Kevan Manwaring's Blog: The Bardic Academic, page 13

William Burroughs

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KOIL rides shotgun for the NAA

Our kickass President is sticking it to those bleeding heart liberals by hugely increasing spending on the military, in particular his own special forces: the Jötun. The president has siphoned off funds from all those pointless green energy initiatives to ramp up investment in patriotic arms manufacturers, supporting jobs for the boys back home – rather than handing over hard-earned American taxpayers money to slitty-eyed gooks or shitskins. His plans have received the blessing of the National Arms Association. A spokesman said: ‘It’s about time a president got our back. We’re tired of being pussy-whipped by those faggot cowards. We need a strong president and a strong country in these dangerous times. Americans have a God-given right to defend themselves. It’s in the Constitution.’ One of the beneficiaries of this investment is the Bible-belt based arms company, Mistletoe. Their CEO, Donny Swoop, said: ‘We praise the Good Lord for this windfall. Every one of our bullets comes with a special blessing from Mistletoe’s very own resident Minister, and a little, deadly message for every enemy of God’s Own Country. As our motto goes: “We Aim To Please”.’ Mistletoe bullets have become the best-selling brand, with WalMart reporting record sales, and with Amazing, the world’s largest online retailer, providing rapidrone delivery on all weaponry, since the legislation prohibiting the sale of firearms has been lifted by the Koil Administration, no patriotic citizen need to run out of ammo. When you’ve emptied your clip into a crowd of deviants you know what to do. Just ‘Ask Santa’ via your Nippletm.

Chapter 12: William Burroughs

‘So, what do you make of that, hey Red?’ asked Blitzen as they wrestled with the tent in the wind. They were striking camp and the beach was bristling with activity, heightened by the strong winds blowing, and waves thundering onto the sands.

‘The Gods got woke!’ joked Dash. ‘Woah! Nearly took off there!’

They all leapt on top of the fly sheet before it was whipped away. Laughing, they started to roll it inwards, as Eddy tried to put his thoughts in order. In truth he didn’t know what to make of it. It all seemed so surreal. And yet he’d experienced that burst of light when Rig had blown the horn; and more intimately than that, in making love with Fenja he had tasted of that ambrosia himself. He had seen her effect the gas pumps, blast out icy air, look at him with those eyes… She was a goddess to him, whether divine or not. Sadly, he’d seen little of her since the ‘wake up call’ as everyone was calling it. The committee had a lot to attend to, not least their remembered roles, as Gods of the Norse. Being a God must be very busy, thought Eddy.

‘Hey, spaceman! Ground control here!’

‘Oh, sorry. Miles away. Yeah, it’s something, ain’t it? I always thought that lot had something about them, y’know?’

‘Yeah, B.O.!’ joked Dash.

‘But bikers, even larger-than-life ones, to old Viking gods … it’s a bit of a leap, isn’t it?’

‘But look around you, Red. Does this look normal to you?’ argued Blitzen, indicating the wild weather. ‘We live in crazy times. Who knows what is possible anymore? Everything is up in the air! Watch out!’

They all ducked as a gazebo careered by, chased by some red-faced bikers.

‘You’re right. And whatever the truth of it, I think we all need to tap into the best of ourselves to survive this. We all need to be woke.’

‘I need coffee, that’s for sure!’ quipped Dash.

With relief, they managed to squeeze the tent into its bag and zip it closed, just about. They loaded it on the bike trailer, and bungeed it secure.

‘Locked and loaded,’ said Blitzen. ‘Let’s see if there’s any caffeine to be had in the mess tent, before that blows away too!’

As the three friends approached the mess tent they could see something was going on. A crowd of bikers, who should have been sorting out their kit, had gathered round. Every now and then a cheer would go up.

‘The coffee must be good this morning!’ said Dash. ‘Perhaps they’re offering free donuts?’ His eyes lit up at the prospect.

When they finally pushed close enough to see, it wasn’t what Eddy had expected. The Hammer was showing off her reawakened strength, lifting up the industrial oven single-handedly, with two bikers dangling off either end, as the onlookers cheered on.

‘I always knew she was a beefcake, but…’ Blitzen blew out his cheeks.

‘Arnie eat your heart out!’ said Dash, joining in the cheers.

The crowds opposite suddenly parted as Balder stepped into the circle. He looked even more resplendent than usual – almost dazzling in comparison to the gloom of the day. While most of the bikers wore dark colours – black leather cuts, fading t-shirts, oil-stained jeans – he was resplendent in a white shirt, billowing beneath his waistcoat. His pale skin seemed to radiate light.

‘Sorry to be killjoy here, buddies. But … Hey, Hammer, quit goofing around! We need to get this camp taken down and be on our way before sundown.’

The Hammer, still holding the oven and the bikers, turned to him and feigned co-operation. ‘Sure, Baldy. No time for fooling about.’ But then she gave him a hard shove with her free hand, which sent Balder flying into a table, knocking over a load of coffee.

Everybody roared.

Balder slowly got up and brushed himself down. His pristine shirt was stained with coffee.

‘Oooooo….’ went the crowd.

‘That’s it! You knucklehead!’ Balder fumed.

The Hammer dropped the oven, whump into the sand – sending the two bikers flying – and cricked her neck. ‘What did you call me?’

Balder squared up to the woman, who towered above him. ‘Get on with striking the camp!’ he shouted, all his easy-going composure lost.

There was a beat, then The Hammer gave him her right hook. Everybody winced, but Balder just smiled, none the worse. ‘Is that the best you can do?’

The Hammer growled, and laid into him with everything she had – but Balder just stood there, laughing.

‘Don’t you know, knucklehead? I’m invulnerable. Nothing can harm me!’

Just at that moment, somebody decided to throw a bottle, and it smashed on the back of his head. Balder sighed wearily, and just brushed the shards from his hair like it was a cobweb. This was an open invite – and suddenly the air was full of missiles raining down upon Balder, who just stood there, taking it all like it was a slightly irritating hailstorm, but nothing more than that.

The Hammer just stood with her lump-hammer fists on her hips, laughing.

‘William Burroughs! Let’s play William Burroughs!’ somebody piped up.

‘What’s that?’ asked Eddy, turning to his buddies.

‘It’s a bit like William Tell, but with a loaded gun,’ said Blitzen.

There was general consent about this suggestion – everyone slightly bosky, with the wild wind and the extraordinary revelations – and a firearm was found.

The Hammer checked in with Balder. ‘You okay about this?’

‘Sure, nothing in the nine worlds can harm me. Go ahead.’ He stood back, and pulled open the top of his shirt, revealing the pale skin of his chest.

‘Hey, let his brother do it!’ shouted someone else, Eddy couldn’t see who.

There were growls of approval from the pumped-up crowd. ‘Yeah! Holder? We need Holder!’

Eddy turned to his mates. ‘Balder’s got a brother?’

‘Sure, he’s a bit of an introvert – complete opposite of that poseur,’ commented Blitzen. ‘We don’t see much of him. The quiet type, y’know. Ach, here he is!’

The brother was pushed into the circle with encouraging cheers.

‘Hold on a mo – he’s … blind!’

‘Details!’ grinned Dash. ‘Will make the whole game even more fun! Watch this!’

The Hammer stepped forward. ‘Holder, we’re playing William Tell with your irritating brother. Do you fancy firing a loaded gun at him!’

‘Sure! He was always insufferable – now he’s even worse! Where is it?’

The crowd cheered and The Hammer placed the weapon in his hand. Standing behind him, he pointed the brother in Balder’s direction. Everybody behind and to the side stood right back, as Holder’s lifted the gun up.

‘Left a bit, right a bit … that’s it. Fire!’

There was a deafening bang and Eddy gasped as he saw Balder crumple to the ground. Chaos erupted.

‘What’s going on?’ said Holder, standing there with the weapon loose in his grip, it’s barrel still smoking. The cordite in the air mixed with the brine. The wind howled even wilder than before, and the waves pounded the beach in fury.

The Hammer cradled Balder in her lap, weeping. ‘What have we done?’

Balder looked up at the darkening sky. ‘I … thought … I was meant to be …’ The light went from his eyes, and he went limp.

The strange micro-climate on the beach went out like a light.

There was a rumble of thunder directly overhead, then lightning split the black lid of sky apart, as though ‘God had just taken a Polaroid’, as his sister used to say. The dismal scene stood out, momentarily, in blanched starkness.

‘What’s happening?’ called out Holder. ‘Don’t keep me in the dark here, guys!’

‘Holder, it’s your brother. You … He’s…’ spoke a biker hoarsely.

Everyone looked on aghast.

‘Balder? Balder!’

***

Extract from Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

Keep reading

NEXT CHAPTER

Woke

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PATRIOT NEWS

REPORTS OF WMD ACTIVITY FROM THE BRITISH ISLES

NORAD announced an unprecedented multispectral pulse of energy detected on their monitoring system, its epicentre confirmed to be within the Isle of Man, a crown protectorate of the United Kingdom. It is suspected that a weapon of mass destruction has been tested there, which the UK government strongly denies. No footage or eye-witness reports have come in yet, although we can safely assume US defence satellites would have captured the blast. President Koil tweeted ‘If they’ve got big guns, we’ve got bigga!’

Chapter 11: Woke

Eddy opened his eyes slowly, wincing at the light, though the sky was dark, the day as grey as steel. Thunder rumbled over head, threatening to rip the world apart – this he felt more than he heard. It made his whole body vibrate. A wind howled around him, going by the accoutrements of the dig being blown across the hill fort – tents; tables; plastic sheeting; signs. Everything was muffled, nearly drowned out by a persistent whine. He tried to sit up and groaned. He appeared to be twenty feet from where he last recalled standing. There had been a blinding flash. Then … How much time had elapsed? Where was everybody?

Painfully, he got to his feet – it was hard in the strong, urgent wind to stand upright. He pulled his jacket tight around. It had suddenly got biting on Chapel Hill, exposed as it was the southwest. The seascape looked decidedly apocalyptic – lightning cracked the darkness open, X-raying the clouds. Far below, the sea surged like a wild beast.

The marquee was still standing, just – guy ropes thrumming like double-bass strings. Eddy struggled towards it, as though wading through deep water. He ducked as a transparent plastic tool-box shot passed his head, snatched up by the wind like a Lego-brick.

Inside, he saw the archaeologist and his team cowering. They visibly flinched when they saw him.

‘I’m sorry!’ he shouted, probably louder than he realised.

Of One-Eye, the others, and the horn, there was no sign. What the Hell had happened? This was no time to ponder. ‘Get off the hillside!’ he bellowed. ‘It’s not safe!’

They looked terrified. He pointed down the hill side and mimed ‘shelter’.

He could do no more and turned to leave.

When he finally made it back to the lane he discovered only his bike remained. A car had been blown over and had narrowly missed crushing it. He got on, and started her up. It wasn’t going to be any fun riding back in this gale, but he had no choice. Holding on with all of his strength, Eddy made his way onto the lane back to Peel as lightning pole-axed the hillside.

It was a hairy ride back, to say the least, as Eddy dodged fallen trees, flying wheelie bins, and crashed cars in his way. Fortunately there was no other traffic on the road. Nobody in their right mind would be out in this … but then Eddy knew he had forsaken that status since missing his flight from Aberdeen.

            All for the love of a frost giant’s daughter…

By the time he reached the town he was dripping sweat from the effort, but relieved to be amongst the shelter of the stone buildings temporarily. The town had weathered many a hoolie, and was taking it all in its stride, so far. The squat, dark buildings seemed to hunker down. The castle could hardly been seen in the squall. Only the eruption of waves against its seawalls delineated it now and then. He half expected the camp to be blown away, but it was still there, and as soon as Eddy rode down the ramp the wind and rain dropped away. Sunlight burst through in a corona of rainbow and it seemed like he had ridden into another country.

The atmosphere in the camp had changed dramatically – from one of Bacchanalia to reverence. The main marquee had now become a kind of temple, with bikers lining up to pay tribute to the inhabitants, who sat upon their chairs as though they were thrones.

After the intense gloom, the bright colours made him squint. He passed one of the Elders – the tall, regal woman in her white leathers and fur. She seemed even more dazzling than usual – indeed the sunlight seemed to emanate from her directly. By her side stood her pale-faced shadow-cloaked companion, who basked in her glow, radiating his own silver effulgence.

A beautiful bald-headed man walked amongst the dark-clad bikers in a pristine white shirt and waist-coat, laughing with a man in shades, wielding a walking stick of pale wood – whom he guided with a light hand upon his shoulder.

Something weird had happened, that was for sure.

Eddy pulled up on the hard-standing and killed the engine – laying a hand on the tank, he thanked the stolen bike. It had got him back in one piece. His hearing had started to clear. There was drumming – slow and deep – and a Georgian choir-like effect, accompanied by pulsing guitars and synths from the club band. The air was thick with incense, smoke and blood. Eddy looked on, astonished, at big, tattooed bikers, fallen to their knees, weeping, heads back, arms raised in worship. He even spotted Cruz there, crossing herself again and again.

What on Earth had blowing that horn done?

With dread fascination, he approached the marquee. Strange lights danced around it, like a mini Aurora Borealis.

He stepped through this veil and beheld the committee. They looked exactly as they did before, and yet there was a different demeanour about them. They carried themselves more nobly and a light seemed to emanate from them.

‘Ah, you made it back, Red. Good! We thought you had been blown away!’ Rig smiled, standing proudly to one side of the ‘thrones’. He bore the horn on his back, attached by a leather-braided strap.

‘I nearly was! That blew away the cobwebs, for sure! But what’s going on here?’

‘You’re not in Kansas anymore, Eddy Redcrow!’ boomed One Eye, and they all laughed.

Eddy looked at the President – still the pot-bellied, grey-bearded larger-than-life biker, but something about him looked … kingly. ‘Does that make you the Wizard of Oz now?’

One Eye looked at him with his glittering eye, as keen as an eagle’s: ‘Perhaps,’ he smiled, raising his tankard. ‘But then you must be Dorothy!’

Everybody roared at this.

They were all there: The Hammer; Rig; Tear; Honer; Niggard … all now with a new energy about them. Not scrubbed up – but a power still shone through the grime.

‘Come sit with us, drink. You have earned a place here, Hornfinder.’

Uneasily, Eddy sat at one end of the bench, which lined the sides of the marquee, framing the central ‘high table’.

He was greeted warmly by fellow patches – a horn of mead thrust into his hand. He diplomatically raised it first to the committee. ‘Hail to our … President … Not sure what to call you anymore?’ he called out.

‘Oh, One Eye will do. I have been known by many names through the ages.  What need do we have of formality at the end of the world? Our names will no longer matter, only our deeds.’

Fists thumped upon the benches in agreement.

‘We have been slumbering for too long,’ spoke One Eye. ‘We have let our true power smoulder. But we shall smoor the hearth no longer! The final battle is coming and we must make ready! The signs in the sky, in the sea, in the land, are clear. Ragnarok is upon us! The crone’s prophecy has come to pass. Brother fights brother. It is a gun age, a bomb age. Our enemies circle near – but the Devil’s Hogs are mere cockroaches. We will shirk from the lesser skirmishes, but we must be prepared to fight the greater. The President of the West is our nemesis – he does everything in his power to bring about the destruction of the nine worlds.’

Eddy’s mind reeled. Koil? Was One-Eye talking about the president of the USA? He was a gold-plated ass-hole, for sure; and had some questionable friends, but surely…

‘Koil is the one god who didn’t go to sleep,’ One Eye continued. ‘But finally, we have awoken from our centuries of slumber … Hugin! Munin!’ He shook his head, and the tattoos on either side of his skull came alive.

Eddy blinked as two ravens suddenly hopped onto the president’s shoulders, cronking and stretching their wings of folded night before settling down.

One Eye made a twisting gesture with his ringed fingers and from the eyes of one of the ravens beams shot, splitting the smoky shadows. He whistled and from the other raven came sounds to match those images.

Eddy watched in wonder at the flickering kaleidoscope of newspapers, newsreels, websites, social media, CCTV footage, and satellite images, flashing onto the walls of the marquee. Images stretching throughout history of conflict, warfare, pollution, hate crimes, corruption. One Eye snapped his fingers and all at once the swirling montage froze on the face of a man, at times a captain of industry, a politician, a media mogul … appearing in paintings, engravings, grainy photographs and footage from over the centuries to slick corporate portraits of the present day – different at first glance, but as the images enlarged, zooming in on the eyes, Eddy noticed the similarity.

The eyes, they all shared the same pair of eyes, gleaming with malevolent amusement.

One Eye laughed bitterly. ‘I can see it so clearly now my true sight has been restored. He has blinded us all, but no more! Koil is none other than our beloved Loki. What better job for the old trickster god himself than the President of the most powerful nation on Earth? And if half of them had known his true nature they would have voted for him twice over. He marshals all the forces of chaos and destruction at this end of times, and we must be ready to meet him in the field of battle.’

His head spinning, Eddy staggered from the tent. Falling to his knees, he gulped down the icy air. A familiar pair of killer boots stepped before him. He looked up and beheld Fenja, who stood there before him, her skin glistening with frost.

‘Is it … is it true?’ he gasped.

She gazed down at him with her fox-fire eyes. ‘Yes, all of it.’

***

Extract of Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

Keep reading…

NEXT CHAPTER

The Horn

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THE MANX HERALD

VIKING HORN FOUND IN RECENT EXCAVATION

The Manx Archaeological Trust have just announced a “potentially major discovery” at the latest excavation currently underway at Barradoole, site of the famous Viking ‘ship burial’. Dr Mark Webster, director of the dig, said: ‘One of my student volunteers called me over on the last day, saying “Hey Mark, I think I’ve found something…” She certainly had – with great care I took over. After lots of painstaking effort, a magnificent decorated horn was revealed. We’re currently cleaning it, but it looks at least 10th Century and is remarkably intact. We’re very excited about this, but don’t want to make any grand claims until further analysis has been undertaken.’  Experts from The British Museum are due to be joining the team shortly, their arrival delayed by the cancelled flights and extremely busy ferries. If the horn proves to be genuine, it could be a real boost for the island. The Governor’s Office emphasised that any such finds remain the property of the Manx government and must remain upon the island. Staff at the museums in Douglas and Peel are obviously keen to see the discovery and to help with conservation. General public are advised to stay away from the excavation. A temporary exhibition will be opened once the dig is complete and the area declared safe.

