In this chapter Jack and Rayne wake up and try to enjoy the calmness of the morning after the storm. But after Jack clears his mind and decides on what he'll do next, Blackjack makes his next attempt. After chasing down his two uncles, Jack must confront the man who has been hounding him for days and has altered his life forever. In this final stand, Jack pits his wits against the immensity of Sander Payne's powers. But will he overcome?

Alright, so, it took me way too long to write this chapter. I mean, just way too long. I'm not sure if it just wouldn't come, or if I'm just lazy now. But, anyways, this chapter can be long and boring to some people, but, I feel like it sets up the mood for the end of the book. For all of those who can actually stand reading my drivel, I would love to ask you a couple of simple questions. Is there anything that seems too cliched? Is there anything that just doesn't seem right? Do you think people would actually want to read this if they saw the right cover? Is it written well enough for you, and moreover, is it easily absorbed? And finally, was all of this even worth reading? There is only one chapter left and I hope that you can figure out how it ends. I thank you all for reading this much, I thank you so much you can hardly understand what it means. Favoriting and leaving a comment means a real lot to me, even if I don't respond with a 'thank you for faving'. To all of you who read and don't do anything else, thanks anyways. It means enough that it seemed good enough to skim over. Thank you for your time and I wish you all the best.
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Chapter 18: The World’s Fastest Indian

In the morning, my eyes open and I lie on the silk-like softness of the rolling comforter which carefully caresses my entire body. My heart musically pounds inside my chest and sends a tingling ache throughout my extremities. The arctic white of the rising sun splays across the clean walls of the trailer, casting calm, quiet shadows over each ridge of the scrunched-up sheets.
Slowly, I run the pads of my fingers across the tops of Rayne’s fur, letting every point of every hair brush against my skin as my hand travels gently over her undulating body. At the sensation, Rayne mumbles to herself and slowly curls her arms up, pressing the pillow closer to her face. I scratch her side and then let the coolness of the fabric rush into my arm as I let it relax back onto the bed.
Lying in stillness, I stare up into the blank room, white as snow and as blank and clear as a movie-screen about to be filled with a story. There is lightness about the world at this moment, a clarity and kindness which can only be described with the feeling that the next moment doesn’t matter, because I am reassured that it will be fair and fulfilling.
Only a few fleeting thoughts cross my mind and are quickly herded away. I have begun to realize that whatever my mother does, she does it out of her own design and her own will and that I must trust her decisions. No longer do I have the burning desire to kill that man that thinks he’ll earn the privilege of being my father. It only comes back to me now and then and doesn’t roost here for long.
Concerning Blackjack and my bewitched uncles, I’m not exactly sure. I know I am in a unique position, having already tasted his power and am witnessing his full extent now, but, should it be my duty to kill him? Is it the duty of anyone to destroy the life of another? I’m not entirely sure anymore. I have a feeling that we’ve escaped for awhile, gone outside his field of vision and hopefully we can stay there for long enough to slip away like thieves in the night.
My uncles have been under his spell for so long, I’m not sure if there is any saving them. Like Rayne said, if somebody is a puppet for that long, the wood and strings will encroach upon the flesh and blood and before long the line between the two will be ultimately blurred and disappear. That poor man, Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde, whichever he is, is a testament to that. But how long does that take? Could it be a hundred years, like Jekyll, or just a few weeks or years, like me or Rayne? Or is there even any reversing it?
Lifting my arms up, I gently place them beneath the pillow and press the downing up into the back of my head, stretching the worn, tired muscles with a rewarding groan. Then I gently look towards Rayne, lying by my side, clutching the pillow beneath her face, the blue comforter and white sheets ebbing and rising with her natural curvature. Her bright, shiny silver fur gleams in the morning light, her black pads and what little skin peers out from beneath the protective layer seems to gleam, like rich ebony.
I’m not sure what I did was right, or acceptable at any level, but I feel happy for the first time in so many years. In her shallow sleep, Rayne smiles and pulls the pillow closer to her form. I smile a little as well and then reach down, grabbing the covers which hid ourselves from the heavens and throw them away.
