The Quest for Valhalla

Chapter 11

The cold snapped at Jan’s hands as he attempted to keep his fingers steady to get them into the leather gloves. He knew better than to spend too much time outside, in the cold night before trying to start his Honda; but he had to adjust the headlight first, so it left him with hands burning from the cold and numb fingers he found almost useless. Outside The Thirsty Turtle, he stood under the cloudy night sky, the frigid wind threatening his ride home tonight, but all he focused on was getting his hands warm. Without warm hands, he could not grip the clutch, couldn’t hit the brakes. Of all his mates, he was the last to leave on account of an inviting woman and a promise of more than a double rum, which ended up being a married floozy with no desire to test drive his motor.

Her intoxicated ass was falling about the bar, harassing the less than wholesome clientele of the Turtle. Jan did not have time for that. He liked his women wide awake and willing, the kind to feel him up from behind him when they occupied his pussy seat at a 180km per hour. Finally, he just pushed his numb burning fingers into the gloves with the hopes that each finger will somehow employ muscle memory to find its home. As he struggled to fit his helmet before mounting his 1300cc, an arguing couple stumbled from the noisy bar and ranted all the way to their car. As they cussed and threw insults about, the husband was looking for the right key while his wife ripped him for being ‘inadequate’ at even that.

Jan scoffed. Thank god he was not married. Never had been. Not for the lack of trying, but he was one of Sweden’s less attractive sons. Instead of his brother’s blonde locks, he was dealt with carrot red tresses, the texture of steel wool, thanks to his maternal grandfather’s genes. Nobody cared that he was intelligent and hilarious, or that he was a star rugby player with a body that would make a woman reach for his jean button. No, he was just the ugly brother and that was the end of it. Now that he was watching the two bitching, abandoning entirely the feelings they may have had for one another once upon a time, he was glad he did not have to endure that institution.

The husband finally got his door open, but not before his wife had sunk to her knees in front of the grill of the car parked next to theirs. She vomited incessantly, provoking even more rage from her hard-headed man, who promptly pulled her up and unceremoniously tossed her into the car and slammed the door shut. It was then that Jan noticed the silent silhouettes seated in that dark car. Unmoving they sat, three shadows, and he could see their heads keep dead still against the sharp security light that cast its sharp white halo from behind them. Jan found this peculiar. How did they not find the escapade playing out next to them entertaining or even worth a view? They seemed entirely uninterested in the developments of the crazy couple, because they appeared to be waiting for something. But what, he wondered.

Jan looked to the opposite side of the parked car to see what their straight line of vision could possibly afford them, and found two bikers seated on their machines. He frowned at the odd scene. The two bikers did nothing, merely sitting on dead ponies in the chill of the night wind. Neither did they speak a word to one another. Like mannequins, they just sat there, in direct opposition to the ruckus inside the bar.

Like two different worlds joined by a threshold, he observed the bustling bar with its colorful lights and the noise of drunken challenges over the bursting furor of old rock music. While, as soon as the doorway was crossed to the outside, the world became an inanimate expanse of cold air in the black night’s whistle that lapped up tufts of dust here and there. Being on this side of the threshold delivered Jan a remarkable sense of melancholy and he decided to get going before he took to chewing through his wrists in depression. The motorcyclists did not budge, still, as he slipped his helmet over his ginger hair with some effort from those cold hands. Flexing his fingers, he straddled his Honda proudly, happy to ride out of this eerie situation with its freaky onlookers.

With a nod to his fellow bikers, he started his machine and walked it to face the exit before slamming his boot on the lever to gear up and released the clutch. His engine sounded strong as he took off, growling under him until it moved into a comfortable speed. About 50 meters onward, he felt second gear punch under his saddle and the bike darted into the cold blackness that challenged the dark grey obscurity of the tar road.

Thankful for the intense vibration of the handles, he felt his hands grow warmer inside the thick leather gloves and his fingers could move more freely now. It was another few miles home, perhaps another 30 minutes’ drive, but Jan loved the open road. For all he cared, it could go on forever and he would still be happy to ride it out. He had no woman waiting, unlike his friends Alex and Gunnar, who had wives who rode with them, so he had no time limitations on getting home.

He thought to take the A720 on his way to Newington where the rest of his club were resident for the next three weeks until moving on eastwards. As soon as Gunnar got out of hospital, they would decide on where to go. They were more than just a bunch of loose and dirty motorcycle junkies. Jan and his brothers served a purpose, made some money with this and that now and then, legal or not. Their creed was sacred to them and they deemed themselves honorable people who helped preserve the balance of good and evil behind the veils of what the everyday world did not even take notice of.

He sped through the clumps of mist that appeared like specters out of the black nothingness that embraced the seemingly endless road, and vanished like mere breaths back into the oblivion from where they had come. He was grateful for the visor of his helmet tonight, imagining the sting of the cold on his face and it suddenly provoked a rumble in his tummy for a good Scottish broth. Jan smiled. Yes, that is what he would have when he got to the hotel in Newington — a thick broth with as many carbohydrates floating in its viscose goodness. This was incentive for speeding up, almost as much as the vehicle following him from a distance.

It was well past midnight when Jan was blinded by headlights in his wing mirrors. Two motorcycles zoomed into view of the small silver frames of his mirrors, approaching at an uncomfortable pace and then slowing just in time to trail him.

“What the fuck?” his words came muffled inside his helmet as the two bikes simply tailed him by a few inches on each side, but making no effort in overtaking him. Jan knew trouble when he saw it and he slowed down a little to test them. At the sight of his brake lights, they slowed down and he knew that bad things were happening. The best thing to do on the deserted, dark road after midnight would be to outrun them. There was no other choice, really, so he geared back and pumped the throttle. His machine jumped forward and he leaned forward to get less resistance from the wind. At 200km per hour, he prayed to the gods that there were no cars or sharp turns ahead. Jan had never before taken this particular road. He checked his mirrors and watched their headlights grow smaller behind him.