Chapter 10: The Horn

Life in the camp continued as usual for the next couple of days – the endless boozing, macho games and male-bonding, punch-ups and punishments, street wheelies and beach donuts, the tinkering and polishing of bikes – albeit with a rota to keep watch for the inevitable ‘pay back’, courtesy of the Devil’s Hogs.

At the daily ‘Camp Thing’ – a rowdy club meeting meant to attend to the business of the day – it was argued vehemently by Tear and his followers that ‘attack was the best form of defence’.

‘Strike down the bastards while they’re sleeping off the grog!’ he growled, smashing his fist down and sending flagons flying. ‘A pre-dawn raid. Go in, guns blazing. Take out the high command. Cut off the fat fucking hog’s head!’

Fists banged on the tables.

‘Maybe we shouldn’t be so rash, ‘scuse the pun!’ beamed Balder, leaping up onto a bench.

The mood was surly, but everyone loved Balder, so it seemed to Eddy. He was the golden one, always adding a positive comment, a joke, a kind gesture. He was like a ray of light in a cave.

‘If we slaughter the Hogs, then what message does that send to the other gangs? To their allies? Before we know it, we’d be fighting off enemies on all fronts. It’ll be total war.’

There were grunts of approval at this.

Tear stood up again, bristling. ‘Maybe we need a good war, to purge the weak from the world!’

Some roared in agreement.

‘You can fight all you like, I prefer a cold beer and a hot woman in my arms!’ smiled Balder, and the tension eased with the laughter.

The Hammer suddenly stood unsteadily to her feet – ‘Me too!’ She hiccupped and collapsed back on the bench. The tent exploded in merriment.

Tear and Balder eyed each other uneasily, but both sat back down.

Then Rig got up to say his piece. ‘Whether we attack or not, that’s up to the president, but I agree with Sarge that we do need to be ready. We badly need some discipline around here. We don’t want the Hogs to catch us with our pants down.’ Crude laughter and heckles from the floor, but Rig let it subside. ‘Make sure your bike is road-fit, and make sure you are too. I suggest no more partying until we’ve dealt with this threat. I know, I know. It pains me too! I like a beer as much as the next man, and I could drink half of you under the table—’ He was interrupted by friendly jeers from the floor. ‘But, come on guys. Let’s get real here for a moment. The Hogs could come round that corner at any minute, guns blazing. So let’s make sure we give them the welcome they deserve. Bikes tuned. Weapons loaded. And heads clear.’

Fists pounded the tables at this, then turned to One Eye, who had sat silently, watching it all, with a slightly amused expression on his face. He got up, stretching his back with a groan. ‘Heed your road captain, you miscreants. Rig once again talks sense. No more partying until this fight is done. Get your shit together. Inspection at noon. Meeting over. Now, where’s that coffee?’ The president looked bleary-eyed this morning, rubbing his grizzled face. He caught Eddy’s gaze momentarily but it was hard to read his expression.

He walked from the tent with relief into the fresh air. Were these really the old gods of the Norse? It was hard not to see them for just a bunch of ageing bikers who had turned a midlife crisis into a lifestyle, sadly clinging onto former glories and all that ‘born to be wild’ bullshit? Didn’t they notice, it wasn’t the Sixties anymore, nor the Seventies or Eighties for that matter. It was a new century, one that already was soaked in blood. The only myths and legends anymore were to be found on social media, where gods were raised and destroyed every day. 

Eddy wandered to the groyne at the far end of the beach, away from the worst of the noise. The tide had turned and the sea was lively this morning. A restless energy was in the air. He sat down and pulled out his cell. He hadn’t checked his messages since he’d got to Man.

‘Fuck!’

There were about twenty from his sister.

He groaned, and scanned through them: concern quickly turning into vexation, then anger, rage, and fury. By the end it was a full on hurricane of spleen. Eddy held it at arm’s length, wincing as he read them.

Time to face the music! He pressed speed-dial and waited for his sis to pick up.

Finally, the call was answered. Eddy realised with a pang of guilt that it was very early over there.

‘Big sis! How’s it going?’

The line was crackly at first – a blizzard of white noise breaking up the voice on the other end.  ‘Eddy? Eddy, is that you? You muvvafukka—’

‘Good Morning to you, beloved sister! Nice to hear your dulcet tones! Sorry for waking you!’

‘Shut up, scumbag, before I throw this cell across the room! Where the Hell have you been? What happened to that flight? We waited at the fucking airport! For three fucking hours!’

‘Ah, I’m sorry about that. Really am. I decided to go to the Isle of Man.’

‘The Isle of Man? Is that code for a biker bar somewhere? You sound like you’ve been on a bender for days.’

‘Well…’ He realised he had. You need to sober up, Eddy! ‘You see, I met this girl…’

‘Met a girl? You was with a girl! On holiday together! Remember! She’s back home now and wondering what happened to you? She was seriously pissed with you, but even she was starting to worry. Mom and Dad have been beside themselves. I’ve tried to reassure them that Eddy, y’know, he’s just on one of his “vision quests”, the usual shit. Never again!’

‘I’m so sorry, sis, I really am. But she’s really special, this one. I’ve found … the one!’

‘I don’t care if you’ve found Poca-fucking-hontas. What you’ve done is inexcusable. All it would’ve taken was a message or two – just to let us know you hadn’t been killed by a falling plane or something!’

Eddy laughed. ‘A falling plane. That’s a new one. Who do you think I am, Donnie Darko?’

‘You jerk! Haven’t you been watching the news?’

‘Err, no. Been a little bit pre-occupied.’

‘The volcanic eruption threw up so much material into the jet-stream it closed…’

‘I know, sis, that’s why I had to ride across fucking EuroDisney…’

‘But a Russian jumbo ignored the warnings, and its engines got clogged up. It crashed, losing all of its passengers and crews. Hundreds. All over the news…’

‘Jeez!’

‘And now there have been reports of earthquakes along the mid-Atlantic ridge and warnings of tsunamis all along the Atlantic seaboard, and you’re on a fucking island! Nothing to worry about, Eddy! Sure! Why not top up your tan? Hang out on the beach all day.’

Eddy looked about him at the camp. ‘Ummm. Thanks for the heads-up sis, I’ll … head for high ground. Listen, I’ve got to go. But it’s been good talking. I miss your well-intentioned nagging. And you’re cooking. Say love to Mom, Pops and Gramps for me. Love to you, big sis! Bye!’

He ended the call, and looked nervously out at the water – restless with white caps this morning. Perhaps he should tell the others? Surely, there would be a local warning, if anything like that was on the horizon? He vowed to check the local news and weather.

First, another cup of joe.

Over a steaming mug, Eddy flicked through the Manx news website, eyes glazing over at the dreary items about traffic regulations, changes in bylaws, planning applications, and closures of public services. There was a mildly interesting debate on its forum about the hordes of bikers currently on the island: ‘The Gathering: gain or pain?’ Some argued that it was an important boost to the tourist economy, which had slumped in recent years due to the foul weather and cheap flights to the Med; others, that it drove tourists away, and the policing and clear-up costs cancelled out any benefits. Eddy was all too familiar with being labelled a ‘menace to society’. Sure, some bikers at the extreme end of the spectrum – the nutters with a death wish, the neo-Nazi biker gangs and crime syndicates – were; but the majority were, well, middle-aged wannabe rebels. North of forty Sunday anarchists. The ninety-nine percenters. Eddy realised, with a wry smile, that he was now officially one of the one-percenters, being a patched-up member of an outlaw bike club. He didn’t feel any different inside. There were some things he wouldn’t do – knowingly kill a man, for instance; but some laws were just for the sheep to follow. Crowd control for the supine populace. He was, by nature, a wolf.

He couldn’t see anything ‘tsunami warnings’ – just increasingly foul weather on the way – and he was about to browse another site, something more exciting, when a minor news item caught his eye: ‘Viking horn found in recent excavation’. He tapped on it, and read the article with increasing interest.

Eddy’s heart beat like an overwound drummer monkey. Maybe it was just too much caffeine, but he felt strangely excited by this. He had to tell the committee! He got up and walked over to the main marquee. Despite the semblance of activity in the camp, as the rank and file made ready for the midday inspection, most of the ‘old gods’ were dozing, still sleeping off last night’s binge. The pervading smell was one of hops, body odour and farts. Behold, the Aesir! Eddy smiled. So much for being battle-ready…

As he went to enter, the massive slab of Honer appeared from the wings and placed a firm hand on his chest. ‘Do not disturb, wetpatch.’

‘I’ve got some news I think they’ll like to hear.’

The tailgunner gave him a sceptical look from beneath his furious eyebrows. ‘Tell me, I’ll decide.’

Eddy took a step back. ‘I’ll … wait.’

‘Let him in.’

It was Fenja, emerging from the back of the tent. She wore a t-shirt and jeans as though they had been painted on her.

‘It’d better be good.’ Honer breathed, letting him pass.

Eddy stepped into the marquee. Catching Fenja’s warm gaze, like a steaming geyser by a glacier, he nodded thanks.

‘What is it?’ she asked, softly.

‘There’s been a discovery that I think this lot would like to know about…’ He showed her the article and her aurora borealis eyes widened in the gloom of the tent.

‘Hey, ass-ears, wake up!’

Groans, slight stirrings, further snoring.

‘I said WAKE UP!’ Fenja bellowed with a voice that could wake the dead. An icy cloud blasted from her mouth, shocking the groggy sleepers out of their post-session slumber.

Eddy stepped back, freaked out as much by Fenja as the imminent wrath of the committee.

‘Nidhug’s knackers, woman! Can’t a fellow catch forty winks around here!’ groaned One Eye.

‘There is something important that you really need to see…’

Fenja chucked him the phone, which Tear snatched out of the air with lightning reflexes.

‘Hey, that’s my phone, by the way!’ Eddy grumbled, but they all ignored him.

The sergeant-at-arms checked out the site with his cold, dark eyes, nodding. ‘She’s right.’

Eddy rode near the front of the column of bikes as they roared south to Barradoole. As the ‘discoverer’ he was afforded a certain status within the pack, although as Tear was keen to point out that it was only ‘temporary’. The majority of the club had been ordered to stay behind, to guard the camp, with Frey in charge, backed up by The Hammer. The rest of the committee were with One Eye, as he led them towards the site.

The sky was dark – it was always dark these days since the eruption – and it was distinctly chilly, certainly feeling less like early July and more like early autumn. No doubt One Eye would think it was to do with Jormungandr shedding its scaly skin or some such, smiled Eddy.

It felt good to be moving, to be doing something, instead of just drinking beer or sharpening knives. And all the target practice was making his ears ring. Too many guns are unhealthy for a man’s constitution. What kind of club had he got himself involved with? Grand theft auto, homicide, possession of illegal weapons, and dizzying delusions of grandeur too boot! The really wrong crowd, his sis would say.

They passed the sign for Barradoole, and turned onto a narrow country lane which finally came to a terminus in a slightly wider gravelled area that no doubt normally served as an adequate car-park for the odd visitor, but today, already over-run with a couple of landrovers, a minibus and a van, couldn’t cope with the influx of fifty bikers. For a while it was chaos, as the bikers parked wherever they could, gridlocking the lane. The road captain ensured the Elders had a clear passage, and bellowed at the tailgunner down the line: ‘Guard the exit; keep it clear!’

 To increasing profanity as leather-clad bikers (none of them on the slim or agile side, Fenja and Eddy being the exception) squeezed through a kissing gate, they followed the brown heritage sign bearing the legend ‘Burial Site’. Eddy had read about the remarkable Viking ship burial and couldn’t believe he was actually visiting it. Like many, he initially thought a whole longship had been buried there, in the small village on the south of the island, but eventually realised it was a symbolic ship, demarcated by stones, in which the burials had taken place. 

Silence descended amongst the ranks after a snarl from Rig, as they made along the footpath winding its way over the hillside.

‘An Iron Age hillfort,’ observed Niggard, the club treasurer who also was a bit of a prehistory anorak, as it turned out. ‘The Viking burial is on top of a Christian site and nearby Anglo-Saxons cysts. It is possibly a deliberate repurposing of the site, and yet the earlier graves weren’t destroyed. Were they hedging their bets, or just wanted to use the dramatic location?’

As the view towards the sea in the southwest appeared over the brow of the hill, Eddy had to agree with that – it was a dramatic backdrop, looking towards the setting sun, or, in this case, a vast sky of dark cloud, like anvils ready to fall. Up ahead they say a marquee, a couple of gazebos with tables, and a portaloo. Behind a taped off area, a group of scruffy students went about the dig, sporting hi-viz tabards over their fleeces and hoodies, supervised by a man in a Barbour with an Indiana Jones hat, a thick beard and glasses, holding a mug while scrutinising a tablet. When he saw the approaching bikers, he dropped his mug, drenching his leg in tea. ‘Ouch! Fuck it!’ He unsuccessfully tried to sponge it dry with a couple of paper towels and gave up. Taking a deep breath, he came towards them, waving his hands. ‘Sorry! No public! We’re not allowing visitors yet. Come back in a couple of days.’

One Eye gave him a broad smile. ‘No problem then. We’re not the public!’ He nodded to his warriors, who broke through the tape and circle the pit.

‘Hey, you can’t do that!’ spluttered the man, identified by his badge as Mark Webster, Manx Archaeological Trust, by his site ID. ‘Maggie, call the police!’

Tear placed a mailed hand upon his shoulder. ‘I wouldn’t do that, if you know what is good for you and your students.’

‘We just want a look, that’s all. You could say we’re enthusiasts,’ beamed One Eye.

Webster went pale, and licked his suddenly very dry lips. ‘Maybe hang on two ticks, Mags.’

The young assistant frowned, thumb hovering over the mobile phone.

‘That’s the spirit!’ grinned One-Eye, showing his fearsome dental work. ‘Now, talk us through it!’ He placed a hand like a baseball mitt on Webster shoulder.

‘Umm, well.’ The archaeologist took his glasses off, which had become steamed up, and gave them an ineffectual polish, hands shaking. ‘Let’s see. We dug a test trench…’

‘Just cut to the chase,’ One Eye winked.

‘This is quite unusual… Mm. We discovered the artefact two days ago … Knew it was a mistake, sending that press release. The site in and around the ship grave has been thoroughly excavated, but I won a grant to do a geophys of the whole hillfort. I wasn’t expecting to find anything earth-shattering, but you live in hope.’

His students watched on, nervously. Some were clearly uncomfortable at the lascivious gazes of the bikers.

‘Well, as luck would have it… The nearby quarry – that gopping eyesore over there…’ He pointed to the massive ‘bite’ taken out of the hillside. ‘Destabilised the edge of the fort. After recent heavy rains there was a landslip and a new burial was unearthed – an older burial beneath the current one, predating the Viking, Christian, and Saxon. Even the hill fort itself!’

Webster walked One Eye and his party to the marquee. Eddy tagged along and was apparently tolerated, although Tear gave him a look like he was something he’d picked up on his Grinders.

‘And that’s when we found this…’ Webster eyes gleamed as he showed them the finds table. ‘Well, technically, Zoe over there found it.’

A speccy, gangly girl gave a shy wave.

‘Though I was the one who excavated it, so joint credit. She’ll certainly be a co-author … or one of the authors … in the article for Archaeology Today…’

Tear bared his studded teeth and hissed.

Webster coughed, and, shaking, pulled back the plastic cover from the polystyrene holding case.

One-Eye’s one good eye widened, and Eddy strained to have a look as the club-members crowded in.

‘It has been precisely dated yet. The stratigraphy is somewhat scrambled from the landslip. The dates it suggests are … crazy. Palaeolithic…’ Webster could see their eyes coveting the jewel-encrusted metalwork. ‘Yet the style suggests late Viking, ninth or tenth century.’ He scratched his head. ‘It just doesn’t make sense.’

‘May I…’ One Eye went to reach for it.

‘Hold your nelly, it can’t be…’ A dozen knives were at Webster’s throat. He tried to gulp.

‘Don’t worry, I’m wearing gloves.’ One Eye picked it up, as the students gasped. He turned it gently over in his leathered hands, gazing at it in fascination with his one good eye. ‘Strange. It … stirs something in me. A dream I once had; a life I once knew…’

The onlookers were all mesmerised by the intricate pattern of the horn, the size of an auroch’s – though One Eye handled it like it was as light as balsa wood.

Lost in his own thoughts, the president wandered to the doorway. ‘Memories … waking up inside me, like a volcano…’ He held up the horn to the dark rumbling sky. ‘Am I a man who dreams he is a god, or a god who dreams he is a man…?’ One Eye he brooded. ‘Road Captain…’

‘Chief!’

‘Didn’t you used to play an instrument … a saxophone or something?’

Rig’s eyes flared. ‘Yes, I did.’

‘Then give us a tune!’ One Eye tossed the horn, to the gasps and cries of the archaeologists. Rig caught it elegantly. ‘I may need some air for this.’ He walked outside with it, and everyone followed.

‘No, no, no!’ cried Webster.

Tear placed a spiked hand on the archaeologist’s chest.

With his back to the group, framed by the dark sky and the iron seas to the west, Rig put the mighty horn to his lips and blew.

***

Extract from Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

Keep reading …

NEXT CHAPTER

The Twilight of the Gods

[image error]‘Raging Wotan rides to the rock! Like a storm he comes!’ Illustration from Wagner’s Rhinegold and the Valkyries, by Arthur Rackham, 1912

@POTUS_47

3.34am

Oh boy! Crazy weather! But fear not, great nation! Fortitude and Faith! I’ve invited some allies to help protect our assets in this period of difficulty. DO NOT BE ALARMED! They may be ugly bastards, but the friendship I have with them is the highest level of special!

3.35am

I share some common ancestry with them on my mother’s side.

3.37am

Nordic, of course. HA! HA! HA!

3.39am

I once was entertained by a really hot Scandinavian chick in one of my hotels over there, in Norland. Boy! She was an 11! She could piss ice-cubes! Never had bourbon on the rocks like that before! I hope we aint distant cousins!

Chapter 9: The Twilight of the Gods

‘That went well…’ Eddy eased his battered, aching body from his stolen bike.

Dash and Blitzen were in an even worse state than him – black eyes and bloodied noses, but they grinned maniacally. ‘Can’t beat a good scrap!’ said Dash through swollen lips. ‘Let’s go and get wrecked!’ suggested Blitzen, spitting out a loose tooth.

Hobbling and helping each other, the three of them made their way to the bar – laughing and wincing in equal measure.

