The Patch

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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

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