Roadkill

ROADKILL – Scott Connelly

3927 words

I
Sweet Family will Die

The family car, driving on the lonely desert road, Daddy at the wheel, Mommy sitting beside him, two cute little kids in the back singing and laughing. The perfect nuclear family, enjoying a sunny vacation.

Ahead in the distance, a big dust cloud, the roar of a hundred two-stroke engines. A large, suspicious gang of motorcyclists passes the family, a few of them giving the family the eyeball. The dust cloud engulfs the car, but Mom & Dad and kids just continue on their way.

They don't see the gang turning around to pursue them until they are right on top of them, and then it's too late. The bikers roll up, keeping pace with the nervous family, riding herd, driving ahead of them, taunting them.

Surrounded by the bikers and the dust cloud, Daddy says Kids, it's all right, don't be scared, they're just having some fun. Mommy and kids look frightened; so does Daddy, but he tries to be unfazed.

Now the bikers are playing a dangerous game – swerving close to the car, showing weapons, laughing maniacally at the scared people in the car. Daddy tries to maintain control of the car with shaking hands.

Then a biker on Daddy's left swings a length of pipe at the windshield, throwing crazy cracks across the glass. Daddy loses control and the car hits the ditch at 70 MPH, rolls over a few times, and lands on its wheels, crushed by the impact, covered in dust, sand and dirt. The biker gang, not caring about the carnage they just caused, stop to marvel at the wreck, and then turn around and head back the way they were going, with smiles on their faces.

They were wearing seat belts, but after all that rolling it doesn't really matter; there's only so much damage frail little bodies can take. The kids are quiet and still, Mommy moans a bit, then with a last soft breath, dies. Daddy, a couple of ribs broken, with what appears to be a concussion, manages to open the door, which promptly falls off. Undoing the seatbelt, he half crawls, half falls out of the car and lays on the ground, looking up at the sky. Eventually, pain, physical trauma, and exhaustion make him faint.

Night comes, then day, then night again, and no one shows up on the highway all that time. In the night sky, there's a shooting star, or is it a UFO? Maybe the Aurora Borealis? Regardless, an eerie light makes the wreck site glow a little, especially on Daddy. Daddy awakens, screaming, crying. He limps to the car, and sees what's left of his beautiful, perfect family. Tears fall from his filthy cheeks as he dazedly walks away from the twisted metal. He walks to the road, and when he gets there he takes a look around. There's a light in the distance; the tears stop falling and the man who was Daddy starts to walk towards it. He doesn't remember much, but he remembers the design on the bikers' jackets, and he knows they must pay like his family paid.

Most of the night and half of the day, and he arrives at an old, dusty truck stop/garage. It doesn't look like a popular spot, but there a couple of road-scarred trucks, so that must mean there are a couple of old, road-scarred truck drivers. Maybe he can get a ride to civilization with one of them?

The station has a few buildings: a small motel, a diner, a repair shop, gas/diesel pumps, a cheap clothes store. Just what he needs for the moment. With the small amount of money he has left, he rents a room for the night, gets a change of clothes (jeans, T-shirt, sneakers), some toiletries, a bite to eat. He takes a shower, checking himself in the mirror, looking at the damage, and then sleeps badly, suffering from a nightmare about screams, crashing noises, laughter.

He wakes before dawn, hearing the trucks drive off down the highway. He dresses, walks out to the diner, wondering what will he do now? No transportation, just enough money to pay for some breakfast, not nearly enough for a cab or bus, certainly no more for the motel...

He hears a vehicle coming – a semi truck with no trailer rumbles in to the stop. It's a good thing there is no trailer, because if there was, he wouldn't have seen the biker design on the rear of the cab!

The truck's door opens, and a heavyset man climbs out of the cab, walking stiffly towards the restroom. He is wearing cowboy boots, oil-stained jeans, a dirty t-shirt, and, despite the heat a leather jacket with the biker gang's logo on the back. Looking worn out, but proud, the trucker must make a nature call.

What was once a happy father, is now filled with a murderous rage. Picking up a large rock, he follows the trucker to the restroom, and cautiously pushes open the door...

The trucker, involved in the emptying of his bladder, stands with his back to the door. Sensing somebody coming in, he says, “Yer gonna hafta wait a minute.”

No response. The trucker grunts, and finishes, and zips up. He turns around, and finally sees the stranger angrily staring at him, with a rock in his hand. Trucker grunts again, reaches into his jacket, pulls out a knife, growls, “You know who yer messin' with? Yer dead – yer roadkill!”

They go into fighting stances. The restroom is small, with only a toilet, a sink, and a wastebasket. The trucker is big, and handy with a blade, but he has been driving in that truck for too long that day – he's too stiff and tired, which evens the odds. He jabs at the stranger, the rock is swung back, the knife plunges towards the stranger's midsection, the stranger twists sideways, and as the trucker loses balance the rock slams into the trucker's left temple. Hard.