Swinging my legs out, I place my exposed paws out onto the wood which rings the bed. Then, I crawl out and climb onto my knees and begin towards the ladder. Moving solely on the boards as not to disturb Rayne, I work my way to the far edge of the ledge and begin to climb down. The metal of the ladder sends a sharp chill through my body, but it dissipates in my hips with the natural cold of the morning in this poorly insulated tin can.
I grab my clothes, draped down off of the edge of the wooden table, and begin to slowly put them on. The table is still slightly damp, a stark reminder to my own folly. But, feeling the moistness with my fingers for only a slight second, I pull my clothes back onto my body without a further thought. I stuff every last article back into my jacket and jeans, once believing that Rayne could use my things to get her wherever she needed, now every one of them containing just a little more meaning.
As I press the pistol back into that deep pocket over my heart and let my leather once again drape over my lanky frame, I turn and look down at the last little bit of me left on the table: that white handkerchief embroidered with the initials ‘C.W.’. Reaching out, I put it into my palm and lift it gently up towards my face. Still not exactly sure why I have this, or why I’m even keeping it, for that matter, I drop my hand and with an extended finger push the cloth into my jeans, above my wallet.
Then without further thought I begin to scavenge through the open cabinetry and find them all empty. There isn’t a drop of food to be found and I should have expected it. I don’t have money on me, but, I do have a debit card. And despite knowing that an ungodly and unjustified fee waits for me at the ATM, I have to go and buy something, as well as all the toiletries to take a shower and everything else this bucket doesn’t have.
As I close the last wooden door with a clunk and a sigh, I hear a gentle exhale and glance over my shoulder, my lips parting just so. As I look towards the front of the cramped quarters, I see Rayne rise out of the bed, the covers still draped around most of her figure. Her hair hangs down over one of her eyes, distorting my view of her face and making her seem like she just woke up in .38 Special’s tour bus.
“Hey,” I say with a comforting tone.
My face cringes as I suddenly feel stupid for having nothing better to say, or nothing more intelligent to say than ‘hey’. Rayne doesn’t seem to notice and simply smiles as she lifts her arm out from under the covers, stretching towards the sky and producing the same groan of satisfaction at pulling out her tired muscles. Then she looks down towards me with her sapphire eyes after a quick head-shake and smiles bigger.
“Hey,” she parrots back with a chuckle.
Crawling forward, she comes to the near edge of the bed and collects up her clothing in one armful before rolling onto her behind and draping her legs down over the end of the ledge, swinging her paws back and forth in the crisp air. She crosses her arms over her chest and then stares down towards me.
“Where are you going?” She asks with a sudden dread in her voice. “All dressed already, you aren’t trying to leave again, are you?”
“No.” I interrupt before she can go any further. “There’s nothing in this truck more than a couple towels, sheets and paper. I’m gonna run to get some food and whatever else we need. Plus I’ll probably have to swing the truck around to get water, or electricity, more than what the truck holds.”
Her face brightens and the reluctant smile returns to her muzzle. Then she calmly exhales an awkwardly held breath and runs a hand through her scraggy hair. Placing the clothes down into her lap, having almost clumped them on the floor beside her, she steps forward and begins to climb down the ladder. She presses the bundle of clothes tight against her with one free arm. As she nears the bottom, she stretches out her body once more, that canine tail swinging cheerily behind her.
“I guess I’ll see what I can get from the shower and get dressed.” She comments as she passes in front of me. “It probably won’t be much water, but, at least I can wet my hair. Have you even thought about what you want to do now?”
“I’m not sure.” I say, following her with my eyes. “I still want to go home, but no longer with the burning desire for vengeance feeding some ill-focused blood libel. Now I just want to go home for the sake of going home. But I’m not sure about my uncles, or about . . . this.”
I hold up my arm and point towards the furry hand with sharpened claws protruding from the edge of each slim finger. Rayne turns around and glances to it and quickly looks away, having already comprehended what I was talking about it, but checking just to confirm it. She stops near the bathroom stall and places a hand onto the wall, her paw held back and feeling the floor as she thinks to herself.