“Whoo-hoo!” he screamed inside the helmet, almost fogging up the inside with his breath. His Honda screamed down the road past Danderhall and he knew he had to evade them while h was ahead. Seeing a turn-off to his right, Jan slowed down and turned into The Wisp, a narrow road bordering the residential area of Danderhall. He passed a few houses and now he found himself uncertain as to whether he would park somewhere and wait it out — or to speed ahead and hope to lose his tails. Adrenaline urged the spooked biker to get to his brethren as soon as possible, no matter what, or who, was chasing him. Common sense told him to employ patience and wait. In the deserted part of The Wisp, past the slumbering houses with the dark windows, there was enough brush to hide him. Surely his hunters would not spend all night combing the bushes and trees over a few miles to find him. It was the most viable choice.

He sped up again, making sure to read the signs in the road so that he would not get lost by this detour.

Behind him, they appeared again in the distance. His heart sank, but he was well ahead of them. It would be easy to outrun them before they could ever catch up from the turn-off far behind him, because the fog that rolled across the lay of the land now formed a convenient shroud between him and them. Clouding their vision of him was a blessing he saw as a chance to make his break. The thoughts of broth and brotherhood now left him and took a step back for his concerns of survival. He pushed through the mist, the road barely visible because of the white obscurity. It was dangerous to ride like this, but Jan had greater danger in pursuit. He reckoned it was the two strangely static bikers at the bar, but he had no idea what they would want from him, or better yet, why they did not do their worst in the parking area already.

Jan was wide awake now. He did not recall ever being this vigilant in his entire life, not even when he was involved in a gun running gang 15 years before in Lebanon. His eyes stretched, as if it would aid his vision in the thickness of the fog in the road. In the mirrors, he could not see the other lights anymore and it lent him some comfort, but he had learned many times before not to take such solace for granted before he was safely within his own camp. As he passed the lonely pastures and glanced in quick successions toward the eerie black shapes of the bushes that flanked the road, he felt a small measure of relief for his escape. As he put more distance between them, Jan began to speculate on their motive.

A jerk jolted his head violently and he caught his breath for a moment. Under him, his machine choked, jerking and stalling. It lost power at an alarming rate, no matter what he attempted to remedy the situation. A few seconds later it chugged and was drained completely of its life. Rattling to a halt, the Honda shuddered and Jan immediately realized that his fuel line was tampered with. Either that or his fuel was syphoned. He rolled onto the shoulder of the road and pushed his dead horse into the brush as not to be detected.

There was a deathly silence that made his ears hiss as he removed his helmet. The icy cold wind brushed over his ginger hair and gripped the back of his neck in a frightful grasp. He could hear the night gust wail through the trees and it stirred the rusted old signage of a nearby building site. How melancholic! Jan felt his heart pound wildly. He was terrified of the dark, even more of being stranded in it. He had no light apart from a Zippo, which was useless in this wind.

“That’s just fucking great!” he exclaimed in the heavy darkness, where the moon occasionally peeked through the dark clouds just long enough to reveal his desolation to him. Maybe if he talked out loud, it would scare off whatever denizens of the dark thought him to be prey. They would think he was confident. They would think of him as tough and unperturbed by his predicament. This he convinced himself of in a childlike effort to ignore his impending terror. He plucked his cell phone from his jacket and called Alex, but his friend’s phone was on voicemail.

“Alex, when you get this, call me. I’m just outside Danderhall and my bike broke down. Oh, and I have someone following me. I think I lost them, but still. I don’t like this shit one bit, mate,” he spoke through the disturbance of the wind in his microphone. “Just… call me when you get this, man.” Then Jan tried one of his other brothers, ecstatic that this time he got a ring tone. After a long wait, he answered, but as Jan replied, his phone lost signal and the call was cut off.

“Jeee-zus!” he cried out, threatening to crush his phone with his tightening grip.

The low rumble of an engine haunted the oblivion of mist around him. It was coming down the road, but he could discern that it was not the sound of motorcycles. The hum was that of a car. Jan contemplated flagging the car for help, but he knew nobody would be daft enough to stop here in the midnight fog for a stranger appearing from the dark side of the road with his arms outstretched.

From the curtain of white fog, two spots grew bigger on approach, growing brighter as it pierced the creeping ghost mist on the ground. The car slowed down some distance before it reached him, staying hidden. Somewhere away, the engine idled, the sound deafening as it echoed through the almost silent night. It was driving very slowly, progressing gradually toward where Jan was. At once, it occurred to him: the occupants were looking for something. The vehicle moved too slowly for driving and too fast for a turn-off or parking.

‘My god, they must be looking for me!’ the thought penetrated his fear receptors and he fell to his knees in the long grass just as the car came into view, right next to him. Its straight six purred like a baby predator as it crept past him. Jan gasped. It was the car from the bar, the one with the three silhouettes next to the arguing couple’s.

A scrawny, bald man had his head outside his rolled down window, scrutinizing the surroundings. They had almost past Jan when his cell phone suddenly lit up. Alex called back.

“There he is!” the man shouted, and within seconds two others jumped from the car to apprehend the unfortunate motorcyclist. Jan could not do much to fend them off. His switchblade had no effect on the giant brute who accompanied the thin bald man with the fidgety hands, who stood twitching his fingers as Jan was subdued.

“Get him in the car, Gunter,” he smirked. “I wanted the one in the hospital, but since he was discharged, we’d have to make do with one of the pawns.”