The trucker staggers back, knife hanging limply in his hand; he is dazed. The stranger pushes the trucker's weak arms away from his head, raises the rock, and brings it crashing down. The trucker collapses, blood trickling on his ear. The rock is raised again, comes down again. Repeatedly the rock goes up, goes down, until the stranger sees brain matter leaking out of a gaping hole.

The stranger searches the body for the keys, any weapons, and money. He calmly walks out of the restroom leaving the corpse, and not caring any further about who the trucker was but knowing the truck will lead to the other killers.

The semi is an early 70's Peterbilt, dusty, with a large sleeping berth behind the cab. The stranger remembers a time when all he knew how to drive was a car, but he swings into the driver's seat, and suddenly knows how to start the semi, shift gears, give the engine a couple of revs. He takes a moment to look around the cab and berth – maps, showing rendezvous points, an AK-47, a .45 automatic pistol, a machete, and lots of ammunition. He puts the truck in gear, and heads on down the road.

Roadkill, he thinks. Hmmm...

Yes.

I am Roadkill.

II
Killer on the Road

The first rendezvous point has a time, the word TRAILER written below it, and three names. An hour later, Roadkill rolls to a stop near a house, with a trailer sitting at the back. Two men, wearing the biker gang's colors, are just closing and locking the rear doors. Another strolls out of the house, goes to the driver-side window, says, “The shipment's ready; all you gotta do is deliver it to the clubhouse. They'll pay you when you get there. You'll get an escort when you get close.”

The two men from the back approach the man standing next to the driver's door. As Roadkill opens the door, one of them has time to say, “Who the hell're you?!” before the AK-47 is mowing them down where they stand. They didn't even have a chance to go for their own guns.

Roadkill fires until the clip is empty and the bodies stop twitching. He climbs down from the cab, and goes through their pockets, cleaning them out. He then proceeds to the house, collects food, water, more ammunition, and a list of what is in the trailer. It's filled with illegal guns, drugs, and a few beer kegs, which must be for a party when the cargo gets to its destination.

Again, without knowing exactly how he knows it, he backs up to the trailer and attaches it to the semi with no problem. He drags the bodies into the house, pours gasoline in critical spots,  sets fire to some newspaper, and touches it to the soaked areas. As he accelerates away, the house is engulfed in flames.

He listens to Country Music on the radio.

III
Take a Long Holiday

Not far away, a station wagon is stalled on the side of the highway. The woman has tried to get reception on her cell phone, but they are in a Dead Zone. There is nothing to do except wait for a passing motorist. The woman is in her late 20's, and the girl in the front seat, trying to keep hydrated, must be no older than 7. The woman comforts the girl by saying, “It's all right – someone's bound to come by here in a little while...Drink some more juice, Honey.”

She hears a distant rumble, sees  a dust cloud – is it a truck? A motorcycle? Maybe they can get help! She jumps out of the car, and waves her hands above her head. Rescue at last!

Too late, she sees one big shadow turn into four little shadows. Representatives of the biker gang roll up to the crippled station wagon, smiling, leering. The woman knows the look in their eyes – hasn't she seen that same look in her ex-husband's eyes when he beat her and took advantage of her? She was elated when they convicted and sentenced him to a long stay in prison...

Now these scum are staring at her in the same way. While three of them park lazily on the road next to the car, one creeps his bike up to the front of the vehicle, pausing near her, his engine idling. He raises his eyebrows invitingly.

The woman whimpers, “Okay. But don't hurt my baby,” and points to the frightened girl in the front seat.

The biker looks at the girl, glances over the roof, and sees a semi with a trailer roaring towards them. He notices as it approaches it isn't slowing down. The other bikers are twisting around in their seats to watch the truck getting closer. It looks familiar, but why isn't it braking?

The lead biker grabs the screaming woman, throws her over the gas tank, and rides away like the Devil is behind him. The other three bikers start their machines, and follow, but they reacted too slow. They've just cleared the car when Roadkill crushes them beneath his tires. The rear wheels bounce over smashed motorcycles and men.

Now the truck brakes, slows, makes a wide U-turn, rumbles to a stop near the station wagon. He steps out of the cab, and surveys the damage. The truck doesn't seem to be broken, but he can't say the same for the bikers. He's about to walk back to the semi when he hears crying coming from the car. There in the front seat, huddled in a ball, is a little girl, tears streaming down her face. She keeps repeating, “Mommy, Mommy.”

What must be all of their worldly possessions are crammed in the car, and they don't look all that special, either. He opens the door, she looks up.

Did he have kids once? A wife? How long ago was it?

His face softens; is that a tear, or is there something in his eye?

