Page 57 of Massacre
Amber
It had been four days since I left the clubhouse, but I made it to Deadwood, South Dakota, just before the sun rose over the horizon. Like most of the towns I walked through, Deadwood wasn’t much to write home about, but in a way, it reminded me of Diamond Creek as residents readied for a new day, opening stores and shops. I watched kids rush to catch their school bus as parents waved to them from their front porches. As I walked along the main street, people stared, taking their fill.
It was nothing new.
I was a stranger to them.
Of course, they would only be curious.
The aroma of coffee wafted through the door as an elderly man walked out of the local diner. I smiled, rushing to help him with the door. “Let me get that for you, sir.” I smiled.
“Thank you kindly.” The elderly man scowled as he looked at me, then accused rather bluntly, “You ain’t from around these parts, are you?”
“No, sir. I’m from Diamond Creek, Nebraska.”
The old man wrinkled his nose. “Ain’t nuttin’ in Nebraska but cornhuskers.”
I smiled, refusing to reply to that. I wasn’t a cornhusker, nor was I originally from Nebraska, but he didn’t need to know that.
“What are you doing here, young lady?” he asked as people inside the diner quieted, listening to us talk. “You got a man?”
“Well, right now I’d really like a cup of coffee and yes, I think I have a man.”
“You think?” The old man scoffed. “Either you do or you don’t, girl. Which is it?”
“Fred!” a woman shouted from inside the diner. “You leave that young lady alone and get going. Mable ain’t gonna wait on you much longer.”
Grumbling, the old man shuffled off as I stepped into the diner.
“Sorry about that. Fred is a cranky old bastard, but he means no harm. I’m Alice. Sit anywhere you like and I’ll be right over with the menu and a fresh cup of coffee.”
“Thank you.” I smiled at the beautiful woman and did as she told me.
I offered Alice a grateful nod and slid into a booth by the window. The steady murmur of morning regulars filled the space with a peculiar warmth. Sunlight danced across the chipped Formica table, and I took a moment to settle in, smoothing my hands over the map tucked inside my jacket pocket—my silent companion on this strange journey.
Alice appeared moments later, coffeepot in hand, her easy smile a balm to the lingering awkwardness of Fred’s interrogation. She poured me a generous cup, and the steam curled in the air like a promise. “Passing through, or are you settlin’ in for a while?” she asked, curiosity sparking in her eyes when the sound of thunder ripped through the diner, a guttural roar that vibrated in my chest and rattled the cheap glass in its frames.
The bikes weren’t just rumbling through town; they rode as if they owned it. A chrome-plated horde, a dozen Harleys at least, each a snarling beast, spitting fire and gravel. Their engines—a symphony of raw power and impending doom—shook the very foundations of the diner, each roar a hammer blow against my already frayed nerves. I watched them, my eyes narrowed, a mixture of fear and a perverse fascination burning within. I’dseen enough trouble in my life to know that those men weren’t just ordinary bikers; they were the storm, and I was about to walk right in its path.
“Do yourself a favor and steer clear of that lot,” someone said from behind me. Turning around, I saw a police officer sitting behind me.
“You mind your own business, Matt, and leave my customers alone.”
“She isn’t a customer. She’s a stranger and from the looks of her, I’d say she’s trouble.”
“You think everyone is trouble,” Alice huffed.
“Because they are.” Getting to his feet, he dropped a few bills on the table before reaching for his hat. “Mark my words,” he added, looking directly at me. “Trouble.”
With that, he walked out of the diner.
For a moment, silence returned, punctuated only by the hiss of the coffeepot and the distant, fading thunder of engines. Alice watched the door swing shut behind the officer, her lips pressed thin, her brow furrowed in a way that spoke of old grievances and battles fought behind Formica counters. She caught my eye, shrugged, and pushed the sugar jar closer as if that resolved everything.
“You’ll get used to him,” she said quietly. “Matt’s been wearing that badge so long, he’s forgotten how to take it off.”
I offered a half-smile, hands cupping the steaming mug, letting the heat settle my nerves. The bikers had vanished from view, but their presence lingered—like ozone after lightning. I traced my thumb over the rim of my cup, weighing my options, listening for the world to right itself.
Alice leaned in, her voice lower now. “You’re not really just passing through, are you?”