“Blackjack probably could fix it. I mean, he’s the one who did it, I don’t see why he couldn’t undo it.” Rayne says loudly.
“Do you really think he’d undo it?” I question sarcastically.
“No.” She answers bluntly. “I don’t think he would, even if you had him hung over Mt. Doom and prepared to drop the ring in, he’d refuse to turn us back out of spite.”
“Do you think we’re free?” I ask after a brief and sufficiently awkward silence.
Rayne lets her arm drop down from the wall and turns around on strong, toned legs to stare back towards me. I meet her eyes and feel those sapphires turn deadly and immediately know the answer. Sighing audibly, I turn my eyes down towards the ground, cross my arms and shake my head.
“So running away would be as useful as escaping Dachau wearing our striped uniforms.” I sullenly state.
“I’ve spent almost two years with him and he’s never let anyone escape any deserved punishment, whether actually deserved, or existing only in that twisted world that plays out like a movie film behind his eyes. He’s a cruel, vile man and, yes, he shall dog us down until our dying day because he has the power, the influence, the strength and, above all, the time. Putting him under the ground is probably the only solution.”
“But how could I put him in the situation where I could do anything to harm him?” I almost demand of her. “How could I harm him at all?”
“I’m not sure.” Rayne replies. “It isn’t like he’s able to be harmed. Every mortal weapon, for lack of better words, can’t harm him. He’s immortal, undying, and invincible. The only thing that I know that has the ability to kill him is magic, but it isn’t like he’d ever hand out a weapon that could be used against him. Plus, I’m not sure if there’s a trick we could play. I’m sure he can toy with minds; he’s displayed that power before . . . he’d know, every time, what we would have in store.”
We are both silent for the longest time and as I lift my eyes up from the floor, Rayne turns her head and body back towards the rear door of the trailer. She then sighs and then opens the sliding door leading into that little excuse for a powder room before disappearing through the doorway. Then I uncross my arms and begin to slowly step towards the door.
“I don’t know.” I say to her. “I’ll think about it. But I know it has to end, if we ever want to be free, both literally and metaphorically. I mean, look at us! It’s been nice, but . . . there’s something unnatural, if not slightly unnerving, about this whole thing. Being half animal is . . . well, inhuman.”
Rayne leans her head back out of the door and says, “You’re right, the chase has to end soon, and somehow I know it will. But what I’m not sure if we’d like how it would end.”
“You think we’ll go down?” I ask after a short silence.
Rayne looks at me with a serious glare before softening into a gentle look and crooked smile.
“In a blaze of glory,” She says before disappearing again with a chuckle.
The pocket door closes tight and I shake my head, wondering how the two of us managed to get together, or survive one another, let alone the Gestapo agent trying to kill us. Sinking my hands into the pockets of my jacket, I tromp through the trailer and push open the door. The humidity of the morning hits me like a brick wall, but as I step down onto the muddy concrete, unsure where one ends and the other begins, I’m just glad to see that the storm has past, for now.
Taking in a deep breath, I look out across the creek, swollen to its banks, and into the rolling farmland of central Iowa. The sky above is a barely unbroken navy blue and comes to meet the land, where the two seem to be welded together seamlessly. The only thing that breaks the man-height corn, or what is left after the battering rain, is that sole country road, gray as silver and as cracked as dry skin.
I groan as I stretch out my arms, reaching high above my head, and as I lower them down, I take hold of the door and quickly shut it. Turning to the left, I tromp around the right of the truck, letting my arms swing wide and free. The motel has managed to survive the tempest, now sitting with two motorcycles outside the front office. One is a touring Honda Gold Wing, the other an old Indian Chief.
Staring down the classic hog, colored a light blue with pearl white accents topped off with white wall tires, I reach up and yank back my hair, running my claws back along my scalp like they are the teeth of a comb. Seeing the old bike makes me feel good, but I can’t focus on it.