Around them the Wild Hunt was buzzing with post dust-up adrenalin. Wounds were being proudly shared and discussed, bikes were being checked, weaponry readied. It chilled Eddy to see the handguns, even the odd semi-automatic. Jeezus! Things were getting serious! He should have expected it, joining a serious biker gang. It was never going to be a peace picnic. But he didn’t expect to see so much armoury this side of the pond.

As they got their beers and sank down onto the bench, they clinked bottles and, between careful appreciative sips of the chilled brew, discussed what was going to happen next.

‘An open attack between gang members will inevitably lead to all out war,’ declared Blitzen, taking a tug.

Dash nodded. ‘The fragile truce of the Gathering had been broken. Things are going to turn real nasty.’

The gleeful tone in his voice made Eddy think he was looking forward to it. If it was anything like the bikers wars back home, it wasn’t going to be any kind of glorious war movie. He remembered with a shudder the stories he’d heard from eye witnesses, victims, and survivors about the Quebec Biker War.

‘But …’ Eddy tried to find the right phrase. ‘Our president was warning us to do the opposite – to work together to survive the greater threat…’

‘Oh, I loved all that Ragnarok shit, man!’ said Dash, eyes shining from behind the bruises.

‘If it’s the end of the world, then we need to look after our own,’ commented Blitzen, finishing the dregs of his beer. ‘Talking of which, I believe it’s your round, Red. You probably owe us several after what we went through back there to save your half-breed ass!’

Eddy raised his hands. ‘My bad. I better get some shots in then.’

Dash and Blitzen cheered, high-fived each other and regretted it. ‘Ow, my fingers!’ ‘I think I’ve broken my wrist!’

As Eddy waited by the bar, looking over the high-spirited revelry, he couldn’t help shake off the feeling he was on the deck of the Titanic.

The sky was an abattoir over the milky, limpid waters of the bay. Eddy sat on the groyne, thoughtfully watching the dying light. He sucked in the bracing, acrid air and tried to clear his head. The sea was at low tide, and the waves expired upon the sands with little energy, exhausted after their long journey.

He felt the same.

Perhaps it was just the inevitable come down after such an adrenalin high – the buzz of a biker rumble. But maybe it was more.

He sighed and it sounded like the last gasps of the waves.

‘Hey, how’s it going there, troublemaker?’

Eddy turned to see Fenja, and his heart lifted. Here at least was one – very good – reason to be here, to stay.

She slipped her arm into his and they watched the blood-milk waters together.

‘I’ll live. The way everyone jumped in, back there… I’ve never had anyone cover my back before.’

‘Welcome to the Wild Hunt. We protect our own.’

‘The Hammer and Tear – they were like fucking superheroes, man!’ Eddy mimed some of their moves. ‘Wow!’

‘Yes, they’re handy in a fight, those two,’ Fenja smiled.

‘How are they?’

‘Oh, none the worse. A dust-up like that gives them the horn. They certainly made the Hogs pay, as did Honer, our tailgunner. He reckons they iced a dozen between them, at least.’

Eddy gazed over the deepening crimson of the bay, feeling sick inside.

‘Don’t feel guilty. They started it, and they had it coming. They’ve attacked our club and our allies more times than I can remember. A lot of blood was owed.’

‘But … there will be reprisals. An eye for an eye… When does it stop?’

Fenja looked at him with surprise. ‘Stop? This is the way of the world. Life. Death. The blood of birth; the blood of the dying. It’ll end when the world ends.’

Eddy looked at the last embers of the day. The bloated red sun, as it slipped over the horizon, seemed to wink shut like a giant eye.

‘According to One-Eye, that’s happening.’

A green flash shot across their line of sight; then a chill breeze swept in from the darkling sea.

‘The tears of Venus … Yes, I’m afraid it is…’ She shivered and Eddy put his jacket round her shoulders and held her close. She suddenly seemed vulnerable, gazing at the encroaching night.

‘Come on, you don’t believe in all that stuff do you? Surely One Eye was talking figuratively? Sure, the weather is fucked. We know that. But it’s nothing to do with wolves and giants?’

She pulled away from him, furious. ‘Isn’t it? And what do you know?’

‘Hey… I’m sorry, alright.’ He held out his hands in peace. ‘I’m out of my depth here… All I know is what my senses tell me. I see a bunch of cool bikers with a president trying to do the right thing. He was the only one talking sense up there on that hill. We do need to work together to survive. It’s not just the weather that is screwy. The world is fucked. That Koil guy. Sheesh. Ass-holes like him are making it worse. They’re not just fiddling as Rome burns – they’re pouring on the gasoline.’

Fenja’s stiffened body language softened, and she allowed herself to be held again. ‘Your senses do not deceive, but there is more than meets the eye here too. The world you see … it is only one of many. And the people you see around you … One Eye, The Hammer, Rig, Tear, Honer … they are more than just men and women.’

Eddy’s brow furrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

Fenja took hold of his face with her long fingers and looked him square into his eyes. Her pale blue eyes seemed to suck in the remaining light and almost glow praeternaturally in the twilight. ‘We are the old gods and we live amongst you. Once people worshipped us, and we were mighty. But man is cursed with amnesia. He forgets the oaths he made, the offerings. The blessings we showered upon him and his line. We made the Vikings great. Inspired them to cross the Whale’s Road, to be feared and followed. Their legacy lives on in far-flung corners as well as the old lands. But these are modern times. It is a digital age, a cold age, an age of communication when nobody says anything, an age of speed when nobody is moved. People stare at screens instead of the sky, worry about petty things instead of wonder about great things, worship the machine and let it run their lives. It is an age of cowards and cretins. You have forgotten how to fight for what you love and are led by fools. You do not dream hard enough and are lost in the false dreams of others. Who remembers the old gods when you only have time for the god of greed?’

Eddy was moved by her passion. Her words struck him to the core, but the little voice in his mind could not help but question Fenja’s bold claims. ‘The spirit of what you say rings true, but … are you saying that our committee are the – what did Grandpa Gunnar call them…’ He searched for the word from childhood memories of his grandfather’s sagas. ‘…The Aesir?’

Fenja stood up, towering above him at her full height. She seemed even taller than usual, her spiky white-gold hair framing her head like a glory of the mountains.  ‘Yes. And gods who became men can become gods again.’ Her voice took on an icy edge. ‘You are not the only one here with the blood of two worlds flowing in your veins, Eddy Redcrow!’

He got to his feet, wincing a little at the effort.

‘Kneel!’

The power of her voice made him instantly obey and he dropped to the sand.

‘My father is a frost giant. Once his heart was melted by a mortal woman … but I am my father’s daughter. Sometimes I feel I belong more in his realm of ice and mist than here, in Midgard. But … your messed up world fascinates me.’ She scanned the camp, the town beyond, with a haunted longing.  ‘Perhaps part of me wants to reconnect with my mother. The love she had for my father killed her. I am afraid ours may too be a fatal attraction. Be warned!’ Her breath escaped in a freezing cloud.

Eddy trembled before her, as an icy atmosphere engulfed him, but he gritted his chattering teeth. ‘Wherever you are from; whoever your parents were … all I know is this. I love you, Fenja! Let me be your lover! I am not afraid!’

The icy cloud faded, and Fenja seemed to reduce in height a little, and became once more ‘just’ a dangerously beautiful, tall, blonde biker woman. She stepped forward. ‘You may stand if you wish…’ she smiled.

Eddy did so, with a little grunt of effort, and they embraced. She held him close, trembling. ‘You’re freezing!’

‘Let me steal your body heat, human!’ she laughed.

They kissed and the heat of that flooded through them.

‘Run away with me, Fen,’ he whispered to her.

She looked at him sceptically, white eyebrow raised.

‘Let’s leave this place, this island, this madness. Come back with me to Canada. It is full of wild beauty. Long, long roads through the wilderness. Great riding! I’d love to introduce you to my people. We could start a life there…’

She pulled away from him. ‘No. This is your tribe now. You have your patch. Your colours. You need to choose, Eddy. Where do you want to belong? When you’ve made your mind up, let me know!’

Fenja stormed off, and he watched her go, his heart heavy.

The last redness in the sky had been obliterated by the grey cloud. The sea was a black, uncrossable mystery.

Where did he belong? Who was his tribe? Perhaps he was fooling himself, trying to fit into this mob? Norse gods? Frost giants? They sounded crazier than him. Sure, his friends, his family back in Gimli, were just as crazy – with all their quirks and peccadilloes – but it was a craziness he could deal with.

Eddy gazed across the dark sea. Perhaps it was time for him to leave.

Extract of Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

Keep reading…

NEXT CHAPTER

The Thing

[image error]

Patriot News

President Koil declares national emergency & martial law

In response to the escalating ‘climate chaos’ – hurricanes, storm surges, mass flooding –President Koil this morning has taken what he calls ‘desperate measures for desperate times’. He has declared a state of national emergency. The Home Guard has been mobilised to defend key resources and martial law has been imposed to prevent rioting. In the last couple of days cities across the US has seen panic-buying in the food stores, and violence flaring at gas stations as drivers queue to fill up their tanks. Schools have been closed and the public have been advised to not to travel in the extreme weather unless absolutely necessary. Many airports remain closed, and there is gridlock along coastal interstates as citizens attempt to abandon the threatened areas. An escalating series of tsunamis have already devastated many major cities along the Atlantic seaboard and Pacific west. The number of fatalities is unknown. President Koil was recorded in a message from a secret location for ‘America to remain strong. Your government will protect you and is doing everything in its power to keep the Land of the Free safe. Stay in your homes, keep your loved ones close, and await further instructions.’

Chapter 8: The Thing

The next morning Eddy walked across the camp, oblivious to the foul weather that lashed the beach. Glowing inside, he was trying to get used to the double-whammy of being Fenja’s lover and a patch. He wore his colours (still damp from the night before) with pride. He had certainly earned them. He was greeted by nods, the odd slap on the back. He was one of them now.

Eddy entered the mess tent, drawn by the smell of bacon and coffee.

‘Had a good night?’ queried one of the older members, waggling his eyebrows, while his mates guffawed.

If Eddy could have turned redder he would have done. Instead, he said defiantly: ‘Out of this world.’

‘Beats me how a wetback like you could get laid by the hottest bitch on the camp’, sneered another while picking his teeth. His bald head mirrored the cannonball of his gut.  

‘Club rules are club rules,’ added the grey beard. ‘Our women can sleep with who they like – their call. But to sleep with another’s regular broad is a patchable offence. So tread carefully, Red.’

Eddy nodded and walked to the serving area. Thanks for the advice, fellas! he groaned inside. No point creating enemies on his first morning. Perhaps they meant well. But Fenja was clearly her own woman.  She didn’t belong to anyone. 

He bumped into his fellow newbie in the queue. ‘Hey.’

‘Ola.’

‘What a night!’

Cruz contemplated this for a minute. ‘Si.’

He wasn’t going to get much more out of her, so he patiently waited for his turn.

With his tray laden with good things, he scanned the mess tent for somewhere to sit.

‘Hey, Red!’ Two younger members waved him over. He gratefully joined them.

The one with the blond Mohican offered a fist, ‘Dash.’

‘Blitzen,’ said the other, who sported a dark beard and a straggly mop. He sounded German, the other Scandinavian.

‘Your set the other day was cool, man!’ enthused Dash. ‘You’re shit-hot on the axe.’

‘Jah, jah. Sehr gut. Hope we hear you again soon.’

‘Cheers, guys.’ Eddy tucked into his bacon ‘butty’ with relish. ‘Oh, boy! Need this.’

‘They feed you good here,’ said Dash, rubbing his belly. ‘Tuck in, because it’s gonna be a big day.’

‘Why, what’s happening?’ asked Eddy.

‘The Thing,’ said Blitzen, as though he should know what that meant. He looked none the wiser, so the German elaborated: ‘Interclub council at Tynwald, where they decree the laws here in English and Manx every July 5th, Tynwald Day. It’s the oldest parliament in Europe, based upon the Nordic All-Thing, or Thingvallr. We take it over – and the authorities … tolerate it. It brings in massive tourist revenue, after all. It’s the main reason why we’re all here.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ quipped Dash. ‘I’m here for the road races, the girls, and the beer!’

‘Jah, jah, that too,’ smiled Blitzen. ‘But we are heading out 11am. Full colours. Attendance compulsory. And, anyway, you don’t want to miss this. You haven’t ridden until you’ve ridden out with the club.’

Eddy guzzled down his coffee. ‘Refill?’ They shook their heads. He was going to need coffee, lots of it!

The sound of the collective engines was incredible as they roared out of the camp and onto the road inland. Eddy was towards the back of the pack, but he didn’t mind. He was grinning from ear-to-ear. Here he was, riding with the Wild Hunt! The triple-triangle patches filled his field of vision – there must be a thousand of them. The town’s people stood along the roadside, watching them go. Drivers patiently waited – nobody wanted to mess with the Hunt.

‘Fuckin’ cool, hey!?’ shouted Dash, riding next to Blitzen.

‘Hell, yeah!’ he fist-bumped his new pal, feeling part of the gang.

The vibration of the engines rippled through his body – it was a sound that hit you right in the chest, the sound of thunder.

The pack accelerated out of town, heading east. The Hog’s bike was unfamiliar beneath him at first – a customised Buell Ulysses, by his reckoning. Decorated with skulls and swastikas, it was uncomfortable to ride, but fellow members nodded approvingly. It was spoils of war, simple as that. Anything that stuck it to the Hogs was alright in their books. Nevertheless, Eddy was relieved to hiding in the midst of the pack.

No point tempting fate.

As they rode along the winding country road beneath the overcast sky, his thoughts wandered to Fenja – who would be no doubt riding near the front of the pack on her restored ride. He couldn’t help but smile, thinking of their night together.

Oh boy! It was hard not to get a hard on – the vibrations not helping. No wonder some women loved to ride a fat bike! That woman was truly a goddess! He was the luckiest man on Earth!

He eagerly awaited the next instalment. He hoped to see her tonight, but he didn’t want to push things. Play it cool, Eddy. Play it cool!

They headed down the A1 and were there in no time, though it took a while to filter onto the site and park up in their designated area, with so many of them.

It looked like MCs had come from all over the island that day. Eddy had never seen so many in one place before. He scanned the gangs nervously for the Devils Hogs. Surely his presence was just throwing diesel on the fire?

But attendance was compulsory. He had no choice. He was one of the Wild Hunt now. He hoped there would be safety in numbers.

Eddy followed Dash and Blitzen to the hill. It was hard to get close but they did their best, pushing through the crowds as diplomatically as possible. They carefully stayed with their own club, all too aware of the stares they were getting from the others. Some gave them respect, ‘friendlies’, as Dash described them (Eddy saw the Banshees, but couldn’t spot Bog amongst the multitudes); others were blatantly hostile – notably the Devils Hogs – but this was The Thing, and an uneasy truce pervaded.

The Council sat upon the Hill – its tiers demarcating the hierarchy of rank. Eddy noticed that One Eye was in the top tier, alongside the leader of the Devils Hogs; the Hells Angels; and their arch-enemy, the Bandidos; plus the Russian president of the Night Wolves. The tension was obvious in their body language. Away from the Hill these are people who would instinctively tear each other apart.

One Eye looked clearly bored by the various speeches from the different leaders – making boasts, bold statements, or complaints. Alliances and truces were declared upon the Hill each year, explained Blitzen, feuds and grudges established or settled – often by races, knife-fights, or all out shoot-outs. Every year there was ‘blood on the streets’. Every year the authorities tried to crack down on it, force it to be cancelled, but such a vast number of bikers was hard to police. They were a law unto themselves and while the Gathering last, biker law prevailed.

And on Tynwald Hill was where biker law was declared.

One Eye listened with weary patience, and when it was his turn he slowly got to his feet, cracked a shoulder and yawned, before stepping up to the mike.

He cast his one good eye over the thousands below him, who anticipated his speech.

‘Our Prez always tells it like it is. His speech is often the highlight of the day,’ said Dash, clearly excited.

One Eye leaned towards the mike and let out a giant raspberry, which echoed across the crowds.

He waited for the impact to settle. Bikers jostled nervously – some shouted out heckles. ‘Old fart! Disgrace! Gerrim off! The old man has dementia – put him back in the care home where he came from!’

One Eye laughed coldly. ‘That’s what I think of all the petty edicts and posturing. None of it matters. None of it. You know why? Let me tell you. Look up at the fucking sky!’ He pointed up at the dark lid of clouds. ‘Airspace closed over Europe. Traffic chaos. That’s just the start. The bitter air is just the start of it. Your Knoz-rings aren’t going to protect you from what’s coming. The Icelandic eruption seems to have triggered a chain reaction along the mid-Atlantic ridge. More volcanoes are erupting each day. And none of you realise the significance of that. But I do.’ One Eye knuckled his raven-inked temple, shook his head clear. ‘I’ve … seen it.’ His eye suddenly flashed fire. ‘Surt the Fire God is waking up!’

The crowd jeered him. ‘He’s fucking lost it!’ ‘The old man has gone mental!’ ‘Somebody take him to a care home!’

The leader of the Wild Hunt seemed to grow in stature – his voice a growl of thunder that got everybody’s attention. ‘Beneath the Earth Fenris the Wolf tears at his chains, causing earthquakes, tsunamis. The Midgard Serpent writhes, whipping the seas into a maelstrom. And the Frost Giants are rising again… We’re in for a long, hard winter, my friends, mark my words. Winter is not fucking coming. Winter is here! The world is like a headless chicken, still running around, not realising it has lost its head and is bleeding to death.’

An uneasy silence had descended over the crowd. To Eddy’s eyes the sky looked like it had got notably darker. And was that a flash of lightning, right on cue?

Then, an underpowered clapping from one of the tiers. A small man with a swastika tattooed across his face, and a Knoz-ringtm stood up. ‘One Eye talks out of his anus!’

‘That’s the leader of the Hogs, Adolf Mosley!’ said Dash. ‘Grade-A asshole.’

 ‘He thinks it’s the end of the world!’ continued Mosley.

The Hogs roared with laughter, scowled at by the Wild Hunt.

‘Yes, it is the end of the fucking world, fuckheads!’ rumbled One Eye. ‘And we have a choice – so simple even you morons can understand, so listen up.’ He waited for silence.

‘Join forces and survive, or fight each other and die.’

The impact of his words sent murmurs of discontent, scorn, and scepticism through the crowd. ‘Yes, you heard me right. We have to put aside our differences. Bury the hatchet, and not in one another’s skulls. Dark times are here. What we do now will matter, and make the difference between seeing the dawn again or not. You may not like the idea, but look at your fellow bikers. Flesh and blood, like you.’

