(The "action" in this one barely gets started, FYI)
The sign had to be bullshit, stolen from the place where it was supposed to be - and stuck here. This way to the interstate. Yeah, right. Some bumpkin was havin' a little fun with visitors.
The pavement ended a mile later, but he'd seen plenty of roads in that part of the country that went to hardtack and then back to asphalt again. A few miles later he knew he'd been played for a sucker, but the road was sloping up to a flat hilltop and it wasn't that far off now. The view could be worth it. Kick back, smoke a joint, and turn around. At least the real direction to the freeway was obvious now.
He'd been pissed off, but there was no big hurry to get anywhere in particular. And the hill was a cool thing to find. The pale sand was packed tight enough that he didn't fishtail, and there were berms on either side. Not bad at all. It had been a while since any other tires had rolled on up there, from the look of things.
There were trees ahead. He'd have to slow it down. The rebuild had been worth it, and so had tightening up the chain. He putted along smooth as shit. The sides of the hill were getting steeper on either side, and there was a gate... with no signs he could see.
Open. Rusty, too. Probably hadn't been closed in a long fuckin' time. The road disappeared over a rise. He rode through slowly, studying the hardtack. The way the hill was shaping up he didn't expect there to be any other road in or out. In the back of his mind he thought it wouldn't hurt to pick a spot where he could look down the hill and see the gate.
What a find, this hill. He could see the whole damn road.
Nodding, he cut the motor and rolled ahead a little more so the kickstand would land on a rock. After pulling the water bottle out of his saddlebag and having a few slugs, a cigarette sounded real good.
He burned one and looked around. It was like a little mesa, with a bunch of trees shading a little spring and something like clover scattered over one side. There was a ditch with a big pipe buried in it, angled to send runoff down the other slope.
There was a... black box in the pipe. It looked clean. Luggage?
He opened the trunk, and stood up again.
Feathers were in there. Different sizes and shapes. Some in really bright colors...
But nobody would need a big footlocker just for feathers. He reached down, lifted one corner and let it drop. Yeah, way too heavy. There was more.
Soft edges slid over his hand as he reached in. That felt weird. A bright pink feather brushed past the stallion-head tat on the back of his hand -
His fingers found something. A belt?
No. Long black strap.
Pushing the feathers to one side, he saw more leather. Cuffs, and smaller shit he didn't recognize. Nylon rope.
There were toothbrushes - little ones, like for kids. Plastic forks, knives and spoons in a zipper-lock bag. He tried to figure out the connection.
In the middle, more bags were buried. A few dozen shiny gloves. White, black, and some blood-red ones. There were a few pairs of biker gloves - short, and plain - and maybe six sets of smooth deerskin gloves too.
At the other end of the trunk - under thinner straps and a few bandannas - he found three boxes of rubber gloves, four gray plastic bottles and two cans of shortening. Pulling a bottle up, until he saw the words "massage oil", and then he let it fall.
Sex shit. That was his guess. Somebody was really into gloves, and there were more fuckin' feathers than he'd ever seen before...
It didn't seem like the trunk had been sitting there for long. All of the shit looked pretty new. He closed the lid - yeah, there wasn't enough dirt on it. Somebody had hauled this up here -
He looked at the pipe again. There was no sign, and he didn't hear a damn thing, to tell him there was anybody else around. But here was the trunk. Waiting...
Feathers. Rope. What the fuck?
Stand up, he thought. Now. Get on your bike and go.
But his key was... gone.
That made no sense. He hadn't taken it out of the ignition -
There was a tapping noise. His head swiveled, pretty sure of the sound. It came from the pipe. Metal, very quiet. Maybe... a key.
For a couple minutes, he tried to puzzle it out. He had another key in his wallet. Something weird was going on. But the leather fob on that key ring was from his uncle, who was back in prison. Handed over to him as soon as his uncle saw his first bike.
Then he got pissed off. Grabbing a little flashlight from his saddlebag, he took a breath and stomped on over... past the trunk and to the lip of the pipe. He turned on the flashlight. Nobody in there.
But there was a grating. It appeared to be locked open.
While he thought it over, he smoked another cigarette. Something weird was going on.
The smart thing to do was to dig out his other key and get the fuck away from... whatever was in that cage.
He had a reflex - opposed to doing the smart thing. But there were also times when he tried to second-guess that instinct and had gotten in trouble anyway.
What it kept coming down to was that somebody had his uncle's fuckin' key fob, in there, and he wanted it back.
Getting his nerve up, he rehearsed it in his head. Jump in, grab it, get the fuck out.
One more deep breath, eased back out.
The first part went fine. Inside -
And then strong hands jumped on him. Fifteen, twenty...
Sure as shit, the door was being unlocked. Magic. Invisible hands, swinging the wire door out to close it. Bringing the damn trunk in fast!
Some of the hands clamped on his sides, stuck their fingers in his armpits - and started tickling him!
"Aw, d-dammit," he snickered with disgust. Fuckin' stupid move. And he had another key. Never even had to risk going in there.
Slam, jingle - click.
Hands squeezing under his knees got him roaring hard laughs.
They basically carried him further in...
July2006