Lifting my eyes upwards, I see that the office of the motel is closed and the windows are even boarded up because of the storm. The door is open, but inside it is dark and nobody seems to be home. Stopping in the middle of the parking lot, I then look for an alternative. The next lot over holds the remains of a Shell gas station, but it seems to have been closed up sometime in the seventies, judging from the chrome pumps, the kind that go ‘bing’ when you’re done pumping, wide, aluminum-flaired art deco-styled signs and the movie poster stating ‘Smokey and the Bandit, coming out this May!’ hanging in the front.
I highly doubt that there will be anything inside of that place, or even any gasoline stored in the tanks underground. Thirty-four years of decay and disrepair, as well as destruction caused by drunken high school students, have pretty much ruled it out. But as soon as I fear that I must walk into town, an elderly woman hauls a cart out of a motel room and parks it just outside.
Wiping her face, sweat running down her oily forehead no doubt covered with cosmetics that are as heavy as the lead they used to be made of, she begins to toddle away towards the main office. She pulls a pack of Marlboros from her uniform and bumps a cigarette out of the little red box. No doubt she’ll be taking a break in the only air conditioned room in the business and judging by the thickness of her coffin nails, I know I’ll at least have ten minutes, fifteen tops, to steal what I need from the room and cart.
Rushing to the cart, I immediately begin to fill my arms with everything I can lay my temporarily sticky fingers on. With each roll of toilet paper, shampoo, tissues, and everything else, I can’t help but think and wonder if this is all I’ll be doing: traveling the country and stealing from motels while the cleaner isn’t watching.
No, I can’t do this. Blackjack will crawl out of the crack in the pavement he’s hidden in for now and strike. Speaking of whom, I’m wondering exactly where my uncles obtained the pistols which hold their names upon them. I remember them saying they did a lot of spectacular shows and that they were the greatest, even did some minor Hollywood-type deals when the times were right. Could the talent have been in the man, or the machine?
With Blackjack, it’s hard to tell. They could have been bewitched by Blackjack to do what they did, which they never really did elaborate upon beyond a couple modest words, in a milder way which they are now. Or could it be in the pistols, ones he gave them? I drop a tube of soap gel onto the ground and kneel down to pick it up. Then, once my hands are full, I slowly enter the open room and look around.
There isn’t much to have inside. The dingy carpeting appears to have every brand of beer spilled into its foundation, displaying brown stain after brown stain. The walls are covered in white spots, though I’m not sure I want to know exactly what the white stains are. It could be mold or . . . something else. The roof is the only part that isn’t stained, but the heating and cooling vents, which I’m not sure if work, are covered with rotting rust.
I don’t want to know what the bed is covered with, but the IKEA-styled furniture seems to be clean enough. Stepping through the room, carefully, because I have no boots covering my exposed paws, I wonder if I should proceed any further. Then something enters my ears and informs me that there is no need.
Behind me I hear the rough and choppy beats of two V-Twin engines. They’re extremely close, but not close enough to be the two riders that were parked here for only slightly better alternative then riding the tempest out. They come up quick and suddenly begin to idle. My arms go limp and the contents held within my arms tumble to the ground. Turning around, I rush out into the near-blinding sunlight and peer across the blacktop yellowed by the rising sun.
The two Harley-Davidson’s parked beside the blue Dodge make my heart sink. I knew he would be back, but, I didn’t think he would be so quick. Even Rommel had respect for the dead after an attack. David appears from the back of the truck and hops onto the little Sportster and turns his eyes towards me. From underneath the long hair, I can almost see his eyes burning into mine.
But there’s this strange feeling, like they’re definitely not his. There is no barrier between me and what is really there anymore. No more glass separating truth and lies. What are there aren’t my uncles and Sander Payne isn’t playing around anymore. David revs the engine on the motorcycle and then turns his eyes to over his shoulder.
That’s when I see Daniel appear with Rayne over his shoulder. He’s bound her hands together at the wrists behind her back, has put a gag into her mouth and has tied her legs together at the ankles. Plopping her down into the leather bitch seat on the motorcycle, with two nice little arm rests recently attached to the backrest, Daniel straddles the motorcycle and then revs it the same as his brother.