‘Except the Devils Hogs!’ called out a member, to laughter, until he was punished by the Enforcer, who knocked him out with a single punch.

‘A petrol-head, like you. Likes his or her freedom, like you. We may be the only bastards able to act when it hits the fan. Most people, trapped in their little boxes, won’t stand a chance.’

‘What can we do?’ called out someone with an Irish accent from the Banshees.

‘Work together. We’ve got the manpower, the mobility, and the means. It’s up to you. I’m done.’ One Eye stepped back from the mike and sat back down, looking exhausted.

Uproar ensued, as everyone argued about what he had said.

‘Come on Red, got a feeling this is going to turn nasty. Let’s split,’ called Dash. ‘Looks like the Road Captain is calling us back, anyway.’

Eddy was swept along by the departing Wild Hunt, heckled by the other biker gangs, who called them ‘pussies’ and ‘tree-huggers!’ His mind reeled, reflecting on One Eye’s speech. To him, what the president had described, sounded all the world like climate change. Was he just speaking metaphorically? Yes, the weather was fucked. If so, what could a bunch of bikers do about it?

He found his bike but as he went to pull out of the compound, his way was blocked by a bunch of Devils Hogs members, wielding chains.

‘Where do you think you’re going, scumbag?’ snarled the one in front. From his filed teeth, Eddy recognised it was Sharkman.

‘You’re on one of our rides… Tut, tut. Wonder how you got hold of that…?’

In a blur of motion, one of them whipped a grappling hook into his front wheel, as two others yanked him from his bike, chaining his arms, and the fourth held the bike secure.

In an instant he was bikeless and helpless. Sharkman wrapped his chain around his fist, and snarling in satisfaction, went to land him one.

Eddy flinched, but before the blow could land, Dash, Blitzen, and a whole bunch of other Wild Hunters piled in.

‘Attack one member, you attack us all!’ shouted his friends.

For a while they looked like they were going to wiped the floor with the attackers, but as the altercation was noticed by the departing crowds, more Hogs poured in, many pulling knives. It was turning bloody.

For a moment Eddy was forgotten, and was able to shake off his chains. Fists free, he joined in the fray.

Soon, they were all but surrounded by the Hogs, who rapidly outnumbered them. First Dash went down, then Blitzen. It was going to turn into a massacre…

‘Aargghhh!’ Eddy looked up to see Hogs being scattered left, right and centre as though a bull was charging through them. Suddenly the Hammer appeared, towering over the attackers. She clenched her fists and pounded into them, breaking teeth, breaking skulls. By her side appeared Tyr and Rig. Both loved a good scrap, and set to it.

Eddy was able to seize back his bike – with a few well-aimed kicks and punches he was back on it, and revving it, nosing it forward through the melee.

Slowly the tide was turned, and the Wild Hunters fought their way to the exit. Finally, there was a clear run to the road.

‘Go!’ commanded the Hammer, covered in the blood of her opponents.

Eddy needed no further prompting. He gunned the engine and skidded out of the compound, followed by his fellow members, who poured forth like a breached dam.

Eddy turned to see The Hammer and Tear fighting on, while Rig mounted his bike, and raced to the front. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here before World War Three starts!’

The Road Captain led the Wild Hunt back westwards, to the coast. A posse of Hogs tried to follow, but the gunshots he heard confirmed what his fellow bikers said, ‘The tailgunner’s sorting it. Keep going! And don’t stop ‘til we’re back at the castle!’

***

Extract of Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

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The Patch

ZEITGART NewsDrip: no bullshit news direct to your device

Munden’s Masterplan for Europe

Former Head of Communications, Reeve Munden, has been travelling Europe to connect with what he called ‘key players’ in the coming info-wars. Free from his previous duties as the President’s right-hand man (thanks to ‘professional differences of opinion’, although he still had ‘huge, huge respect for President Koil’) Munden has been seeking support for his latest initiative, The New Reich – his masterplan to co-ordinate Far Right groups across Europe. Munden said, ‘There are a lot of disaffected citizens out, folk who feel they are not being represented by mainstream politics, by the self-interested politicians, the corrupt cronies of Brussels – too busy with their snouts in the trough to see what is happening to the man in the street. My message to them all: Take Back Control.’ He is meeting with many marginalised groups, and speaking at numerous rallies across the continent. Munden believes a grassroots movement could topple the geriatric institutions of Europe. ‘It’s time for radical change. It’s time for new blood. It’s time for The New Reich.’

Chapter 7: The Patch

Eddy stood in the shower for a long time, letting the scalding water blast away the stink and muck of the drainage ditch, mixed with the sweat of the escape. He could feel the tension ease finally in his shoulders. His upper body ached from the extreme effort of the riding. That was a full-on race. Remotely he wondered how he had done compared to the thousands who had raced the Mountain Road as part of the TT circuit. But it has been no mere Tourist Trophy. People had died. They had lost Gunther. For what? A glorified lump of metal, chrome and rubber? And a ten-dollar patch.

He hoped it would be worth it.

He killed the shower, and rubbed himself down, relieved to feel clean again – on the outside at least.

Eddy wiped the mirror free of steam and gave himself a hard look. What was he willing to do to win her?

The answer hissed in his head like a snake: anything.

When Candy had dumped him in Italy he had felt like tumbleweed. Drifting across Europe – no purpose, no hope.

But Fenja had given him a reason to live, to strive, to become something, someone.

And now he was no longer a ‘nobody’.

This evening he was to receive his patch and become a member of the Wild Hunt – one of the most formidable biker gang in the world. He was going to ride with legends. From this night onwards he would be able to hold his head up high and finally receive some respect from a world, which until now, had shown him a blatant disregard at best, an utter contempt far too often.

Eddy Redcrow of Gimli, Manitoba – time to step up and receive your colours.

It was dusk by the time Eddy emerged onto the beach in his spare jeans and t-shirt. Torches had been lit and flickered restlessly in the fresh breeze sweeping in from the sea. The sky was a glorious dragon. In the week since the eruption, the sunsets had been increasingly spectacular. Most evenings the stubborn lid of sooty cloud would enflame as the dying sun caught it alight before sinking over the horizon.

It made for a dramatic backdrop, silhouetting Peel Castle. It could have been another age, an encampment of marauding Vikings perhaps. Going by the appearance and demeanour of some of the members it didn’t take much of a leap. Most outlaw biker gangs had something of the warrior clan about them – but these guys … Eddy shook his head and smiled. They did it in a full-bloodied way, put it that way.

Normally, he wouldn’t be seen dead around such a dangerous outfit – or rather, he would be seen dead. And the looks he got from some of the patches made him feel that was still an option. Most one percent biker gangs – the outlaw kind – tended to stick to their ‘own kind’. White, black, red, yellow, men, women … The lines were clear and you didn’t cross them. The Wild Hunt seemed a little less monochrome than most – but not by much. Eddy didn’t see any other First Nations around that was for sure.

He saw Cruz ahead, waiting in the circle for the Patching ceremony to begin. They both stood out like sore thumbs – but they had distinguished themselves, won glory for the club, and earned their colours. Their difference, it seemed, would be tolerated.

‘Hi,’ he smiled at Cruz, who gave him a curt nod. Not much camaraderie from that one – but they had survived the initiation together, and he couldn’t help but feel a fellow warmth towards her. He noticed her tense posture, and thin lips. She was clearly tense – eyes darting around the circle like a cornered animal. Assessing the situation – fight or flight. But she was a canny one – her plan had won the day.

Eddy stepped up next to her and waited – looking towards the main marquee with its semi-circle of bikes, the retrieved ride parked up on one end, its gold pipes and diamond-studded detail glittering in the torchlight.

The mud and the blood must have been cleaned from it, brooded Eddy.  

The gathered crowd – all wearing full colours – quietened down when One Eye and his inner circle appeared from the back of the marquee and took their seats. In the firelight and torchlight they looked all the world like Viking nobility, though the small patches on the front of their cuts reassured Eddy these were like any other MC committee. His eyes flicked to each, their roles emblazoned on their cuts: One Eye, president; Frey, the vice-president; The Hammer, enforcer; Rig, road captain; Tear, sergeant-at-arms, and others he did not know the names of filling the roles of secretary, treasurer, chaplain, tailgunner. They were all here, gazes inscrutable as they looked upon Eddy and Cruz.

One Eye stared at them with what might have been an amused gleam in his eye. ‘So, these are our two prospects…’

‘A Redskin and a crazy Dago,’ The Hammer scoffed, guzzling down her brew and belching loudly. ‘Hel’s knickers! I’m all for fresh blood – but catsup and BBQ sauce, come on!’ She tossed the empty bottle towards them and it smashed on the stones of the firepit, scattering them with glass.

The onlookers roared with raucous laughter.

One Eye smiled and shrugged, ‘This “Redskin and crazy Dago”, as you so eloquently put it, dear daughterson, have won honour for the club. They brought back a million-dollar bike and passed their initiation. They have earned their colours.’

‘They also stole one of the Hogs rides, right from under their noses,’ spoke up Rig, looking upon them both with pride.

The patches liked this, cheering.

Tear, body bristling in armour, banged his spiked-ringed fist on the table. ‘And they took tribute in blood too – Hogs’ blood, offered to the god of the road!’

More cheering.

Then the biker who sported the ‘chaplain’ tag, a prematurely bald man with a handsome, kind face added: ‘And they lost their bikes and one of their number in doing so.’

‘He failed; they succeeded. Only the victor matters,’ snarled the shaven-headed Sergeant-at-Arms.

‘They have risked all and won glory for the Wild Hunt,’ spoke the silver-haired Vice-president, his voice filled with a quiet authority that made everyone listen. He radiated power and dignity and the club clearly respected him. ‘They are worthy.’

The words were echoed through the camp. ‘They are worthy!’

Eddy’s chest filled with pride.

The Hammer stood up, swaying a little unsteadily – ‘But a half-breed and a … woman! Are we that desperate?’

‘Clearly we are!’ mocked one of the front riders Eddy had seen flanking One Eye.

‘Though I’m not sure you count as one of the fairer sex!’ quipped the other.

A tense silence froze the camp as the Hammer clenched her considerable fists.

Before the mocker could feel her wrath a deafening roar grabbed everyone’s attention. Heads turned as the retrieved bike skidded to a stop in front of the Elders, spraying sand. A tall, slender figure dressed in tight leathers got off – spiky blonde hair catching the torch-light. Eddy’s heart leapt to see it was Fenja. She stood defiantly before the Enforcer, facing the crowd. ‘The Hammer is just as much a woman as I am!’ She placed a hand upon the Enforcer’s breastplate, holding her back from the brothers. ‘What we were before … does not matter. Our true life began when we joined the Wild Hunt. We are … what we want to be. No more. No less. Any member has a problem with that – come and see me.’ She held The Hammer’s gaze, who snorted in contempt at the mocker, but backed off, sitting down heavily.

The patches gazed upon the peacemaker with admiration.

‘Club rules clearly allow women in; and was not our founder one?’ She gestured to the empty chair where a portrait of a beautiful, strong woman was displayed. ‘Venus Wyldfire – honoured be her name.’

‘Honoured be her name.’

‘And as for the “half-breed” as you call him … well, insult him and you insult half the Club. Who here doesn’t have mongrel blood? We’re the best of all worlds.’

Eddy’s eyes widened… Who were these people?

The Hammer backed away, giving the brothers an angry growl before sitting back down, snatching the meadhorn from her neighbour.

‘This man has warrior’s blood on both sides of his line. Let our seer confirm it…’

One Eye nodded and a biker stepped forward who looked like the twin of the ‘chaplain’. He wore dark glasses, which he took off, revealing blind eyes. His hand brushed over Eddy’s face. He tried not to flinch.

‘A man of two tribes… I see horses … Riders of the Plains … And a dragon-prowed longship. Explorers to a strange land. A leaf, a red leaf, a stone carved with runes…’

Eddy’s heart beat wildly. His father Magnus claimed they were descended from Leif Ericsson himself – the Icelandic explorer who visited ‘Vinland’ many centuries before Columbus. And the stone carved with runes … his band, surely? He felt seen, exposed.

The blind seer pulled away his hand. ‘This man has strong warrior blood in his veins – the Red and the White.’

Fenja seemed satisfied at this. ‘The best of both worlds. He is worthy.’ She gave him the briefest of smiles and sat down.

One Eye stood up, exuding power and authority. ‘Then let us vote.’ He gestured to the copper bowl and two bags – one black, one white – carried forward by two patches to the table of the Elders. ‘If you are in favour of these prospects becoming fully-patched members of the Wild Hunt, then cast in a white ball; if not, select the black.’

One by one the Elders selected from the bags and cast their vote into the bowl. The balls clicked as they fell against one another and Eddy realised they were stolen balls from a pool table.

All so far were white.  

Only The Hammer delayed, carrying on drinking from the meadhorn. The other committee members glared at her, and, finally emptying the horn, she crushed it with her hand, cast it aside, and selected a ball in her massive fist.

Dropped into place, a white ball.

One Eye gestured to the bowl, which was raised aloft so all could see. ‘It is unanimous. Give them their patches.’

The secretary – one of the brothers – stood up and produced two cut-off denim jackets emblazoned with the club colours. He walked before them and presented them to Eddy and Cruz.

One Eye towered before them. ‘Take the vow: repeat after me…’

Eddy and Cruz repeated the ritual phrases, their different accents mingling with the boom of the waves. Everyone watching; everyone listening – stern faces silently bearing witness as though carved out of wood. The universe reduced to their small circle of light. Until it was done.

‘…Live for the Road, Die by the Code.’ The words faded as the blood roared in Eddy’s ears. He had done it, he had won his colours! He couldn’t stop looking at Fenja, her proud gaze filling him with fire. 

‘…You are now fully-patched members of the Wild Hunt! Welcome!’ One Eye gave them both a bear hug, nearly crushing the air out of his lungs.

The cheers split the night open. Music kicked in and the partying began. Members slapped them on the back, shook their hands, thrust beers at them, dowsed them in mead and rolled them in the sand, then chucked them both in the sea.

As the partying carried on up the beach, Eddy floated in the swell of the water, gazing across to the red band of light in the far west – a line of blood separating the blackness.

‘Congratulations on getting your colours.’

The breathy voice made him turn.

Fenja swam before him. She opened her arms and embraced him.

‘And thanks for returning my ride.’

She gave him a hot kiss.

‘One good ride deserves another…’ she smiled, leading him back to the shore.

The patching party was in full swing as they emerged from the water – Eddy was glad Cruz was the centre of everyone’s attention for now. She was the golden girl who had ridden back the stolen bike to safety. Devising the successful plan, she deserved the glory. And besides, Eddy had other things on his mind.

He couldn’t take his eyes from Fenja as she emerged dripping from the water, her statuesque physique lingered over by the lambent glow of the torches and firelight. She wore only her leather biker bikini top and micro-shorts, which revealed more than they hid.

Eddy’s new ‘cut’ was sodden, along with the rest of him – but he didn’t mind. She took his hand and led him to her own private tent behind the main marquee. There, finally in privacy, she stripped off before him, revealing her glorious body in the half light. And then she undressed him and pressed her hot body to his.

As the wild music skirled like the flames around them, they were consumed by the pyre of their desire, toppling onto a bed of fleeces, fur soft against their skin.

Their kisses were like flames, building in intensity, until they bit and tore at one another. Eddy reached for the watch-pocket of his jeans, but she put her hand gently on his and let him enter her naked. He gasped as she let him slip deep inside her, the scabbard to his sword. Fenja rode him with a fierce hunger, straddling him like a Valkyrie charging into battle. Eddy watched her rising and falling before him, mesmerised by her power and beauty. She was truly a goddess. All he could do was offer himself before her.

Before he exploded into her, she pulled away and he groaned in bitter pleasure and sweet pain. ‘Not yet!’ she commanded, and pulled him on top of her, opening herself to him completely.

She summoned the manhood from within him – challenged him to channel his true power, in her service. She demanded his all, and his body was slick with the sweat of the effort, but her trust, her faith in him gave him courage, gave him energy.

He was her warrior, her champion, and he would do anything for her, anything.

They swapped positions several times, each time Fenja bringing him to the brink, before sublimating his desire into the next cycle – accelerating, braking, shifting gear with fluid skill – truly she rode him like a professional racer. Finally, as the music and cheering surged outside, she pushed him to the finishing line, making him draw upon hitherto unknown reservoirs of strength. As tremors started to shudder through her body, she dug her nails into his back, into his buttocks, urging him on and on, until finally, with a cry that mingled both their voices, he released into her and was obliterated in bliss.

For an endless moment he lay there, welded to her, their life-forces mingling, their bodies and hearts and minds, one.

Shaking, he collapsed onto the bed next to her and they both lay there, dripping sweat, chests rising.

‘That was … out of this world,’ Eddy breathed out.

They locked eyes, and Fenja slid her hand into his, holding it tight.

‘Beyond the nine worlds,’ she said, a cat-like smile on her face. ‘Welcome to the Wild Hunt, Eddy Redcrow. You have earned your colours today.’

Extract from Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

NEXT

The Initiation

PATRIOT NEWS

Huge Increase in the War Chest

A Whitehouse spokesman today announced a massive increase in military spending. Over the next five years $300 billion will be spent on strengthening American armed forces and defences. President Koil was quoted as saying: ‘We need a stronger Army, a stronger Navy, a stronger Air Force. We need to be able to protect our assets at home and abroad. Nobody respects a weak nation. Nobody. We need to be the strongest nation on Earth. I’m keen to develop advanced weapons technology that will give us the edge over our enemies. They are some exciting ideas on the table, but I can’t say any more than that.’

Chapter 6: The Initiation

‘Here’s to the new prospect!’

Eddy clinked bottles with Bog, who he had met in a bar in Peel – the Banshees were doing a ‘pub crawl of the island’ and were currently doing their best to drink the west coast town dry. They were on friendly terms with the Wild Hogs and so were allowed on their turf, as long as they paid tribute – which involved getting everyone roaring drunk. Impromptu sessions had kicked off in some of the bars, and hearing the Irish jigs and reels, Eddy, still on a post-gig high and keen to party, had wandered into one and had bumped into the new friend – or rather Bog had backed into him with a handful of pints. They were both soaked in beer, but they just laughed as they recognised one another.

‘Red, you fecking eejit! Thought I’d bump into you here, but not literally!’

‘Bog, good to see you! Like the new iron.’

