Crimson Highway by David Wickenhauser (brene brown rising strong TXT) 📗

for the Mojave bypass, then through Tehachapi, and then on to Bakersfield.

Just as they connected with 58 north of Mojave, a couple of guys on motorcycles charged up and began to pass them. They were typical biker types. Their cuts proclaimed them to be the “Bakers Town Bad Asses.”

They slowed a bit as they passed, took a good long look at Hugh’s truck, then roared on past, disappearing out of sight.

“Interesting name,” Hugh said. “Obviously from Bakersfield.”

Jenny didn’t say anything.

Once over Tehachapi it was a straight shot down to town. Hugh figured on getting fuel in Bakersfield before heading over to the company drop yard for the night.

Just before town, Hugh saw a whole lot of bikers coming up an onramp as his truck passed it. Instead of them all passing him, however, the lead rider stayed in the passing lane, and kept pace with the truck. The rider then raised his left arm and, with his fingerless, leather-gloved-hand used two fingers to point over to the shoulder.

“He’s wanting me to pull over,” Hugh said, incredulously. “There’s no way I’m doing that after everything else we’ve been through.” Hugh was beginning to wish that he did carry a firearm.

Hugh kept the truck pointed straight down in his lane. He figured on waiting out these guys, hoping that maybe they’d move on.

The lead rider gestured more adamantly for Hugh to pull over. All of the other motorcycles—there were maybe fifteen of them—crowded in beside and behind Hugh’s truck.

“No way!” Hugh mouthed through his closed window in an exaggerated expression at the lead motorcycle rider.

The lead rider just shrugged his shoulders, and began edging over closer to the truck’s left fender. All the other cycles did the same thing, crowding in ever closer to the truck.

 Hugh knew that it would take only one swipe of his truck to wipe out the whole gang of bikers. But he couldn’t justify doing that without knowing why they wanted him to pull over. Maybe they just wanted to tell him he had a low tire.

So, Hugh had no choice but to leave the road, and come to a stop on the shoulder.

He could see from their “colors” that it was the same gang as the two riders that had passed them near Mojave.

The lead guy got off his bike. He must have been 6’5” and pushing 300 pounds. He had a shaved head, and a very pronounced walrus-type mustache. His fellow gang members ranged from having shaved heads to hair being overgrown and grizzled, and from having three-day stubble to their faces being completely hidden behind an unruly, unkempt mop of beard.

As a whole, they were a motley lot of uncouth, typical biker-gang types. To top it off, they looked to be very unfriendly and aggressive as they all got off their bikes. They surrounded the cab of the truck in a half-circle around Hugh’s driver-side door.

Hugh just stared at them. Normally, he was not afraid of anybody, and knew he could take care of himself in most situations, but there were a lot of them. Too many.

The lead guy pointed with two fingerless-gloved fingers at Hugh, and then pointed at the ground, making it very clear that he expected Hugh to get out of the truck.

Hugh shook his head, and mouthed, “No way,” again.

Then, to his horror, he saw the top of Jenny’s blonde head as she walked past him in front of the truck’s grill, and right toward the gang of bikers. She had somehow opened her door, and climbed down on her side of the truck without Hugh noticing. The gang members parted to let her inside their semi-circle.

Hugh immediately opened his door, and jumped down onto the dirt shoulder to try to get between Jenny and the bikers.

She came right to his side, stood real close to him, and hooked her left arm through Hugh’s right arm.

The lead giant was the first to speak. “Hey, Jenny. How ya doin’? Are you OK?”

“Yeah, Huey, I’m fine,” Jenny answered.

Yeah, Huey, I’m fine? What the hell is going on here? Hugh’s mind just screamed questions.

A similar-looking giant on Huey’s right then spoke. “Jenny, is this guy treatin’ you right?”

“Yeah, Dewey, he’s treating me real good,” Jenny answered.

Dewey?

Then, a guy who could have been a triplet to the other two, spoke. “So, young lady, is he your man, then?”

“Yeah, Louie, he’s my man. And he’s a good one,” Jenny answered.

Hugh couldn’t hold it in. He started to say, “Huey?” and wanted to follow with “Dewey?” and “Louie?” But Jenny put a squeeze on his arm that was actually painful. She leaned in close to his ear, and hissed a whispered warning at him, “Don’t say a word! On your life! Not … one … word!”

 Then the Huey giant stepped right up to Hugh, who could smell the man’s indescribable odor. It came to Hugh’s mind that it would take some thinking to parse exactly what special ingredients made up the man’s smell.

Huey put his face inches from Hugh’s. When he spoke, however, he was talking to Jenny. “Your uncle asked us to watch out for this truck. He figured it might be coming through here some day soon. He said you might be held hostage by this creep.”

The “p” in creep was followed by a little blob of spittle that landed right on the tip of Hugh’s nose. Hugh didn’t move a muscle, although it was difficult to not cringe away from the giant’s sour breath.

“Huey, tell my uncle I’m just fine. I’m this guy’s old lady now. We’re together. OK?”

“Ohh-kay!” the giant answered, punctuating his drawn-out statement with two jabs at Hugh’s chest with his pointing fingers held out stiffly—and then he turned away. Those were painful jabs, not playful ones.

Thank God that’s over, Hugh thought, tempted