The girl sniffles, looks up at him with innocence, whispers, “Will you help me find my Mommy?”

Roadkill reaches out a hand, she takes it, and allows him to lead her away from the car and up into the truck. He walks back to the car, takes some essentials, and climbs back into the driver's seat. The engine coughs to a start, and the truck drives away from the scene headed to the clubhouse farther along the highway.

IV
Into this World We're Thrown

Further along the road, belly on the gas tank, the woman watches the tarmac flashing by, inches from her head. The bike is moving very fast.

It seems like forever, but soon the bike slows, and she looks up into the faces of some surprised bikers. She is unceremoniously dumped on the gravel, and she hears the men talking.

“Rusty's truck just killed three of our brothers, and Rusty ain't the one driving!”
“Who the hell is?”
“I don't know, but he's on his way here!”
“Who's the girl?”
“Picked her up before the truck hit us, and hauled ass – I don't know how far away this guy is – we gotta get outta here!”
“Hold on – what're we gonna do with her?”
“Kill her!”
The woman screams, “Wait! I have a little girl back there! Please don't kill me!”
The biker says, “I saw the rig stop and turn around...he musta gone back for the kid.”
“All right,” growls another biker, “we'll take her with us to the club – we'll use her as a  hostage. “
The bikers gaze at the woman. “You gonna give us trouble?”
She shakes her head.
“Okay, then. Put yer ass on the bitch seat, and if you give us trouble, yer dead. Understand?”
She nods, and straddles the motorcycle's rear seat.
Twelve cycles roar to life, and take off down the highway.

V
Dog without a Bone

At the clubhouse, there are about fifty motorcycles parked. Inside, fifty bikers, men and women, wait impatiently for the truck and trailer. They hear engines getting closer, but they don't sound like a truck. Out the front door they go, in time to see a dozen bikes pulling into the lot. The new arrivals, plus a frightened woman, climb off and run panting up to the porch.

“I see the escort, Shorty, but no truck. What the hell's going on?”
Shorty wheezes, “Someone stole Rusty's rig, Ace! They're on their way here, and they're killing our brothers!”
Ace, the leader, says, “Stole Rusty's rig. Killing our people. Who's this?”
“We grabbed her for the party. She had a kid. The kid's in the truck, with some dude who's running over our guys. We figure we can use her as a hostage when he shows up here!”
“He's got our stuff,” Ace yells, “and he's coming this way. D'you know what's in the trailer? All our earnings! We were gonna be rich, we were gonna be kings, we were gonna be unstoppable! Now we gotta stop this psycho, and kill him, and the girl, and the kid!”
The woman sobs, “Please! Just let us go! We didn't do anything to you – just let us go!”
Ace looks at the woman, but talks to the assembled bikers. “We gotta stop this guy, and we can't use anything from the trailer! All we got in the club're some rifles, shotguns, pistols, and not much ammo! I'll stand on the porch with a gun to her head. Twenty of you flank him to the right, twenty of you to the left, and the rest inside with the rifles. Let's go!”

VI
Riders on the Storm

Five miles away, Roadkill stops the truck. It's time he has a look in the trailer. In the cab, he checks the inventory sheet. My, my...what a haul...
Weapons, many Russian, couple tons of heroin, about a ton of meth, and five kegs of beer.
Holding the child by the hand, they walk to the rear of the trailer, and open the big doors. He helps the little girl into the space, then climbs up himself. Shining a flashlight, they creep through the inside, making note of what they see.
He rolls out the kegs, then pushes out the drugs, leaving them on the side of the road. Next, he takes a sniper rifle, a rocket launcher, four AK-47s, plenty of ammunition, and several armored vests, transferring them to the cab. Clearing out the sleeping berth, he packs the vests around the inside, then sits the girl in the middle, signing for her to stay put. She'll be safe there...
Arranging the other weapons on the passenger's seat, he starts the engine, and rolls out.

The bikers hear the truck getting closer, and see the diesel smoke rising in a darkening sky. Amidst the rumble of the engine, they can also hear the rumble of thunder; see the lightning flashing. The gang tenses for war.

A mile away, Roadkill stops the truck again, and peers through binoculars. Against nearly white sand, he recognizes dark shapes creeping close.

He puts the rig in gear, gathers speed, and cuts a sharp right off the highway, directly at the flanking bikers. They have no cover, and nowhere to run. Some shoot at the truck, but most run for their lives.

Swerving wildly, Roadkill flattens fourteen bodies, chases down the six running blindly ahead, crushing them under his wheels. He then makes a left, driving far behind the clubhouse while the bikers inside try to hit something vital on the fast-moving truck. He makes another left, and sends the gang on the right flank scattering away. Stopping the rig on the club's blind side momentarily, he fires AK-47s at the fleeing scum, killing ten, wounding ten. Stepping on the accelerator, he casually runs over the wounded, then returns to the highway.