Bog was sporting a shiny new nose-ring – a design he had spotted since he’d arrived on the island. ‘Ah, that thing! My Knoz-ringtm . Help filter this filthy air. They’re all the rage in Douglas now!’ He nodded to the floor. ‘Shocking waste of good ale that…’

Eddy offered to get a fresh round in, and once this was collected he joined his new mate to catch up.

‘Ah, that’s more like it! Full glass, full tank, full woman!’ Bog raised his pint. ‘Slainte!’

‘Slainte!’ Eddy replied, laughing. They clinked glasses.

As the beer started to flow, Eddy filled him in on the recent developments in animated fashion. Pausing for breath, he took a thoughtful sip. ‘So, what do I have to do next, do you reckon?’

‘Well now, there’s the thing.’ Bog stacked some beer mats on his elbow. ‘Most clubs expect prospects to ‘show willing’ for a good year or so. Eat shit, basically. Be their bitch. Some make you do crazy shit. The criminal variety I’m talking about. Anything from breaking and entering to buggering a corpse.’ He flipped his arms and snatched the mats out of the air.

Eddy looked mortified, which made his friend chuckle as he swigged his beer.

‘But your fellas, the Wild Hunt.’ He tried the mat-trick on his other elbow. ‘They are gold standard bad arses. Feck knows what they’ll make you do!’ He flipped his arms and the mats went everywhere. ‘Shite!’

Eddy downed his beer.

‘Well, this is what happens if you fall for a bird from Val-fucking-halla… I just hope she’s worth it, Red.’

Slamming his empty down, Eddy’s eyes gleamed. ‘Yes, yes she is.’

‘Then, best of Irish to you, my friend. And get another round in. If you’re gonna hang out with the Vikings, I’d better teach you how to drink.’

The next morning Eddy staggered along the seafront, rubbing his eyes and squinting at the sun which was being objectionable – breaking over the town, shouting ‘Glory, hallelujah!’ when for some contrite ‘Hail Marys’ would have done. Cursing his friend, he shook his head, laughing at the confused montage of madness from the night before – which seemed to involve dancing on the pool table at one point, badly juggling the balls and balancing the cues on their chins; racing a dwarf down the high street on their knees; snogging a bearded nun; and other dubious activities. ‘Oh, my head!’ Eddy winced, gulping down the fresh air; hoping that the bile would subside. The sharp smell of brine, the screech of the seagulls, the piss streaked streets – everything made him nauseous.

It was early and there were very few signs of life – only a few small cooking fires smouldering down on the beach encampment. Detritus was devilled by the morning breeze across the promenade. A few bodies lay snoring where they had collapsed the night before, strewn like victims in a massacre. The place felt like a war-zone where a truce had been called.

Eddy’s head felt like a bloated jelly-fish. He had to do something to sober up, so he made his way down to the sea, stripped off and plunged into the spume. The shock of the cold made him gasp, but he swam out into the bay.

It was then he noticed another swimmer a few hundred yards away. Hard to discern more than the bobbing head amid the scintillation of shivelights piercing the pall of cloud. He shielded his eyes. Was that a flash of blonde hair?

He swam closer, curious.

By the time he got to the other side of the bay, the figure had started to emerge. Eddy’s pulsed race, as he recognised the tall, slim figure rise from the waters. Clothed in nothing except the dazzle of light, the foamy spume sluiced from her pale skin as she stepped onto the sand. She bent to pick up her towel, and drying herself, half-turned towards him.

‘Hey, Fenja! Good morning.’

Was that the ghost of a smile, as she wrapped the towel around her torso and walked back to the main marquee?

Eddy was glad the water hid his erection, but it took a while before he was able to get out.

A fried breakfast inside of him, and several cups of coffee, and Eddy was starting to feel normal again and ready for the challenges that lay ahead. As he sat back with a sigh, taking in the vista – no longer so offensive to his senses, he saw three burly Wild Hunt members swagger towards him – two men and a woman. They looked like they meant business.

Their large frames blocked out the view. ‘Come with us.’

‘Morning! I’ll just finish this coff—’

‘Now!’

Eddy got up and followed.

‘So it begins,’ he muttered to himself.

Eddy was taken into the centre of the biker camp – a clearing by the main firepit.

‘Stand here,’ one of the three grunted, shoving him into the fire pit. He could feel the heat of the ash through the souls of his boots.

‘Hey, this is still hot!’

‘Best not to complain,’ offered the old man next to him. ‘Could be part of the initiation.’ Bald headed, with a grey-beard and pinched expressed. He held out his hand. ‘Gunther.’

‘Eddy.’

On his other side stood a woman with a Mediterranean air about her.

‘That’s Cruz. She doesn’t speak much.’

Eddy nodded to her, but she ignored him – eyes forward, stance proud, paying no heed to the hot ash.

The foul reek of singeing rubber started to assail his nostrils.

A few of the patches gathered round – a bit of entertainment over breakfast.

Finally, the warriors returned, escorting the tall female with the hammer tattoos on her hands Eddy had seen in the procession. The crowded respectfully stood back.

She towered over them, glaring, shaking her head sceptically.

‘Audhumla’s udders! What a pitiful selection. These are the prospects? Are you sure?’ she gestured to the three guards in disbelief. ‘I didn’t order a plumber, a pizza guy, or a hooker.’

Gruff laughter from the circle.

‘Though I could certainly make use of them. Would make for an interesting morning.’

More laughter.

The three of them stood there, taking it.

‘So, you think you’ve got what it takes to join the Wild Hunt, do you? Do we look desperate? Better you leave now. Go on, fuck off!’ She snarled in their faces, pointing back to the town.

They stood there, chins out, heads high, boots smouldering.

‘Maybe they’ve welded to the sand!’ The Hammer roared as she pushed the old guy back. He fell on his arse in the ash, howling as his hands hit the hot ash. He quickly got to his feet, blowing on his palms.

‘Mmm. Maybe they’re serious after all. What do you think? should we let them prove themselves?’

Murmurs from the gathering crowd. ‘Why not? it’ll be a laugh!’ called out one, which got a few cheers.

The Hammer eyed them fiercely. ‘Very well. Prospects, you have a chance to prove your worth. Normally, it’ll take few months of being dogsbodies and the butts of all our jokes and pranks before we start to take you seriously. But these are … unusual times. Things are happening, happening fast. And there is something useful you can do… If you don’t fuck it up, then you’re get your patch.’

Each of them stiffened, keen to hear the task at hand.

‘One of our bikes was stolen by those Svartheim scum, the Devils Hogs. They’ve had it for a few weeks, stolen from one of our members in Switzerland. They’ve brought it over here to show off. Flaunting it in our faces.’

Growls from the crowd at the mention of the name of their arch-rivals.

‘It’s been kept in their camp at Ramsey. If you can steal it back, and get it back to here in one piece, you would have earned your patch. Do you except this challenge?’

Each of them looked nervous. Ride into the enemy camp and steal a bike from under their noses? It was a suicide mission!

Eddy suddenly caught a glimpse of Fenja, watching the proceedings from the main marquee. The flash of her standing in the morning light, naked, smiling, came to him. Without further thought, Eddy stepped forward and called out. ‘Yes, I accept!’

The other two did the same.

‘Very well. Our Rig, our Road Captain, will give you the details. You will use your own bikes for the mission and wear no identifying marks. If you fail, we don’t know who you are, and we don’t care.’ The Hammer left.

The circle disbanded, the patches ignoring them again. They may as well have been invisible.

Gunther and Eddy exchanged glances, rolling eyes and blowing out cheeks. Cruz quickly walked down to the cooling shoreline, and they stamped their smouldering boots out in the sand. ‘Well, Geronimo…’ said Eddy.

Rig showed them the photo of the stolen bike on his tablet. ‘Look hard. Remember the detail. Don’t bring back any other, or you’ll just be turned away. No marks on it, not a scratch, or your life will be forfeit. You don’t want to know who this belongs to, believe me. It’ll make you even more nervous. Just treat it like the Brisingamen itself.’

Eddy scrutinised the photo, letting out a low whistle. It was a work of art – a real show bike, a Bündnerbike Softtail Blue Edition – decorated with diamonds and gold-plated screws.

‘This is worth millions!’ gasped Gunther.

Rig gave them each a map of the island, identifying the Ramsey camp, plus a hand-drawn ‘reconnaissance’ map, with greater detail. ‘This is what our scouts have managed to find out. You may be able to find a way in through one of the drainage ditches, but the perimeter is going to be heavily guarded. The Hogs have guard dogs and assault rifles. They don’t mess about. They will rub you out in an instant.’

Gunther raised his hand. ‘Where will we find the ignition key?’

‘No need. Here’s the spare. Don’t lose it.’ Rig tossed it to the old man. It was gold, on a Bündnerbike fob.  ‘Remember, work as a team and you may survive this. The success of the hunt comes down to collaboration. That’s the Wild Hunt way. No one hunts alone. Now go. Odin be with you.’

It was lunchtime when Eddy made the mistake of going into town for a bite to eat. He met Bog outside a chippy and was talked into some ‘hair of the dog’ (or Fenris’ Pubes, as the local brew ‘Wolf Moon’ was nicknamed, specially made for the Wild Hunt gathering).

‘Well, here’s some Dutch courage, you crazy fekker. Get this down you!’ said Bog, thrusting the blood-red pint at him.

Eddy shrugged at took a sip. Anything to calm his nerves and quell the sick feeling in his guts.

‘Oh, and here’s a good luck present!’ Bog tossed him a small paper bag.

Inside was a box. Eddy opened it, and saw a Knoz-ringtm.

‘Now don’t think I’ve gone all gay on yous or anything. I had a spare. I don’t like one up each snout-hole. Me. I like to sniff the air. Beer. A woman. The sea. Even if the air these days smells like the All-mighty has let rip a wet one.’

‘Cheers, Bog!’ Eddy had a piercing that had nearly healed up. He thrust in the spike with a wince, and clipped the filter into place, taking a deep breath. ‘Ahh! Wow. It really makes a difference, doesn’t it? It’s amazing what you get used to.’

‘The sky’s been shite since the Evil Sorceress blew her stack. Not good for yer constitution. These Knoz fellas are making a killing, but fair play to them.’

Eddy sipped some more of his pint, knowing he couldn’t have more. ‘Talking of making a killing, it’s the Devil’s Hogs I’m worried about. From what I’ve seen they don’t play nice.’

‘Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. Just keep your head down. Stay shiny side up.’

‘I don’t have the luck of the Irish, like you.’

‘Mm, maybe not. We can’t all be born blessed with good lucks and charm. But, the Isle of Man is a mongrel – like you, like me.’

Eddy raised an eyebrow, puzzled.

‘Have you met many Irish-Asians before? Don’t say you didn’t notice my fine Irish coffee skin-tone? Anyways, Man has both Gaelic and Norse influences – a place where the worlds meet. It’s in the place-names; Hell, it’s in the bones of the land here. So, one thing I can offer you – whenever you cross a bridge here, say good morning or goodnight to the Good People.’

‘The Good People?’

‘The People of Peace, the Kind Neighbours, Themselves.’

Eddy was still non-plussed.

‘There’s more than one Fairy Bridge here, that’s all I’m saying.’ Bog tapped his nose, then raised his pint and finished it off. ‘Go get your patch and get your woman, Red! And savour the sweet air, for every day alive on this Earth is a fekking miracle, and that’s the truth!’ Bog was distracted by a good-looking biker-woman, who smiled provocatively at him. He got up to follow, smoothing his wild mane. ‘Now I’m gonna make the most of it, and you’re gonna get some food and caffeine down you!’

‘So, what’s the plan?’ asked Eddy hopefully, as they crouched amid the undergrowth on a hillside overlooking the Devils Hogs camp at Ramsey – expanding like a syphilitic rash from the edges of the north-east coastal town. It was mid-afternoon, and the air was filled with the rumble of bikes, gunfire, and the smoke of burning caravans and trailers. They had set light to the surrounding land, which created an intermittent wall of flame which stood between them and their objective. The blackened ‘buffer zone’ beyond did not offer much in the way of cover.

‘Beats me. Perhaps Ladyhawke here has an idea?’

Cruz, who still hadn’t spoken a word to either of them, lay prone amid the grass, eyes fixed upon the smoky vista of the encampment. She scrutinised the comings and goings of the packs of bikers from the main access points.

‘According to the map it used to be camping and caravanning park,’ offered Gunther, to nobody in particular.

‘Well, looks like they’ve evicted any residents…’ quipped Eddy, dryly, just as one of the trailers collapsed in upon itself.

‘They are animals. We must be insane to be even considering this…!’ complained Gunther.

‘Then walk away. Forget the Wild Hunt. There are other biker gangs, if you really need to join something. Me, I’ve never been much of a joiner…’

Gunther gave him a curious look. ‘Then why are you…?’

Cruz turned back to them. ‘A woman. It’s always about a woman.’

The two men looked at one another, surprised to hear their silent companion finally speak, her voice husky with the spice of Galicia.

She scrambled back to join them. ‘This is what we do.’ She met their puzzled stares, unblinking. ‘We approach from three directions, using the drainage ditches – they will be filthy, but at least they’ll be wet, protecting us from the flames, and providing cover. Also, that way improves our chances by three.’

‘Makes sense,’ said Gunther, ‘though I wish there was another way than their open sewers…’

‘Shit happens,’ added Eddy. ‘Go on.’

‘The compound where they keep the bikes is here. We’ll need a distraction…’

‘Ah, I was afraid you were going to say that…’ said Eddy.

‘An explosion would be good.’

‘An explo—! Are you insane!’ gasped Gunther.

‘She’s right. Mmm.’ Eddy scanned the hazy vista. ‘Some of those caravans haven’t gone up yet. They’ll have gas canisters in.’

‘Good. You create the diversion. Gunther, open this rear gate. It looks like it’s a five-bar one leading into a field, which leads onto this lane … here. I can follow that up the mountain road, lose them in the hills.’

‘Hey! Hang on a minute!’ said Eddy. ‘And that leaves you to ride out of Dodge, leaving us up shit creek, no paddle! No way, José!’

Cruz gave him a look. ‘They’ll all chase after me. Plenty of opportunity to steal a couple of bikes. If they’re like the Hunt at all, they’ll leave keys in ignition, ’cause nobody would dare to steal another patches’ bike. You can just ride back to where we’ve hid the bikes – take the long road home, heading north and following the coast. I’ll have to get mine when the craziness dies down.’

Eddy shrugged. ‘Well, I’m not happy … but it’s the best we’ve got. Unless you’ve got a brighter idea, Gunther?’

The German shook his head, shame-faced.

Cruz held out her hand. ‘Then give me the key.’

Gunther cursed under his breath, but reluctantly handed it over.

‘Okay, let’s stash the bikes and wait for sundown.’

They hid the bikes in a small stretch of woodland called ‘Elfin Glen’ which had an access track connecting to the mountain road. It was a bit of a walk to the Hogs’ camp, via the circuitous route of the drainage ditches, but it felt at safe distance. On a bike it would take a minute.

They smeared charcoal on their faces, eyes pale in the twilight. ‘Right, let’s do this thing,’ said Eddy. ‘For the Wild Hunt and glory.’

‘The Wild Hunt and glory!’

Silently, they parted, each taking to their respective route.

Eddy made his way quietly through a plantation, hyper-aware of every sound he made – the slightest crack of a twig, his breathing. His boots sank into the carpet of needles, which fortunately seemed to suck up most sound. In the distance, the rumble of bikes, of death metal music, gun shots and wild screams grew louder.

 He came to the edge of the pines and stared across a blackened wasteland of smouldering stumps. Covering his mouth and nose with his scarf, he scrambled down into the drainage ditch, his legs sinking into the icy gloop.

Gritting his teeth, he made his way towards the camp.

He tried to focus on the image of Fenja on the beach, turning to him amid the glittering light, as the water turned to raw sewage.

Gagging on the reek, he choked down the bile, and pushed on.

The nearer he got to the camp, the more the ditch became clogged with trash – bottles, cans, pizza boxes and barbecues, broken or unwanted stuff.

He froze as he heard voices nearby. Two or three Hogs, complaining about the shite beer and ugly women.

‘Give me a pint from my local and a night with that blonde barmaid any day…’

 ‘Yeah, the women here seem to have been bred with the cattle.’

‘You’ve never complained about a good pair of udders before.’

He crouched as low as he possibly could, hoping the muck he was covered with would help camouflage him.

A zip unfastened and a warm trickle splashed down on his face.

He flinched, but bit his tongue.

‘Ah, empty the tank. Make room for more of that piss.’

‘Yeah, does the job though, dunnit? Hurry up, Naz. Done playing with yourself yet? We’ve got to do a circuit of the perimeter before we can get our nosh.’

The zip is fastened and heavy boots crash through the burnt layer of undergrowth. ‘Hold up, you whazzers!’

The voices fade, and Eddy shuddered with disgust. His leather jacket took the worst but some went in his hair, clinging warm to his neck.

He pushed on, slipping under a wire fence. The surroundings changed to the manicured lawns of the golf course, churned up by bikes. The Hogs had turned it into their own motorcross circuit – a drunken biker skidded erratically across a green, plunged through a bunker, churning up the sand, and then shot out across the rough, leaping over the ditch within inches of his face, before roaring off into the gathering gloom.

Peeping over the edge, Eddy scanned the vicinity. The clubhouse was clearly the centre of things and was in full swing, going by the rock music and raucous sounds coming from within and outside.

The ditch headed towards the trailer park – now resembling some kind of cemetery for holiday homes. Most were burnt out shells, but one or two remained relatively intact. Why would they destroy them rather than use them as billets, he wondered? That was probably typical of the Hogs. Violence and destruction for its own sake was the order of the day with them.

Heart thudding in his chest, he crawled out of the ditch towards a trailer, slipping beneath it, hugging the shadows as a pair of legs staggered by. A belch and a crash of glass; then it was clear.

He wriggled out to the front of the trailer where the large gas canisters were hooked up. One in use; one spare. Looking around to check he wasn’t being observed, he set to work. He unscrewed both, unhooking the connecting pipe, and letting the gas escape with a sinister hiss.

Pulling out his zippo, he edged back to the ditch. Checked his watch. An hour since they split. Everybody should be in place. It was now or never.

He snapped the zippo open, clicked the flame alight, enlarged it to max, and then tossed it towards the canisters.

Diving into the ditch, he covered his head as the explosion ripped open the night.

Showtime.

The sound deafened him momentarily.

