engine while monitoring the other rig, now less than a tenth of a mile away.

The mysterious truck reacquired the road surface and stopped. The unseen driver propped what could be the barrel of a gun out of the window. Big Jim pulled out his Glock and placed it in his lap. He picked up his camera and zoomed in on the driver and felt a chill as his brain registered the identity of the truck’s driver. He snapped a shot and waited. He saw smoke wafting from the other truck’s window, and then watched as the truck accelerated rapidly towards him.

Big Jim instinctively knew that the faster they passed, the less chance the killer would have for an accurate shot. He floored the gas pedal and closed the gap quickly. As a collision seemed imminent, he saw the face of the driver clearly. Then his world exploded around him.

Reflexes alone caused him to veer to the right, barely avoiding the collision. As the truck plowed into the soft soil at the edge of the cotton field, the front bumper collided with, then bounced over a large stump. As the airbag deployed, the stump ripped out the rear differential and slowed the truck before the trailer bounced up and landed squarely on top of it. As the rig came to a halt, all was still. The stump protruded into the kitchen area of the trailer as a cloud of dust boiled up around the whole rig.

He was blinded by the blood in his eyes streaming from the multiple lacerations to his face and scalp by glass and ricocheting buckshot pellets. Still stunned by the airbag exploding in his face, he did not move at first. Gas saturated the ground and began to pool beneath the gaping hole in the truck’s gas tank. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. As the vision in one eye cleared, he saw his attacker, her lips curled in a sinister smile as she stood beside the truck, a lighted Zippo in her hand.

His mind registered the pungent odor of gas and he began to claw at the seatbelt while pushing at his jammed door. As he watched in horror, the huge black leather-clad woman gave him a one-finger salute and tossed the lighter under the truck and walked away. Flames immediately shot up around the bed of the truck.

He desperately began to kick and slam his shoulder against the door. As his mind began to focus, he felt a burning sensation from his right eye and the back of his head. Ignoring the pain, he slid over and attacked the other door. It popped open after a kick of his powerful leg, and he stumbled out.

Foremost in his mind was Wolf’s bike. He lurched toward the rear of the toy hauler, determined to save both bikes from the flames. As the vision in his one good eye began to blur, two pairs of strong hands grasped his arms and led him away towards the road. He could hear the voices of bikers as they struggled to free the restrained bikes.

“Save Beast,” he yelled as he lost contact with the world around him, going into cardiac arrest next to the group of motorcycles parked alongside the road.