The gang in the club have been firing single shots at the truck the whole time, picking their target, knowing that they don't have enough ammo to go full auto. Ace watches his brothers and sisters die, his finger tightening on the trigger.

Roadkill drives the rig back up to the road, the driver's side to the clubhouse.
“You got three seconds to get outta the truck before I shoot her!” Ace screams.
Ace sees a rifle poke out of the truck's window. He glares.
Roadkill aims, taking his time.
“One!”
The crosshairs find their mark.
“Two!”
A bullet fires, hitting Ace's hand directly at the meat between thumb and forefinger, and destroying the handgun's inner parts, and ripping the gang leader's hand into bloody chunks.

Ace screams, toppling back onto the porch. The guns inside start blasting at the truck. Roadkill lifts the rocket launcher, again takes aim, and sends the warhead into the front door. As the clubhouse explodes, all of the windows in the club spray shards into the parking lot.

Roadkill guns the engine, turns the wheel to the left, pulls up to the shattered front, opens the passenger-side door, and motions the dazed woman to hurry up into the cab. She staggers, pulls herself into the truck, where Roadkill pushes her into the sleeping berth, so that she'll be safe with her daughter. He rolls back onto the highway, and roars off.

Here comes the rain.

VII
Squirming Like a Toad

Ace pulls himself out of the wreckage, along with fifteen survivors. Ace, with a bloody stump where his right hand used to be, wraps it in a rag, and shouts, “Grab all the guns and ammo we got left, and let's finish this!”

Hopping on motorcycles, while Ace rides on the back of one – he can no longer operate a bike with just one hand – they thunder towards the trucks taillights.

At 75 miles per hour, in the rain, there can be no mistakes, Roadkill thinks, but the gang is in a blind rage. This ends now.

To get close to the rig, the gang is doing about 90. Four bikes have two passengers – one to drive, one to kill. Ace is in the lead, with a sawed-off shotgun at the ready. They pass the trailer's wheels, approaching the semi's rear wheels.

Roadkill looks out of the side-view mirror and sees Ace creeping closer to the door. He smiles at the image.

It's all in the timing...

Just as Ace starts to pass the sleeping berth, Roadkill opens the door, and slams on the brakes. The riders have enough time to look surprised before they smash into the door. With the motorcycle still moving forward, their bodies fly to the ground, and scrape themselves on the highway and under the tires.

Meanwhile, behind the trailer, three bikes impact on the trailer's rear gate, and bikes and riders roll to their deaths. The remaining pair and the six lone riders were on either side of the truck now shoot past the rig, putting them immediately in front of Roadkill. They run, but the road is slick, and they're running scared.

Roadkill remembers when he had a family, remembers the design on the leather jackets and vests, sees this design right ahead, and shifts into a faster gear. He places the truck on the double-yellow line, and gets to work.

The truck bounces over the two right in front. Six to go.

The last pair are tapped by the right-front bumper, and the bike's rear wheel goes under the truck, with the two bikers falling under. Four.

Ahead of the pair, a gang member panics, loses control, skids face first for one hundred feet. Three.

There is no door on Roadkill's side, since that was torn off with Ace. Two riders stare at the man holding the AK-47 and looking into their souls. The truck glides quickly towards them. Blocked in by the truck and the other cycle, one rider falls under the rear wheels. The AK-47 riddles the second rider.

Just one left. He's slowing down, stopping.

Roadkill slows, then stops, the truck. He steps from the cab, the sniper rifle in his hands.

The biker climbs off of his motorcycle.

The rain has stopped, the sky clears.

Roadkill walks up to the biker, shouldering the rifle.

“Please,” whimpers the biker.

Behind his back, where Roadkill can't see, the biker unholsters a revolver, palming it in his hand.

The woman, standing by the truck, holding her daughter's hand, sobs, “No more.”

Roadkill starts to turn towards the woman, and the biker swings the handgun at him. Roadkill grabs the biker's hand, unsheathes Rusty's fighting knife, and plunges the blade into the rider's throat. Blood fountaining out of the wound, the last member of the biker gang gurgles, sinks to the road, and dies.

Roadkill closes his eyes, tilts his head to the sky, and sighs. Opening his eyes, he walks back to the rear of the semi, and detaches the trailer. The woman and the girl watch impassively. He then climbs into the cab, and starts to remove all of the weapons, dropping them to the side of the road. Soon all three are cleaning out the truck's cab.

When there is nothing in the cab except some essentials, Roadkill looks at them expectantly, raising an eyebrow. He reaches out his hand.

The woman helps the girl into the cab, then takes this man's hand and allows him to pull her in. He starts the engine, and they roll away.

“Who are you?” the woman asks.

“I am Roadkill.”

He smiles at them.

“But you can call me Daddy.”

The Beginning