As the whining abated he heard cries of alarm, calls to action, bikes revving up, arclights coming on.

Now to get the hell out of here!

He waded along the ditch until he was a safe distance from the blaze he had caused, where most of the bikers had gathered.

With relief, he extricated himself from the foul water.

‘The things I do for love,’ he muttered to himself.

Amid the chaos, Eddy raced towards the hard-standing, where the majority of the bikes were parked.

Two or three Hogs lingered there, but were called over to help with the spreading fire. Moaning, they left to pitch in.

Now was his chance. Eddy scanned the bikes and picked not the fattest, but the fastest looking – less fork, more torc, as his buddies in the band liked to say back home. Choppers looked cool and were great to ride on long straight roads, but weren’t designed for these poky British lanes with all their twists and turns.

He jumped on the scruffy, stripped down soft-tail and thanked Crazy Horse for the key sitting in the ignition. With a flick of his wrist it started up. He gave it a couple of revs, and it sounded hungry for the road.

Just as he skidded out of the compound, he heard the shouts.

Cruz blasted by on the gleaming bike Rig had shown them.

‘Catch her!’ somebody roared. ‘Or you’re all dead!’

A posse of mean-looking bikes skidded in the gravel and growled after her.

Eddy prayed Gunther had sorted the gate, and floored it, hot on their tail.

Cruz shot like a bat out of hell, straight across the camp. Tents, people – it didn’t matter what was in her way.

A pack of a dozen bikes were already on her tail.

Eddy could see the gap at the far end of the site, silhouetted by the burning fields beyond.

Gunther had done it!

If she could make the gap … There were too many of them to go through all at once. It would thin them out, slow them down.

Eddy sped along behind the hunting party, ignored by them, and by those dealing with the fire. There was another blast. Out the corner of his eye he saw a trailer lift into the eye, and topple onto some of the Hogs.

Cruz shot through the gap like a blue bullet. That was one helluva bike, whistled Eddy.

Her pursuers awkwardly thinned out as they filtered through after her.

Then it was clear.

As Eddy reached the gate, Gunther appeared from the shadows.

‘I didn’t get time to go back and get some wheels!’ he shouted.

‘Never mind! Jump on!’

Gunther leapt onto the back and grabbed the rail.

Eddy blasted out of the compound. Riding across the smouldering fields wasn’t very pleasant, even along the farm track and he was relieved when they reached the far side, where it entered the cool pine plantation. In the distance he could see the headlight cones and hear the snarl of racing engines, as Cruz and her pursuers hit the mountain road.

Eddy headed to the Elfin Glen as quickly as possible, but when he approached their bike stash Hogs emerged from the trees and starting firing at them.

‘They found the bikes! Hold on!’ Eddy yanked on the throttle and the bike raced straight towards the Hogs, making them dive to safety.

Not letting up, he gunned the bike onwards, swerving to avoid the gunfire.

But then there was a sickening dull thud and Gunther fell from the back of the bike.

‘No!’

Eddy skidded to a stop.

Gunther’s body lay motionless on the floor in a broken heap.

‘Fuck! Gunther!’

There was no reply, except the revving of engines. Beams split the night.

He had to go.

Feeling sick inside, he bolted out of the glen and onto the mountain road, hearing the Hogs on his tail.

The road snaked up the side of Snaefell, the highest point on the island. Its dark mass loomed ahead, picked out by the restless beams of the front pack.

Eddy put his foot down and started to see glimpses of their tail-lights appear around the bends. He had to tip the bike low to take the curves at such speed – a lot easier than with a pillion.

He was still in shock about Gunther. Those guys rubbed him out without even thinking. This shit was getting far too real for his liking.

All for a fucking bike. No. For his desire. For Fenja.

All he could do was make Gunther death not be in vain.

He had made the right choice with the bike, and started to catch up with Cruz’s pursuers.

Snarling, he gunned the engine to a dangerous speed and overtook the lead biker, weaving erratically, creating a pattern of interference to make them slow down, to give Cruz a chance.

Eddy was all too aware anyone of them could put a bead on him at any moment, but it would be hard to at such speeds. The curves of the road were his friend. Each bend kept him alive a little longer.

They were high up now – the Isle of Man spread out below them, the lights of the towns and villages like a terrestrial firmament.

Wind buffeted the side of the bike and he had to use all of his strength to keep it on the road. Sweat lined his limbs, dripped down his face. He had to hold on; hold his nerve.

He shivered as the temperature plummeted. They were up high, but not that high…

Skeins of mist drifted across the winding road.

The stars blinked out as the sky was consumed by dark clouds.

Suddenly, small projectiles started to smash onto the tarmac, onto his visor and upper body.

‘What the fuck?’

Hailstones the size of golf-balls started to cascade downwards. Eddy had to weave as much as possible around them but it was impossible to avoid them all. He could feel the grip of the wheels becoming less and less reliable and it took all of his skill to start upright.

Behind him he heard a crash, another. Someone’s gone down, taken some poor bastard with him.

The Gods must be on their side!

With relief the freak hail-storm died away, as he descended the other side of Snaefell.

Maybe they would make it after all…?

Ahead, he saw Cruz, who pulled over at the empty grandstand which overlooked the sharp bend down to Douglas.

Eddy pulled up by her.

Flipping up her helmet, she asked ‘Where’s Gunther?’

‘He didn’t make it.’

Cruz didn’t say anything.

They came off the main road, taking an obscure back route: Lanjaghan Lane.

For a moment it seemed like they had given their pursuers the slip, but then a cone of light appeared behind them, getting closer and closer. It was hard to go at any speed along such a narrow, twisting lane.

Gunshots split the air.

At any moment, one of them was going to get hit.

Eddy braced himself for the inevitable.

Up ahead there was a small bridge. Eddy suddenly recalled Bog’s crazy advice – the kind of shit his grandfather Running Bear would come out. Or Grandpa Gunnar, who saw elves everywhere. Every stream with its resident spirit. Every rock and tree… He’d never given the old beliefs much credence … until now.

Until his life depended upon it.

As they flew over the bridge he called out, ‘Good night, fairies! May you sleep in peace!’

As their pursuer reached bridge something happened to him: he vanished into a bank of mist. There was a crash, and the broken chassis of the bike skidded out of the mist, along the road, coming to a stop against the dry stone wall.

Riderless.

Eddy and Cruz both saw this, but didn’t want to say anything, in case it somehow directed the wrath of the ‘People of Peace’ onto them.

Silently, they continued. Eventually, the back lane intercepted the Peel Road.

No more bikes were on their tail. They had shaken them off, or something had…

Bog’s words echoed in Eddy’s mind: ‘…every day alive on this Earth is a fekking miracle.’

Grateful for their lives, they headed back to Peel.

***

Extract from Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

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Vikings and Bikers

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New Religions Added to the Watchlist

True Americans will be sleeping safer in their beds tonight. Homeland Security has confirmed that more religions are to be added to the watchlist at our airports and seaports. The controversial but effective Muslim Ban – designed to minimise the risk of terrorism on US soil – has now been extended to include, as of today: Sikhs, Hindus, Jains, Zoroastrians, and Bahais. ‘The safety of US citizens come first. God-fearing Americans have nothing to worry about,’ said a spokesperson. ‘These people are not always our enemy, but it is better to be safe than sorry.’ He added, ‘If you know any followers of these religions in your community please report them to your nearest Homeland office, or via the Watchlist app. Take a discreet photo and send it to us, but do not approach them.’ We must all do our patriotic duty to root out these radical extremists from our neighbourhoods. Normal Americans want to go about their lives in peace – working, paying taxes, going to church, raising our families. The usual bleating liberals have already started complaining about this upgrading of our national security defences. If left to them, we’d all be living in caliphate. Perhaps they should move to Turdistan, or wherever. What do you think, Jessy?

Chapter 5: Vikings and Bikers

As Eddy killed the engine of the Ducati and took off his helmet, the first thing he noticed about the High Street in Peel was how … normal it looked. Maybe not full of the usual chains, but about as prosaic as you could get. It didn’t feel like a holiday town. Normal folk were going about their normal business.

Then two guys dressed up like Viking re-enactors staggered onto the street from a side-alley leading to the beach. ‘Mead, we need mead!’ they cried out in unison, looking at Eddy imploringly, pretending to be dying of thirst.

They burst out laughing, before staggering up the High Street, making shoppers step warily out of their way.

Close up, Eddy realised their garb had been biker, but with odd touches to make it seem more Vikingish. With their leathers, boots, metal bling, tattoos, and outlandish hair, most hardcore bikers weren’t far off anyway. These guys just had a few more pouches and shit. Their leathers looked like something from a Fantasy movie; their nose-rings from a punk revival. And they blatantly carried daggers on their hips. Things were definitely going south of the law on the island. The police seemed to be keeping a very low profile.

And you couldn’t blame them. More and more poured onto the island every day, and many of them were piling into Peel.

Eddy heard the roar of bikes before he saw them, at the far end of the side-alley.

It looked like some kind of parade was taking place, going by the drums, rock music, and cheering.

Curious, he headed down to the seafront.

And that’s when he saw them.

The biker gang clearly was popular, very popular, as it slowly made its way through the cheering crowds – like rows of warriors greeting their victorious king, and ‘kingly’ could be one way to describe the leader of the pack, by his bearing if not his grizzled appearance, although the size of his bike was enough to make him ‘alpha male’. Eddy had never seen such a beast – it was like one of those you see at custom shows, design projects never meant for riding on the road, fantasies of chrome and steel out sci-fi or horror movies. The leader’s bike was like a giant metal steed, with four pairs of bulging, gleaming exhaust pipes serving for legs. The engine looked like it was six cylinder – six, for chrissakes! The front forks extended an improbably long way, and the drop-handlebars were like the horns of an auroch. Twin headlights glinted like eyes, momentarily blinding Eddy. As its rider revved its engine, the very ground seemed to shake. He could feel it vibrating in his chest.

You would need a lot of strength and nerve to control such a monster, he thought. Eddy strained to catch a glimpse of the rider, but the crowds made it hard. They were going wild at this point, and showering the road before him with fountains of shook up beer. It was hard not to be swept up in the euphoria. The atmosphere was like the return of World Cup winners to their capital.

Finally, Eddy saw him as he cruised past. The man was big, but not just physically. He radiated an aura of ‘presence’ about him. A long mane of silver hair, shaved at the sides to reveal complex raven tattoos on the side of his skull, and knotted in places, decorated with iron skull beads, as was his long beard, plaited and weighed down. His right ear and raptor nose carried a fair share of metal too, along with his arms, bulging beneath serpent torcs, and hands, bristling with rings. His clothing was the usual biker vest and leather trousers, but what made him stand out was the eye-patch he sported over his left eye, which Eddy only spotted as the rider turned his gaze to him as he passed by, a gaze that fixed on him in the crowd like a sniper’s laser.

Eddy’s head felt like it was going to implode. He blinked, staggered back. By the time he had shook his sight clear, the leader was gone.

What was that?

But before he could reflect, the rest of the cortege grabbed his attention. There was a dozen ‘first rank’ riders, and many following of lesser degree. The two flanking the chief obviously had high status, and shared a similar countenance to the leader. Yet going by their less gloomy manner they clearly carried less responsibility. They cast each other amused glances, as they soaked up the adoration. One called out witty comments to the crowd. The other, the more handsome, just beamed in the fan-girl screams from the female onlookers.

Behind them, and contrasting sharply in demeanour, was a giant of a woman astride her metal steed, only slightly less formidable than the leader’s, but with the front stylised like a butting goat. She had a severe shaven hairstyle, a tattoo descending down one side of her face. It looked like an oak tree and lightning bolt. Her shot-putters physique was constrained by a wide decorated belt. But it was her forearms and hands that were extra-ordinary – like two mallets. Jagged tattoos entwined down these rippling appendages, concluding in two stylised hammer decorating her fists. Eddy decided he didn’t fancy getting into a fight with her. The crowd gave her enormous respect, chanting out what must have been her nickname: ‘Hammer! Hammer! Hammer!’ She raised a fist in acknowledgement. Someone threw a full beer can at her, which she snatched out of the air, crushed instantly and guzzled down as the contents burst from it, laughing as the froth poured between the goblets of her breasts.

Behind her came a mean-looking one-handed biker – hair half-shaved to reveal a stylised wolf tattoo adorning his skull and neck; his bike a black war-horse of jagged danger, fitted out with what looked like cannons. He sported two crossed bandoliers of ammo and a shotgun strapped to his back. The massive hunting knife in his boot-sheaf looked like it meant business too. 

How on Earth did he get all of that through security at the terminal, Eddy wondered?

Then there was a woman biker who wore white leathers trimmed with white fur. Her bike gleamed with gold detail, and its rows of LEDs dazzled. She had long blonde hair and had blazing beauty about her.

Next to her was a man of shadows in a black cloak, with a pallid face, and a bike of pure silver. Every inch of it was sparkling chrome.

Other larger-than-life figures followed – all looking like they meant business; each one imprinting on his mind’s eye like a tableaux.

Behind them came row after row of the lesser ranks: equally proud biker-Vikings, as Eddy was starting to think of them. Many biker gangs allude to Norse culture in their bling, body art, and behaviour, but this bunch had really gone the whole hog, he thought.

It was then Eddy noticed their patches.

Three interlocking triangles.

The shock of recognition made his heart miss a beat. This was the sigil Fenja had implanted in his mind. She had left him a clue to find her!

Eagerly he looked closer.

The Valknut insignia, now it was on his radar, was everywhere: it adorned rings, belt buckles, earrings, hair beads, and bike details. He realised he had seen it in Douglas, but amid the chaos it had been harder to take in. These were not the Devils Hogs; but the other main gang he had noticed on the crossing: the Wild Hunt. This lot, though clearly worthy of respect, did not exude the hate of the former. They had a kind of inherent nobility, one that didn’t cancel out others. It seemed to say: I have found my power, have you?

Eddy’s sharp blue New Iceland eyes swept over the crowd, all sporting, now he realised, Wild Hunt patches, or associate chapters (authorised by the Valknut beneath each rocker). They were a wild bunch for sure, and knew how to whoop it up, but did not seem hostile. As an obvious outsider, Eddy didn’t feel like he was going to get beaten up at any moment. Maybe the crowd were just distracted, in high spirits, and it was a temporary truce, but he was relieved, for now. For he was on a mission.

Eddy desperately scanned the crowd for the only woman that mattered to him.

It was a fool’s errand, he knew. There must be thousands present, lining the seafront of Peel. Beyond the quayside the castle dominated the entrance to the small harbour – perhaps from there he would get a better vantage point.

Yet he wasn’t going anywhere until the entourage had passed. They slowly crawled by, revving their deafening engines – making their way to the beach where some kind of encampment had been created. Eddy could see numerous tents, a truck-stage, even a couple of marquees. Perhaps that would be worth checking out later, he thought, as he made his way through the backwash of pedestrians, now spilling onto the street.

That’s when he spotted her – at least he caught a tantalising glimpse of the unmistakable tall frame, shock of spiky blonde hair, and confident gait. ‘Hey! Fenja!’ he called out, uselessly. She was too far away to hear amid the rock and rumble of bikes.

He pushed his way through the crowds, still in good spirits thankfully. A few shoved back but nobody took offence. It was just like being in a moshpit at a festival.

‘Fenja!’

For a brief moment, she paused and half-turned her head. Was that the ghost of a smile?

Then she vanished into the crowd, sweeping down to the beach.

Eddy was caught up in this torrent, and allowed himself to be carried along by the excited mass.

He had seen her! She was here! And perhaps she knew he was too!

Eddy’s heart soared.

He descended the ramp down onto the beach facing the grey Irish Sea, surly waves grabbing at the shore. The exposed sand was barely adequate to hold such a multitude, and many spilled into the waves, laughing at they were drenched, goofing about in the water.

The entourage had pulled up in front of the main marquee emblazoned with Valknut banners, parking in a semi-circle on the track that had been thrown down. A rock band provided a deafening flourish and then the MC, a Joker-like figure with the voice of Tom Waits, announced the arrival of the ‘Wild Hunt Elders’, as he called them deferentially, before the band kicked off a full set of classics. It was more like a bikerfest than a gathering on a beach, although old school meet-ups used to have that wild anarchy to them – half-party, half-riot.

Eddy looked around, but it impossible, with the crowd rocking out, long hair lashing as everyone went into head-banger mode.

The Elders had entered the marquee – one side open to the crowd, and sat down on fur-covered chairs and benches, a feast laid before them, beer flowing, served by fierce-looking barmaids who sported ink and knives.

Eddy thought he saw Fenja enter the tent too, and moshed his way to the front – giving as good as he got.

Finally he burst through the crowd, falling onto the sand before the semi-circle of bikes, guarded by stern-faced looking ‘bouncers’.

‘Fenja!’ Eddy called out. He lunged forward, trying to break through the guards; but was took down with brute force. Two pinned him to the ground. A third stood before him with what looked like a spear – a spear, for crying out loud! What was this, fucking Game of Thrones-Con?

‘No admittance to the VIP Marquee, scumbag!’

‘Out of my way, meathead. My lady is in there!’

The guard did not look like he had a sense of humour. He brought the butt of the spear down on the side of Eddy’s skull with a crack.

When he regained consciousness, moments later, he was sprawled on his back, with the crowd looking on, the guards standing to one side as a serious looking one-handed biker-warrior came over.

‘Oh dear, oh dear. Looks like we have a gatecrasher…’ The warrior played to the crowd. ‘Doesn’t look like he’s got a patch, a special pass, or special anything for that matter… What shall we do with him?’

‘In the water, in the water!’ the crowd chanted.

The warrior nodded, and two guards pulled Eddy to his feet. ‘Looks like the filthy bastard could do with a wash… Chuck him in fellas. Stake him and let the tide do the rest. We need to set an example.’

‘Wait!’ Eddy blurted, but was punched in the kidneys. Gasping, he crumpled to his knees and was dragged towards the water’s edge.

‘Stop!’

A voice, clear and authoritative, made the guards stop dead in their tracks.

The crowd turned, to see a tall figure walk majestically passed them until she stood next to Eddy.

‘Let him go!’

The guards looked back to the one-handed warrior, trying to see what his decision would be.

‘Let him go, Tear, or you’ll have me to answer to! He is my guest!’

The warrior called Tear snarled at The Hammer, but lifted his good hand and flicked it dismissively, spitting into the sand, before swaggering away.