The two of them sit on their choppers and stare towards me, David with an arrogant grin upon his face, Daniel with a blank appearance, like the difference between good and evil doesn’t strike him as very large anymore. Daniel leans forward and grabs the handles before letting the bike balance on its own two wheels.
Rayne doesn’t scream, but sits there in silence, staring at me. I simply stand glued to the ground, unsure of what to do, or even how to feel. I’ve been scared stiff, and despite the pain and agony gripping that beating muscle within my chest, I can feel nothing else but a deathly chill. David puts the bike into gear and coasts away onto the road before gunning it.
Daniel slowly walks forward, never taking his eyes away from me for a second, as if it is a silent taunt. Then he lets the heavier engine rumble out of idle and roar onto the road. The two vehicles begin to travel through town, moving in front of me before they begin to disappear to my right.
Suddenly I take a deep, gasping breath, having realized that I had stopped breathing for nearly thirty seconds. Then I almost drop to my knees as my mind screams out inwardly. My eyes dart back and forth and begin to burn, almost near tears. I don’t know what to do. The truck is too slow and there’s . . . the motorcycle.
I suddenly rise up onto my paws and look towards that heavy Indian. Beyond its leather tassels and cowboy-inspired saddle seat, I see a leather bobble hanging from a silver key at the ignition on the engine, having been left inserted and turned probably because of the inclement weather and what it inflicted upon the rider. It is almost as if somebody were watching out for me. Darting forward, I step down onto the hot macadam and throw my legs over the motorcycle.
With my behind firmly situated down onto the saddle, I put my right paw strongly onto the kick starter and swallow hard. I hope to God I can get this thing started before I have to see what the owner looks like, or worse, what he looks like pissed off. I hold down the clutch and crank the engine.
Two, three, four kicks and finally the engine roars to life. The 740 cc engine rumbles up and makes the entire fifties-styled chrome and steel frame shake and vibrate. Rocking the motorcycle off of its kickstand, I lift my paws from the ground and let the vehicle roll around. Then I slam it down into first gear and twist the throttle so hard I can almost hear the vehicle scream.
My frame hugs the motorcycle as it beams down the incline towards the actual road. The suspension slams together as it meets the road, but recovers just in time for the bike to jump from first to fourth gear. The motorcycle climbs up to seventy-five miles per hour in a span of time that seems nonexistent in my memory.
Lifting my eyes upwards, I watch the two bodies up ahead of me, gunning through the small town towards the east. The brick and mortar buildings pass me by and I even blast through two red lights without incident, or even a close call. This early in the morning, most of this part of the world is still asleep.
The wide glimmering display windows of each shop shakes as the three choppers fly by. A few cars sitting in side streets or parking lots watch us go by with empty eyes. A face here and there is our only audience. Within minutes I catch up to the rear motorcycle, the one with Rayne on the back.
I approach with caution, knowing the two men know that I am there, wondering if Blackjack is willing to kill his property, as I no doubt know that is how he sees us if he is going through so much trouble to recapture us. Taking my hand from the clutch, away from the fluttering leather tassels, I reach towards Rayne’s tied wrists, fighting but tired. She’s most likely as fed up with running as I am.
But as soon as I near her bonds, David slams on the brakes and swings his bike around to intercept me. I reach back and sit down onto the leather English saddle-like seat. As we pass the last remaining houses in this one-horse town, David and Daniel now have much more space to play with.
Daniel guns it forward and moves towards the right side of the road while David plays tag with me. His bike comes up beside me and, turning my face to the left to eye him up, I see him turn his eyes towards me, those once red-tinted orbs now as fiery as Dante’s epic.
Slowly he reaches to his waist where his half of the pistol set hangs. He folds back the leather cover and reveals the ivory handle which he slowly grips. Gritting my teeth and folding back my ears in hatred, I pull the handbrake and then maneuver around behind his motorcycle.
