Max Collins - Before the Dawn

Unfortunately for her, they took her invitation.

There was little room to maneuver, this close to the bar, and although she got one biker across the bridge of the nose with a straight right, and another in the groin with a knee, it was only a matter of time before the bikers had swarmed her, pinning her on the floor like a dead butterfly in a collector’s book. They held her down, tight, spread-eagled, and took turns copping obnoxious feels until the burly bastard she’d already defeated outside now fought his way through the crowd.

“You ain’t so cocky now, are ya, bitch?”

She glared up at him, playing the only card she had. “You gutless pussy — afraid to take on a girl by your ownself? Gotta have your buddies hold her down?”

He leaned over and slapped her and it sounded like a gunshot, ringing off the cement of the former monkey house, and her head exploded in pain accompanied by colorful starbursts.

“I’m about to accept your apology, bitch...”

Spitting blood up into his face, Original Cindy said, “I told you to stop callin’ me that!”

He reared back a snake-draped arm to hit her again, but before he could strike, a small hand gripped the biker’s thick wrist.

The olive-skinned young woman in black leather jacket and pants was petite if shapely, and she had slipped through the circle of bikers without anyone thinking to stop her. Those who’d noticed merely admired her lithe yet voluptuous figure; a few others were amused to see such a little thing walk out into the center ring of this circus.

But now they all froze, including Original Cindy’s antagonist, whose nostrils flared and eyes widened, as he turned to see who dared interrupt him — and who it was that belonged to the viselike grip on his wrist.

“Walk away,” the young woman advised him.

“You... gotta... be... kiddin, ” the biker said, upper lip peeling back over a smile that now had a few holes in it.

The young woman smiled back. From the floor where the other bikers still had her pinned, Original Cindy basked in the radiance of the stranger’s smile, expecting the sweet thing to soon be joining her on the floor, where together they’d pull a horrible biker train...

“Yeah,” the young woman said, little smile, little shrug. “I’m just kiddin’ around.”

Still holding on to his wrist, the black-clad girl thrust a sideways kick that caught the biker behind the knee, and sent him to the floor, kneeling hard. From her awkward vantage, Original Cindy couldn’t focus on what happened next.

The leather-clad woman became a dervish, striking, spinning, striking again, again, kicks knocking the bikers every which way. Suddenly finding herself free, Cindy jumped to her feet, catching only the blur as her unlikely rescuer threw dropkicks and fists into one biker after another, like a damn Bruce Lee movie; but that burly biker who’d started it all was getting onto his feet, that knife still in one hand.

Original Cindy slammed a small hard fist into the side of his head and sent him down, even as the girl in leather threw a casual kick sideways, knocking the knife from the man’s grasp. The biker was still on his feet, but groggy; Original Cindy doubled him over with a knee in the groin, and his mouth gaped in a silent scream until she closed it for him with a hard right.

And for the second time tonight, the big biker with the tiny mind fell to the floor barely conscious, spitting teeth like seeds.

In less than thirty seconds, the only people still standing in the bar were the band, the bartender, and the two women. The others were in various stages of semiconsciousness, moaning, rolling into fetal balls, a few crawling off, looking for a corner to bleed in.

“I’m Max,” the young woman said.

“Original Cindy.”

Max raised a fist and Original Cindy touched it with a fist of her own; neither had even bloodied a knuckle in the brawl. The bartender was smiling — maybe whoever had given him his shiners had gone down in this melee; he handed the two victors cold-sweating beers and held his palms up: no charge.

Toasting with the brew, Max said, “You can handle yourself, girl.”

“Sister girl,” Original Cindy said as she surveyed the damage, “you got a move or two your ownself.”

“Think maybe we should bounce?”

“Yeah, things’ve kinda died down around the ol’ Monkey House, don’t you think?”

“A little dull?”

“I don’t think these people wanna party no more.”

Winding casually through the casualties, the two women walked out of the bar.

“Those peckerwoods are lucky you come along,” Original Cindy said, hitching her shoulders.

Max gave her an amused sideways glance. “They’re lucky?”

“Oh yeah — jus’ ’fore you stuck your teeny nose in, I was about to bust loose on their asses, and cause some serious harm.”

Max laughed lightly. “You shoulda said somethin’ — I wouldn’ta spoiled your fun.”

“How did you even know to come in?”

“I don’t know — I can sorta smell trouble.”

“Original Cindy hears that — ’specially when there’s that much of it and it smells that rank.”

The night seemed suddenly chilly to Original Cindy, and she hugged herself. Max slipped out of her jacket, revealing a baby blue, well-filled sleeveless T-shirt, and passed the leather garment to Cindy.

Who said, “Thanks,” and pulled the coat on.

“We probably shouldn’t hang around here.”

“All bullshit aside, girl, we best watch our asses in this Jamestown, else we get caps popped in ’em.”

Max stopped in front of a sleek black motorcycle. “This is my ride — you got wheels?”

“This is Original Cindy’s wheels.” She held up a thumb. “My stuff is hidden in the woods.”

“Stuff?”

“You think these is the only clothes Original Cindy owns?” She grinned. “Got me some stylin’ threads out there in them woods.”

“Can you find your stash in the dark?”

“Does the pope shit in the woods? Is a bear Catholic?”

Max laughed and threw a leg over the bike. “Climb on, O. C. — we’ll get your stash and put some distance between us and that biker brain trust.”

“You don’t have to tell Original Cindy twice.” She climbed on behind Max, her arms locking around the middle of the leather-clad rider.

Max turned the key, gunned the bike, and, kicking a dirt cloud, took off into the forest. They picked up Original Cindy’s backpack from its hiding place and hit the road. Max kept the speedometer pegged at nearly one hundred, making conversation impossible until they stopped at a small, roadside coffee shop on the far side of Redwood National Park.

Clean by post-Pulse standards, the place had six booths along one wall, a counter with a dozen or so stools, and behind the back counter a wall with a pass-through window to the tiny kitchen. At this hour, the cook and the waitress were the only people in the place; they sat next to each other at the counter, each reading a section of newspaper. Wearing a white T-shirt and blue jeans, the cook rose when they came in. A paunchy man in his late forties, with bug eyes and greasy dark hair, he moved back toward the kitchen without a word. The waitress wore tan slacks and a brown smock. She had short dark hair, a birdlike body, and a drawn, cowhide-tough face. She stayed put until the women had chosen a booth.

“Coffee, you two?” she asked as she rose.

They both said, “Yes.”

The waitress moved quickly for someone in the middle of a graveyard shift and gave them each a cup of coffee and a glass of water. “You ready to order?”

“This is fine for now,” Max said.

Original Cindy said, “Yeah, me too.”