Reluctantly, the guards let him fall onto the sand. Eddy spat blood-soaked grit from his mouth and smiled with a wince. ‘Boy, am I glad to see you…!’

‘Get up, you idiot. Brush yourself down. Show some backbone. These people respect strength, not weakness.’

Painfully, he got to his feet. His body ached, but his heart glowed. He had found her! He tried to catch Fenja’s eye, but she ignored him, facing the crowd.

‘This man is my guest. He is a musician and he’s going to play for us!’

Cheers and jeers from the crowd.

‘Wait, hold on there. I didn’t plan to do any…’

‘Shut up!’ she hissed. ‘You need to impress them before there tear you to pieces.’ She marched him towards the stage. Her grip on him was firm and made his heart race.

‘But I haven’t got a guitar …’

She gave him a look and he kept quiet after that. Fenja nodded to the stage manager, face pierced with metal, who looked at the arrival scornfully. ‘Give him an axe. He’s going to entertain us.’

The manager shrugged. Nodded to the backstage. ‘Follow me then.’

Fenja glared at Eddy. ‘Don’t let me down.’

Eddy was thrust onto the stage to be greeted by boos.

MC Joker-Waits placated them mockingly: ‘Friends, pagans, countrymen! Please, your respect! We have a wandering skald to entertain us!’

‘Bring back the band!’ jeered the crowd.

‘Come, come, my fellow miscreants! We should give this poor fellow a fair chance. I have it on good authority that he is a fine axeman. Well, let’s see for ourselves! Give the man a guitar!’

A stage hand thrust a battered, black Fender into his hand. Hands sweating, he thrust in the jack, adjusted the strap, and stepped up to the mike.

The crowd roared at him in contempt. Bottles and glasses exploded close to his feet. One hit the mike stand.

‘Well, huh, hello Wild Hunters!’ He spat the blood and sand from his mouth. ‘As you can see I’ve already tasted your legendary hospitality!’ More beer or worse assailed the stage.

Someone bawled: ‘Get off, faggot!’

‘Hey, that’s real friendly of you, meathead!’ he riposted, losing his patience. ‘Can your mamma walk yet after I gave her a good seeing to?’

That got a rise out of No-brow and his mates. To a torrent of bottles and abuse Eddy scraped down the neck, making the guitar growl, and then plunged into a blistering solo. His fingers flew fast, faster than the missiles and insults, which he drowned out with a deafening crescendo of feedback.

Then he cut straight into the opening chords of ‘Whole Lotta Rosie’ and the crowd stopped attacking and started dancing.

‘Wanna tell you story

About a woman I know…’

Eddy’s voice – charged with the banshee warcry of his ancestors – roared out across the beach, booming off the walls of the castle and seafront shops and hotels.

Behind him, the band took to their instruments and started to join in. They knew a good thing when it was going and riffed off the energy of the crowd.

Eddy turned the aggression of the crowd into an adrenalin-fuelled high, but it was the woman at the side of the stage, watching coolly on, who gave him the courage and energy to continue. As the song ended with its deafening finale, he gave her a quick side-glance and wink, before jumping straight into another monster classic. He didn’t want risk stopping and facing their reaction. Not give them a chance to think, just make ’em dance.

His fingers were aching and he was dripping sweat by the time he handed the guitar to the stage-hand and walked off stage. Behind him the crowd paid him tribute with wild applause. They liked him – an underdog who came through, who showed spirit.

Fenja was there to meet him as he accepted the cold beer and a respectful slap on the back from his bandmates.

‘Well, that went better than I hoped!’ he laughed, shaking with the adrenalin. In good spirits, he went to hug her, but she held him at bay.

‘Hey! I missed you. Don’t I get a hug?’

Fenja gave him a cool look, which made him even hotter. ‘You didn’t fuck up. Bravo! You’ve earned a few beers and maybe a night’s dispensation in the Wild Hunt camp. You will live to see the sunrise.’

Eddy couldn’t help admiring her as she stood there before him – just seeing her again made him happy. He was probably grinning from ear to ear; not really taking in what she was saying.

‘But before you earn the right to even touch me in front of my club you must prove your colours. Without a patch you are just a nobody. You don’t exist.’

Eddy rubbed the burn on his hand. ‘Well, hey. No pain, no gain… Tell me what I’ve gotta do! anything to please you, ba—. Lady.’

She gave him an appraising glance. ‘You must be taken on as a prospect. And if you prove worthy, and survive the initiation, then, and only then, will I let you near, though I make no promises what will follow.’

***

[image error]Thunder Road – coming soon…

Extract from Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

NEXT CHAPTER published tomorrow

Legs of Man

@POTUS47

3.43am

THIS VOLCANO THING IS RUINING MY GOLF COURSES IN LEPRECORN-LAND. SOMEBODY NEEDS TO FIX IT PDQ!

3.55am

I WOULDN’T PUT IT PAST THOSE SMURF-FUCKERS TO HAVE TRIGGERED IT ON PURPOSE. NOBODY CLOSES DOWN OUR AIRSPACE! NOBODY!

3.58am

I ONCE STAYED IN REKVIK. BAD MISTAKE!!! THEY SERVE YOU ROTTEN SHARK MEAT, FOR FUX-SAKE!!! DARK AGE RETARDS!!! STILL, I MET THIS STUNNER THERE, A 5 (DON’T TELL THE 1ST LADY) ;0) BOY COULD SHE RAISE THE GEEZER. DFGERG.

Chapter 4: Legs of Man

As the ramp slammed into place, the bikers queuing up warmed up their engines. The main bay of the ferry was almost entirely taken over by the riders, and, as Eddy noted, they weren’t the shiny weekend biker types. And there was a notable lack of the ubiquitous Adventure guys on their copycat GPS’, or the sports bike brigade in their garish leather jumpsuits. These were the grungier kind of biker – the notorious outlaw ‘one per cent’ – all on growling beasts of black and chrome: hogs or Victories or some Triumph Rockets. Many were marque-less, customised beyond recognition. And the riders wore their patches proudly on denim cut-offs over leathers. The Wild Hunt and the Devils Hogs seemed to be the most common. They queued up on opposite sides of the deck, an uneasy truce between them. The tension on the ferry had been palpable. A few fights had broken out on the bar. Chairs and tables had been smashed up. A bar ransacked before they’d been able to pull down the shutters. At least one person had been thrown overboard. Some seemed to be delighting in the ‘good times’. Eddy kept a low profile, watching warily from a corner.

And now here he was, on his Ducati, sticking out like a sore thumb. He filed into line, taking his place in the pack – right at the back. He didn’t want to get in the way of these guys, the inevitable burn up as soon as the all clear siren blasted.

He was here with one purpose alone – to find Fenja. He just needed to keep his head down. Not get into a fight. He was all too aware though, having been to biker rumbles in the States, how easy it was to find your self on the wrong end of a fist, especially if you were prowling the bars, scanning the biker women. Just looking in the wrong direction was enough to get yourself glassed or worse. Bikers were often cavemen like in their manners, but even more so when it came to their women – fiercely territorial, ready to violence, to defend their mate against a rival, yet all too keen to parade their trophy in front of everyone, happy for them to prance around in leather bikini tops and micro-shorts, take part in wet t-shirt contests, and egg them on into bitch-fights. No wonder so many of their pillion squeezes end up joining all-female biker gangs.

The siren sounded and there was a mighty roar from the collective engines. And the torrent of bikers broke onto the quayside of the island like a black wave.

Eddy was one of the last to exit, following the pack at a safe distance.

So, here he was. The legendary Isle of Man, home of the TT – biker Mecca for millions. Yet it was no Tourist Trophy that had brought all these petrol heads to the island this time. It was ‘the Gathering’. Word had gone out and bikers had come from all over Europe. It was already being talked about as the biggest biker rumble in history.

 As Eddy rode out along the promenade, he could believe it.

The seafront of Man’s capital had clearly seen better days. It had an old-fashioned air about it. The horse-drawn trams (made nervous by the bikes), retro amusement arcades, white painted phone boxes, and faded glory of it all hinted at a heyday long passed. The waves of visitors had receded to foreign shores, drawn away by cheap flights and fairer weather. It clearly tried to make the most of its vintage ambience, but felt more like a jilted bride stuck in her threadbare wedding dress, clutching a bouquet of wilted flowers.

Yet in the sharp light of the new day it took on a different aspect, taken over by the hordes of bikers. In front of the crumbling guest houses row upon row of gleaming bikes lined up. Gangs of one-percenters cruised up and down the main drag, pulling wheelies, or buzzing pedestrians. Seagulls squawked angrily, but for once their racket was drowned out by the rumble of engines. The air reeked of petrol, hot pipes, rubber, and pungent leather. It was like riding into the encampment of a medieval army, freshly landed and preparing itself for the invasion of the interior. Ellen Vannin was about to be ravished.

Is this the way the world ends, Eddy ruminated. Not with a bang, but with a rumble?

He’d never seen so many bikers together. Sure, he’d seen plenty of photographs and footage of Chapter rallies, but little of that kind of thing happened north of the border. Gimli, Manitoba was not known for its bikers. Eddy was a bit of a black swan there, but even more so here. He was never more aware of his redskin amid so many white males. Under his helmet he was still anonymous. One of ‘them’, of the two-wheeled genus, Homo Automatous, if not a specific sub-species identifiable by patch.

Nervously, he cruised past the rows of ‘Devils Hogs’ – riders sporting swastikas and iron crosses on their jackets and open face-helmets. Many sporting similar on their shaven heads. Wearing the standard chopper shades, faces bristling with metal, he felt their dark gaze as he passed by on his incongruous Ducati.  Without a club he was vulnerable. Fresh meat. Eddy had never been a joiner, but he could see the merits of being patched up in a place like this. If a member is attacked, then the attacker has to deal with the rest of the club. This ‘NATO’-like rule (‘all on one and one on all’, as the Angels put it) prevented all out war breaking out, most of the time – although that didn’t prevented the long-running blood-feud of some gangs, most notoriously the Hells Angels and the Outlaws.

Here it felt like the tension was ready to spill over at any minute. The air was thick with it, just like the dark clouds gathering over Snaefell. For now, the silver blades of sunlight kept ripping through the high thin gauze of cloud over the coast. There was a crackle of energy in the atmosphere, fuelled by petrol and testosterone and it was exhilarating.

Beyond the Devils Hogs, who had claimed the first main stretch of promenade, Eddy was relieved to see other, less obviously xenophobic, bikers. There was a formidable looking female biker gang, sporting ‘Valkyrie’ patches. Eddy’s heart leapt in hope, but as he scanned them he realised his mistake. Some of them looked even more dangerous than the Hogs, and Eddy felt the sobering sensation of feeling vulnerable as a man, as their glares warded him off. They had staked their pitch, claimed their bars and hotels, and abandon all hope, any man who dared to enter. If Fenja was with that lot, he didn’t stand a chance.

Eddy’s stomach growled and he could murder a coffee, feeling sluggish after the early crossing. He scanned the front for a spot to pull in by a decent looking café, but nowhere looked particularly safe. He would just have to take his chances.

Spotting an obviously popular ‘greasy spoon’ type diner, he backed his Ducati in between the ranks. Boldness was the key. Look like you’re meant to be there. He killed the engine and dismounted, trying to maintain a confident swagger – hard, when he was a feeling a bit spaced out from long hours on the road, lack of sleep, and sustenance.

He locked his helmet to his handlebars, and donned his shades, and went to queue up. The smell of coffee was good; the waft of cooking even better; and he started to consider the menu items.

‘Hey, ass-wipe, out of the way!’

Eddy turned to see one of the Nazi bikers growling at him, clenching his fist. His face was mask of metal and ink – his eyes burning with hostility, filed teeth bared.

‘Hey, no problem man. I didn’t realise you were in the queue.’

The shark pressed his face towards Eddy. ‘I am now, and you’re in my way!’

The crowd immediately around them started to circle, sensing a fight. A bunch of the Devils Hogs circled behind Eddy, cutting off any retreat. It was a no-win situation and he wasn’t feeling suicidal. He had other priorities than getting to Valhalla today. He lifted up his arms.            ‘Sure, go ahead. My mistake.’

‘Being born was your mistake!’ hissed the shark, before head-butting him.

Eddy’s nose exploded and there was a blur of fists and boots as he was laid into before he was able to react and defend himself.

Suddenly, the reality of what was happening to him kicked in, painfully, and adrenalin started to surge through his veins. He fended off a blow, and managed to regain an upright posture, squaring off to the attacker.

‘Ahh, look, he’s trying to play. Out of your depth here, kiddo! Striking a Devil’s Hog. You’ve just signed your death warrant.’ The shark man raised a spike ringed fist, ready to land another blow. His comrades closed in around Eddy, ready to do this same.

Suddenly a tall, red-headed figure burst into the circle in a drunken manner, falling on his face. He picked himself up and dusted himself down. ‘There you are, you big red eejit!’ He grabbed Eddy by the bloody collar, holding back shark-man with his other hand. ‘Jeezus, sorry to break up the party here, fellas. This prospect shite is one of ours.’

The Devil Hog members scanned the patch on the Irishman’s back.

‘That’s roight, Banshees. No messing with the Fenians. We’re practically on home turf here and there’s an awful lot of us here. And we’ve been on the Jamesons all night. A little dust-up would set us up grand for a fry up.’

The shark man spat on the floor at Eddy’s feet. ‘I won’t forget you, Redskin…’ He jabbed two fingers towards his own pinprick eyes, then at Eddy, before nodding to his mates, and slipping back into the crowd.

The Irishman gave Eddy a wink. ‘I think you owe me a fry-up.’

Eddy spat a gobbet of blood. ‘I think you’re right. Thanks.’ He held out a hand. ‘Eddy Redcrow.’

‘Daniel O’Donnell.’

Eddy raised an eyebrow.

‘Nah, only shiteing ya. Mikey Heffernan at your service. Most folks call me Bog. Don’t ask why. I like a scrap as much as the next mad Irish bastard – and there are plenty of them here. But I like fair odds. Now, is that bacon I can smell?’

‘Now, let’s get this straight,’ said Bog, as he licked his fingers. The remains of the breakfast lay scattered around him. The man had a mighty appetite, that was for sure. ‘You met this Nordic bird escaping the Euro-clusterfuck. You gave her a lift; she gave you the horn. You had a flight home, but decided to come here and try to find her.  A single biker-lass on an island of about a million and counting…’

Eddy took another slurp of coffee, wincing at the pain in his mouth. That shark-bastard had loosened one of his teeth.

‘Here, this’ll help.’ Bog produced a hipflask and poured some of its contents in his mug, before taking a long sip himself. ‘Ahh, top of the morning to you! Here’s to the wild lasses that laugh as they break our hearts…’ And he burst tunelessly into song:

‘There’s nought but care on every hand, in every hour that passes oh,

What signifies the life of man, and tw’ere nae for the lassies oh.

Green grow the rushes oh, green grow the rushes oh-oh

The sweetest hours that ere I spent, I spent among the lasses-oh.’

Eddy laughed, winced, and sighed. ‘When you put it like that, it sounds daft, I know. But …’

‘You’ve never met anyone like her in your life, she’s the rosiest of roses…?’ Bog’s eyes twinkled. ‘Ah, only joshing ye, Red. I know the feeling all too well. It was the rose of Galway that did it for me… Mother Mary, she had thorns!’

Eddy was lost in his own fond memory. ‘There was something about her… She had a … magic about her. Made the pumps flow…’

‘Well, I never heard it put like that before!’ Bog chuckled. ‘But seriously, what does she look like. I’ll definitely keep my peepers peeled. Nothing better than eyeing up the lasses. Could watch them all day…’

‘Tall, blonde, slim, kick-ass. You wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of her.’

‘Sounds like you need her as your bodyguard, fella. You need to watch your red arse around here. There are some folks who are none to friendly to anyone looking ‘different’.’

Eddy rolled his eyes, ‘I’ve noticed.’ He took another swig.

‘Bloody ironic, though, isn’t it, when half of bloody Europe is here. It’s like fekkin’ Eurovision out there.’

They both watched the motley array of bikers cruising up and down, the diverse reg plates, and flag patches.

‘Seriously though, get yourself patched up before you get yourself killed.’

‘I’ve never been much of a joiner.’

Bog seized his wrist. ‘Now’s the time to fekkin’ start. The chips are down, my friend. I’ve got an awful feeling that this muvva volcano shit is just the start. Who your tribe is, who’s got your back, is going to be difference between life and death. Mark my words.’ Bog raised his flask and emptied its contents, smacking his lips.

Eddy brooded on this. He’d never felt part of a tribe, even his own back home. Being a breed made it hard to fit in anywhere, to truly belong. He was always the outsider. Not quite fully First Nation, not quite fully Icelandic. He knew he had Nordic ancestry, yet half of Gimli boasted ‘Viking blood’. Was it such a bad thing?

Bog stood up, somewhat unsteadily. ‘Hey, listen up. I like yous, fella. Don’t get yourself killed, but get your red arse to Peel. That’s where the Nordic bikers are heading, I’ve heard. Plus the Ruskies, the Poles. All those loonies.’

‘Where?’

‘Far southwest of the island. Big castle overlooking the beach. Can’t fecking miss it. They’ll all be camped out there, making offerings to Odin, all that shit. If you’re gal is anywhere, it’ll be there. Sounds like her crew.’

‘Cheers, Bog.’

‘Go easy. See you around, I hope.’

The Irishman staggered off, and though he bumped into a couple of customers, he was tall enough for them to think twice at taking on an Irishman loosened by alcohol.

Eddy finished his coffee. ‘To Peel, then.’

***

[image error]Thunder Road – coming soon …

Extract from Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

NEXT CHAPTER

The Choice

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Chapter 3: The Choice

Eddy awoke, shivering and damp. The ferry ploughed its way through the white caps, creating a see-saw motion which made him queasy. His travelling companion was nowhere to be seen, and for a second the unsettling thought crossed his mind – that he had dreamed her into being. And yet, her bag was still next to his in their temporary ‘nest’. He picked it up, and slinging his own over his shoulder, made a quick reccy of the deck.

It was early morning. Dawn was a red smear in the east. The chilly fog, bitter on the tongue, dissipated the sunlight in a thin veil. Seagulls keened noisily overhead, skirling about the funnels, which belched their grey smoke into the air. 