As he pulls the pistol with his right hand, having locked the throttle in, I swing the Indian around the other side and ride up on him. As I approach him on the left, I lift my right foot up and kick at him. His head swings around with surprise and he holsters the pistol to make sure he doesn’t hit the pavement at eighty-five miles per hour, without wearing even a helmet.
But that seems to benefit him well enough because suddenly the duo slow down to a comfortable forty and gently make a left turn. I barely have enough time to hit the brakes, squealing to a frightening stop just in time to watch them grind around the only turn probably for miles. They glide out of sight behind the corn rising up as walls beside the endless miles of farmland, a natural, agricultural labyrinth.
Restarting the motorcycle is almost instant, but catching up with them isn’t. Drifting around the turn, I watch them begin to disappear in the distance. The gears jumping upwards one at a time, I know what I am doing is stupid, futile even. I have to end this before it gets to out of hand, as if it isn’t already.
This time, as I catch up with the two marauders, I do not try to peacefully slip the captive from their hands. David is up ahead again, leading the way, but the two of them eye me wearily in their mirrors. It’s as if they’re playing games with me, knowing that I’ll chase them down. But I don’t care, if a chase is what they want, a chase is what they’ll get.
Riding up on Daniel’s one eighty, I loose my hand from the clutch and slowly reach into my leather jacket. Gripping the solid handle, cold as ice, of the pistol I slide it out of its silken holster and ready it, holding it up for the entire world to see. The sun strikes it from the east and makes the nickel glimmer, displaying each and every decorative cut, weave, twist and groove in its surface.
I crank back the throttle and steady the cruiser in the center of the road, slowly encroaching upon Daniels’ heavy Harley. As I near him, Rayne watching me, ever vigilant, I level the pistol off and turn it towards the tire. If I can’t free Rayne without bloodshed, I’ll do it with the only remaining option. Despite keeping the bike steady, I discover actually how difficult this is. It doesn’t seem so hard in the movies.
David doesn’t move to put himself between the gun and the bike. I’m not sure if he fears for his own life, which seems to be one of the few things that break the control, or if there’s something else afoot. Then I see it, the only thing which breaks the rolling country of either open fields of high grass and short trees or high corn and low sky: a high junkyard.
My uncles let off the accelerator and slow their motorcycles. I pull the pistol back and place it back in its makeshift holster so that I won’t overtake my tail. I shift down slowly from fourth into second gear and follow as the two men cut off onto the dirt road leading into the unattended junkyard.
I lift my bottom from the seat and follow my relatives over the broken, uneven dirt, more like mud, road and through the smashed-open wire gate and into the open parking lot of the junkyard. They pull off to the right and slow to a stop, more like skid to a stop, in a patch of thick grass where the mud isn’t so bad.
I turn off to the left where the mud thins into nothing more than grass, plastic, glass and stone. As I kill the engine, throwing the kickstand, I feel as if I launch myself from the stolen vehicle. Placing my exposed paws onto the ground, I storm towards the two men. They stand shoulder to shoulder, apparently having planned this endgame already, with Rayne sitting on the ground, fighting to get her restrains loose.
I stop about twenty feet from the men and keep my fists at my waist. Fighting the urge to pull the pistol, I stare the two men down from afar. They are calm and their clothes flutter in the post-storm wind. Daniel’s duster is surprisingly clean and everything about them seems to be a little fake, like what I see isn’t real.
“I’ve had enough with the cat and mouse game, Jack.” Daniel states, his voice creepily monotone.
“No shit.” I sarcastically reply.
“So I’m going to end it here and now.” David chimes in, his voice sounding very similar to his brother’s.
“Fight us if you may,” Daniel begins.
David then eerily finishes, “but either you end up killing your family, or I end up killing you.”
David pulls the pistol from his waist and points it towards me. The motion in which he does it is clean and mechanical. As I look towards the pistol, I see it gleam strangely, the same red gleam that I saw in the eyes of the two men. That’s when I know it. I know how I can bring down Blackjack, and the funniest part is that despite never intending to do it, the man I seek to kill is the one who provided me with just the weapon to do it.