Towards the rear of the deck, overlooking the stern, he found her – her tall, slim figure a dark outline against the pale mist. As he approached he heard her speaking – a strange guttural tongue – to herself, to the sea: 

Mæg ic be me sylfum soðgied wrecan,
siþas secgan, hu ic geswincdagum
earfoðhwile oft þrowade,
bitre breostceare  gebiden hæbbe,

gecunnad in ceole  cearselda fela,
atol yþa gewealc…

The lonely sound seemed to echo the bleak vista; the haranguing gulls; the tang of brine. Eddy sensed a deep longing and loneliness in her words which echoed his own emptiness – something he had never been able to articulate or even acknowledge until now.

Sensing his presence, Fenja stopped mid-sentence. She turned and he saw the glister of tears in her eyes.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.’ He ventured closer. ‘It was … beautiful – weird, but beautiful.’

She scowled at him and went to light a cigarette, covering her lighter with the flap of her jacket.

‘What did it mean?’

Fenja took a drag of her cigarette and scanned the skein of wave-patterns unravelling from the wake of the ship.

‘It’s just an old poem…’ she shrugged dismissively.

‘Please, I’d like to know.’

Fenja gave him an appraising look, and then exhaled a wraith of smoke. She continued, shifting into English: ‘…atol yþa gewealc … the terrible tossing of the waves, where the anxious night-watch often took me, at the ship’s prow, when it tossed near the cliffs. Fettered by cold, were my feet, bound by frost, in cold clasps, where then cares seethed; hot about my heart – a hunger tears from within the sea-weary soul.’

‘Wow, that’s pretty awesome. What language is that?’

‘An old one, spoken by seafarers who crossed this Whale’s Road, as we do – to Britain.’

‘Far out, Fen. Were you a literature major or something?’

She looked at him scornfully.

‘Mm, shall I get us a coffee?’

She nodded.

‘Frappacino, right? Brrr. It’s chilly enough for me. I need something hot! Seeya in a mo.’

Fenja watched him go. Then turned back to the waves, she continued, a little contemptuously:

‘That man knows not,
to whom on earth fairest falls,
how I, care-wretched, ice-cold sea
dwelt on in winter along the exile-tracks,
bereaved both of friend and of kin,
behung with rime-crystals. Hail showers flew.
I heard nothing there but the sea’s sounding,
ice-cold wave.’

Fenja didn’t seem very talkative after that, although Eddy was full of excitement at their crossing. They were making progress, albeit painfully slowly. After twelve hours the gloomy coast of Britain appeared and by then Eddy was glad to see it. The sea seemed to put his companion into a strange mood. He was looking forward to being back on dry land – with two wheels under him and the road stretching ahead. He’d been checking out the route on his phone, and just before they docked, he approached his impromptu passenger with a suggestion. She scanned the dreary docks of Hull with cold eyes. It didn’t look promising.

‘Well, this is the parting of the ways…’

Fenja shrugged.

‘Listen, I have a suggestion to make.’

She turned to look at him – stiffening.

‘No, nothing improper. I know you’re not the kinda gal to try it on with…’

She narrowed her eyes to slits of ice.

‘Not that that wouldn’t be nice…’

She glared at him.

‘But what I wanted to say was – how about I give you a lift to Liverpool. That’s where the ferry leaves for Man, doesn’t it? Where your big powwow is?’          

Fenja sucked on her cigarette, scanning the docks. ‘Very well.’

‘Cool!’ Eddy went to high-five her. ‘Looks like we’ve got a deal.’

Fenja stubbed the cigarette off on his palm. The flesh sizzled, reeked.

‘Ow!’ Eddy looked at the burnt hole in his hand in disbelief. ‘Jeezus!’

‘But keep your hands to yourself!’

She slinked off, as the tannoy announced disembarkation.

They got out of Hull as quickly as possible, taking the York road – when it soon became apparent the motorway was gridlocked. It was early evening and the plan was to get at least as far as that city before they stopped for food. The ride to Liverpool would take roughly two hours twenty, but Eddy was determined to make the most of it. There was something about Fenja that … fascinated him. Yes, his hand still smarted – making gripping the handlebar uncomfortable –  but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d been drawn to something bad for him, as Siggy, his sister, would no doubt point out. There were a dozen messages from her on his phone, and half a dozen from his Mom, but he held off answering them. They could wait.

He had a hot one on his hands.

Eddy’s first impressions of Britain weren’t promising. The hinterland of Hull was, frankly, depressing. None of the charming quaintness he’d come to expect from cheesy movies. Red double deckers and postboxes, old-fashioned ‘bobbies’ on the beat, Big Ben and Olde Worlde pubs serving warm beer. It wasn’t even raining! It just looked drab – worn out suburbs and Legoland shopping centres, dismal high streets lined with empty units and big shed industrial estates.  The countryside wasn’t much better … it seemed threadbare somehow. Of the picturesque villages and rolling, verdant hills he saw little evidence. Not so much the Shire, as just ‘shite’, as he overheard a local say when they stopped for directions – laughing coarsely. The people around here seemed, well, just odd. Hard-looking, unwelcoming faces like the grizzled coast-line: stern cliffs lashed by bitter seas.

At one point, pausing at a black-and-white striped pedestrian crossing, Eddy smiled as he saw an obese bald man in a tattered dress pushing an empty pram across – excruciatingly slowly. He tapped his fingers impatiently on his handlebars – until halfway across the bald man turned and shouted: ‘The voices in the sky told me it’s not safe for you to ride your bike.’ Eddy laughed about this with Fenja, but it rattled him a little – especially his passenger’s sober response. ‘He’s probably right.’

‘Come off it! Do you listen to voices in the sky?’

Fenja nodded. ‘You would be foolish not to.’

Right. Eddy had had his belly-full of such bullshit from both his grandfathers: incomprehensible Icelandic sagas from Gunnar (may his liver rest in peace); hokey Medicine Way shit from Running Bear. He’d grown up with it. Ever since busting out of High School, he had done his damnedest to avoid all of that hocus pocus. The only medicine he needed was rock and roll, a cold beer and a hot babe.

At York they stopped for fish and chips: they had to try them, Eddy had insisted. They sat by the castle ruins, watching the lads and lasses out on the town in t-shirts and mini-skirts. Eddy was impressed by the brevity of attire the local girls wore, or rather didn’t, considering how parky it was (according to one of the lads, brassing it out bravely, pint in hand). Fenja jabbed at her fish it suspiciously with the wooden fork.

‘Boy, they’re pretty hot around here. Alot of blondes – they look a bit like you. But not as …’

He remembered the cigarette butt, and held back. ‘How’s the fish.’

‘Good.’

‘Better than these chips. I could only manage half of them.’ He belched.

Fenja didn’t react.

‘How about we go for a beer?’

‘How about we go?’

‘Hang on – you’re not doing all the driving. It’s a long ride after a long trip. What’s the rush?’

‘Why would I want to spend a moment longer with you than I have to?’

‘Hey, and I like your company too, Fen. You’re a barrel of laughs. You need to lighten up.’ He threw the rest of the chips in the bin. ‘I’m going for a beer. You can walk to Liverpool if you like, or come for one to wash down this English grease.’

On the way to the nearest pub they passed a visitor centre. Fenja froze outside and gazed through the glass at the display – a Viking longship.

Eddy whistled. ‘That’s was one helluva boat! Look at the dragon-head!’

Fenja started to recite something, but Eddy couldn’t catch it.

‘Pity it’s closed. It’s gone five. C’mon, let’s go.’

The glass doors of the admissions area suddenly slid open and Fenja walked straight inside. ‘Hey!’ Eddy went to follow her. ‘You can’t go in there! It’s clo—’ The glass doors slid shut in his face. He banged on them, but Fenja had walked inside the museum, out of sight.

He paced up and down for a bit, wondering what to do – then decided a beer would help.

Fenja found him in a local pub, sipping gingerly on a pint of dark English ale.

‘Did you have fun?’

‘My people…’ Her eyes were full of light. She seemed happy.

‘They didn’t catch you then?’ 

‘My people!’ she called out, grabbing his pint and raising it in toast, then she set to downing it in one, before Eddy could stop her.

‘Hey, buy your own!’

When she finished she slammed down the glass and smacked her lips, wiping the froth with the back of her hand. A ripple of applause and a few cheers went up around the bar. A loud track kicked in on the juke-box. She started dancing, to wolf whistles – pulling Eddy up off his feet. He was a bit embarrassed at first, but was soon caught up in her enthusiasm. It was good to see her let go – and boy, did she let go! She started to dance wilder and wilder – grinding and gyrating amongst the men, who began clapping and stamping.

Suddenly, from the other side of the bar Eddy could see policemen in their distinctive black and Nor’man-shaped helmets. The landlord pointed over to Fenja.

‘Quick, we’ve got to get out of here!’ Eddy grabbed hold of the dancer’s hand and pulled her towards the door. Laughing, she danced out into the street.

The police tried to barge their way through the beefy clientèle but the drinkers barred their way, knocking over stools.

‘Come on!’ Eddy ran, and Fenja sprinted beside him – as easily as a deer. They raced around the corner, out of sight of the pub and headed down a narrow side-lane in the general direction of the bike. It paid off – they appeared right next to it. Eddy unlocked it, and chucked Fenja a helmet. ‘Get on!’ He gunned the engine and they roared off, Fenja singing behind him.

They stopped a safe distance outside the city, pulling over on a layby along a country road. The sun was low in the sky – briefly showing its face beneath the lid of clouds. Pulling off their helmets, they both laughed with relief. They had got away!

‘What did you do back there to raise the heat?’

‘Oh, just a little sight-seeing.’

Eddy raised an eyebrow. ‘What is it with you and electronics? You seem able to affect them…’

‘Oh, nothing. It must be my natural … magnetism!’

‘You’re telling me. You had those guys lapping out of your hands in the pub. You’re … quite a dancer.’

‘And so were you…’ She pulled him closer. ‘You have a wild side too, Mister Redcrow.’ She pressed against him. She held him there for a minute – groin against groin. He could feel the heat of her loins.

‘Damn, I need a slash. Hold it right there!’

Fenja laughed and let him go. When he came back she was on the back of the bike, helmet on.

‘Let’s go, Redcrow!’

Arms folded, he looked at her in disbelief. She was pulling the strings alright! He shook his head. On a whim, saluted.

‘Yes, ma’am!’

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to wait with you?’

They were standing outside the ferry terminal at Liverpool. It was dark.

‘No, you go on. You have brought me so far.’

‘Well … look after yourself.’ He shuffled awkwardly. She handed him back the spare helmet.

Fenja pulled him to her and planted a hot kiss upon his lips. She lingered there and something crackled between them.

For a moment, Eddy looked at her – her elfin face close to his. Then, settling into it, he closed his eyes.  

There was a flash and crack – and an image streaked across his mind’s eye like a sigil of lightning. An intricate knot of sharp lines – three interlocking triangles – scolded into his mind like a brand.

And far off, inside, reverberating through his whole body – the sound of thunder.

Eddy started shaking. His limbs … wouldn’t stop shuddering. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know—‘

She placed her finger upon his lips, then turned on her heels and walked away.

Eddy shook his head, tried to recover. ‘Wait! Will I see you again?’

She paused and looked back briefly. ‘If the Norns will it.’

And she was gone.

Eddy crashed in a backpackers. He was wiped out and slept like a dog – snoring loudly – much to the annoyance of his fellow dorm-mates. The man below kept kicking his bunk, trying to make him shut up. The pounding became thunder in his dream. He was chasing Fenja across a rocky plateau where rock pools bubbled and steamed. Above, a sky dark with storm cloud. With each flash of lightning he caught a brief glimpse of the sigil from Fenja’s kiss. It seemed to whisper to him, something he couldn’t quite catch in a strange language. Just on the cusp of hearing it a heavy kick from below woke him up – he sat upright in his bunk, body clammy, breathing heavily.

For a moment, in the dark, he wasn’t sure where he was.

Then the smell of socks, of body odour, brought him back.

Sighing, he flopped back onto the mattress and was soon fast asleep.

He rose late and missed breakfast. The bunk-kicker was gone. The dorm empty except for his belongings, which he checked. Nothing missing. After freshening up, he grabbed a coffee and a snack from the vending machine and decided to check his emails.

There were about a hundred from his sister.

Sighing, he clicked on Whatsapp. Typed ‘S’. It would be about eight over there – if he was lucky, he’d catch his sister before she went to work.

Finally, she answered.

‘Sizzers, hi!’

‘Eddy, is that you, you dirtbag? Christ, where have you been? We’ve been worried sick!’ Her voice was a little distorted. Not a great connection, but it’ll have to do.

‘I’m fine…’

In the background he could her hear the sounds of the kitchen. The TV. Voices.

‘Wait a minute.’ She turned down the breakfast show. ‘Mom! Dad! Give me some space here. It’s Eddy! I know… I will … Just let me talk to him for now, okay! Sheesh!’

‘Sounds like all is well…’

‘Now you listen up, Eddy!’

‘Uh-oh, it’s that tone,’ he groaned. ‘Tsunami warning.’

‘Damn right. You’re way out of line. Not returning our messages. Letting us worry. We’ve been following the news and it looks like a real shit-storm over there in Euro-land. When we heard that Candy got back, we didn’t know what to think. I managed to collar her at Tergesen’s. She said you had split up. She didn’t have anything nice to say about you. You’ve blown it, little brother. You really are one tremendous fuck-up.’

‘Oh, here we go again.’

‘Yes, again and again – until you …’

‘Get a life, I know the drill.’ Eddy had heard this a thousand times before. ‘“When are you going to get a proper job? When are you going to settle down?’”

‘Eddy, you can’t be a teenager forever! Most of us grow up. You waste your talents in part-time jobs…’  

‘It supports my music career…’

‘Music career? An axe-man in a pub rock band. The Runestone Cowboys…? How are you ever going to be taken seriously with a name like that? As far as I can see you guys just play for beers and kicks. As long as you can ride your little bikes and squeeze a few little chicks, you’re happy.’

‘Yep, that about sums it up. Simple needs: the secret of happiness. When was the last time you were happy, sizzers?’

‘How dare you! I love my life. Mom, we’re leaving in five!’

‘You were always the smart one – you’ve got a degree in history. First one in our family to graduate.’

‘The only one, by the looks of things.’

‘And what you’re doing with it? A clerk in a bookstore.’

‘Hey! You know how hard it is to get a job with a History degree? Anyway, Mister Forbes’ List – don’t lecture me on career choices!’

‘Ah, it’s just like old times. Absent makes the heart grow fonder, hey?’

‘I’m … sorry. But I … care for you, you dumb ass. Don’t waste your life away.’

‘Jeez, big sis. I luv ya too.’

‘Then listen up, you big lunk. There’s a job going at the local garage – they need a bike mechanic. I got chatting to Bill when I took the old jalopey in for its MOT. I said you’re pretty good with the tinkering. He told me you should give him a call. ASAP. Otherwise, someone else’ll get it.’

Eddy looked out at the street. The traffic. The pedestrians. Everyone rushing somewhere. What was he doing with his life? Where was he going? Did he really want to be a part-time rocker forever? The aftershow parties were good – but … what about his band? There never seemed to be enough time to organise themselves. They played the same old bars, going round in circles.

‘Well, thanks, sis – my career advisor!’

‘Don’t mention it, jerk. Call Bill, and come home.’

Eddy let out a sigh. ‘Okay, will do. Tell Mom I’ve booked a flight from Aberdeen, Scotland. I’m heading up there now. I should be back in a couple of days.’

‘She’ll be relieved. You take care, bro. Love.’

‘Love you too, sizzers. And … thanks. You’re a pain in the butt, but you mean well.’

‘Ring Bill! And get your red arse back here! No excuses!’

‘Not even a volcanic eruption!’

‘That’s nothing compared to your big sister’s temper!’

Eddy laughed. ‘Give my love to Mom, Pops and Grandpa. See you soon.’

Eddy rode. He had a big grin on his face. Rock music blasted through his earbuds as he revved the bike along the long road North. The northern English landscape was craggy and bleak, jagged fells looming out of the mist beyond the thin ribbon of road – which seemed vulnerable, as though its fate depended on the whim of angry gods, brooding from the mountain fastnesses.

Yet Eddy felt for the first time in a long while that his fate, perhaps, was in his own hands. The freedom of the road fostered that illusion – and he made the most of it while he could, for he knew, the further north he went to narrower his options would become.

Yet he had little choice, it seemed.

Aberdeen was the only airport still open and allowing flights to the US and Canada – for now, although who knows how long that situation would last? How many of his fellow countrymen were making their way their right now? Eddy took some consolation from the fact his bike allowed him to make swift progress. The travel chaos had infiltrated Britain like a virus, as they had discovered on making landfall – but it was with a warm feeling he reflected back on his brief time with Fenja. She was out of this world, that gal – so utterly other that it blew his mind! There was an aura about here – a fearless freedom, trouble, headfuckery weirdness, whatever – but Eddy found it intoxicating. He was hooked, and going cold turkey seemed less and less appealing.

Eddy pulled over at the brow of the hill. He had reached the English-Scottish border – the bare hills stretched into the grey distant: a kingdom of wind turbines and forestry plantations. He was expecting something more impressive. Border control. Heavy security. Instead, there was just a snack-trailer, portaloo and a sign, covered in stickers and graffiti, saying ‘Welcome to Scotland.’  It was hardly the Tex-Mex crossing.

Eddy looked at the long road ahead – two hundred miles to go to Aberdeen. He could make it by late evening, and catch the first flight in the morning. He’d managed to reserve a seat before he left Italy. He was one of the lucky ones. But then he contemplated a night in an airport terminal, the long flight. The prospect of a real job when he got back… He’d spoken to Bill earlier and he seemed keen for him to start as soon as he got back.

Eddy chewed things over as he devoured a roll, sitting outside the roadside café in his leathers. He’d come so far… A few more hours and he’d be home. His holiday would all be over. What a fuck up it had been!

Well, not quite.

He circled the butt-burn on his palm, smiling fondly. That kiss! And there was the dream. The sigil. Her strange songs. Her dancing. Her way of making things go haywire. That woman had magic!

Then his sister’s nagging came back to him, and beyond that, the chorus of disapproval of his Mom, Sitting Cloud; his father, Magnus; and his grandfather, Running Bear – buzzing in his mind like the midges of Manitoba. All telling him to: sort himself; eat well; man up; or, follow the good Red Road.

 Eddy closed his palm, curling it into a fist.

‘Screw it.’

He got onto his bike, fired it up, and turned it back – to the South – shooting off down the road.

Overhead, the glowering skies flashed with a sigil of lightning.

***

[image error]Thunder Road – coming soon…

Extract of Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

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