David Wilson - Heart of a Dragon

The park was quiet. Clouds scudded across the last remnant of the sunset, obscuring the muted reds and golds that clung to the skyline. The hum of street lamps kicking to life brought dim, yellowed illumination to the night, but it did little to ease the menace of the encroaching shadows. Instead it shaped them and drew them out in elongated patterns on the rolling hills and small forested patches of Santini Park. The hint of a storm crackled in the evening air, bringing the heavy, water and ozone scent of thunderstorm and the soft flicker, far off over the ocean, of lightning fingers stretching down toward the rolling waves.

On the East side of the park, other shadows moved. They slipped from alleys, slid from between parked cars and out of the darkened doorways of decayed apartment buildings and dingy warehouses. Eyes, teeth, jewelry and blades glimmered softly in the dying light. They crossed the street stealthily, entered the park in silence, and disappeared into its depths. No words were spoken, but there was fluidity to their combined motion, and purpose. They entered like a horde of vermin and disappeared into the darkness.

Moments later the silence was shattered by the thrumming roar of a single engine. It wasn't the purr of a sports car, or the roar of V-8 power, but the steady throb of a large V-twin, powerful and throaty. The echo of that sound resonated through the park, caromed off buildings and reverberated in the depths of alleys. The sound multiplied and grew, challenging the distant voice of the thunder for dominance of the night. The first bike slid down Holley St. and into sight at the edge of the park. Its single headlight sliced through the blackness. The rider rolled to a stop, the bike's polished tank and chrome reflecting the weak light of the street lights. He pushed the kickstand down and stepped off. He left the engine running.

Black hair swept over his shoulders, tied back with a silver clasp that caught the light when he moved. The clasp was a spider, long legs twined about his pony-tail tightly. His eyes were small chips of blue ice. His chest was bare beneath a cut-sleeve denim vest, faded and criss-crossed with stains and patches, chains and memories. He was lean and strong, long muscled legs beneath tight jeans ending in scuffed engineer boots ringed by a leather strap, decorated with chipped conches. From his belt a long knife swung, slapping lightly against his thigh.

He stood for a long time, bike leaning on its stand, the engine throbbing. He swept the park with a cold gaze that seemed able to cut through the shadows. Nothing moved but leaves sliding quickly across the grass, caught in the grip of the approaching storm. There was no sound but the bike, and the whisper of wind through the trees.

Snake waited another moment. He wanted to see them, to know they were there, and where, but he also knew that wasn't going to happen. They'd drawn him here, and there was no choice but to get on with it. He reached over and killed his engine.

He raised his arm and waved it in a slow arc. The sudden silence that had fallen when the engine died was broken by the soft throb of more engines. They ground to life and then rose to a sudden roar. The darkness was criss-crossed by brilliant slices of light, dispersing as the bright headlight beams sliced through it, and reforming as each passed, single file. They parked in diagonals, lining the edge of the park. There were dozens of them, each pausing for a moment, canting to one side to catch on its kick stand, then falling to silence.

The storm crept slowly closer, just off the coast and heading inland. The lightning flashes grew in brilliance and frequency. Snake stepped forward onto the soft turf of the park common, and the others filled in behind him, row upon row, tattered jeans, dark eyes, their weapons, belts, and leather gleaming with steel and silver. Each wore a sleeveless denim vest with the club's colors, blue and green dragons, whirling in a tight 69, devouring their own tails. The top bar simply stated the obvious: "Dragons MC". The bottom rocker, lined in blue, read "San Valences, CA."

A tall, dark-skinned man stepped up beside Snake and scanned the shadows. Vasquez was leathered and worn, years of sweat and road-dust sun baked into his skin; his arms were corded with muscle born of hard labor. His eyes were deep brown, nearly black, and his hair blew free and shaggy about his shoulders.

"They're out there, Snake," he said softly. "I smell them."

Snake nodded, not speaking. He breathed slowly and gathered his energy. He sensed them too, shifting through the shadows. Los Escorpiones. The thought of the young, violent Latinos made his skin crawl, but he knew he could show no sign of fear or weakness. The others could spare a moment to think of how their hearts were growing chilly and empty, or how their lives were riding on the actions of a few short moments. Snake had no such freedom. If he faltered, their courage would break, and they would be finished. Leadership always came with a price.

Along the line Snake heard the shuffle of booted feet, the soft clatter of weapons, and slowly the growing murmur of nervous voices. It was time. They were charged and ready and he couldn't afford to hesitate and let that moment pass.

He threw his head back suddenly face turned to the churning clouds of the approaching storm and screamed. His fists were clenched, arms curled up and back toward his chest and the sound rose, unfettered, from deep within his soul. At that moment the lines broke and the Dragons surged forward. Pent up rage, fear, and adrenalin burst in a flood of screams, merging their voices and their hearts with the energy of Snake's bellowed challenge.

As they thundered down the sloping field, shadows melted free of darker shadows and Los Escorpiones were on them. The storm broke at that moment, as if the heavens sensed the coming clash and wanted their rightful share of the fight. The lightning flashes were so closely spaced that the landscape became a strobed parody of battle, like a scene from a poorly written zombie movie.

The darkness was split by cries of anger and pain. Each flash showed pale, drawn features and flashing metal. Gunshots rang out, lost in rolls of booming thunder and echoed beyond them. Warriors crashed together, weapons drawn, lips curled back in the fury of battle and the terror of death. The scent of blood and screams of anguish washed away in sudden torrents of rain; the grass soaked blood and water into its heart and the sky was striped and marbled with the anger of the Gods.

The storm grew in fury; they slid and slipped on mud and the gore of the fallen, and they fought. Blades ripped soft skin and hard tendons. Gunshots, half-wild in the heat of the battle and the clutches of the storm, ripped through hearts and heads, spattering the ground, trees, and combatants with bits and pieces of those they'd called brother.

Vasquez towered over his opponents, a mountain of flesh and bone they tried again and again to scale. They clung to his shoulders and he shook them off. His blade ripped through limbs and organs with wild, uncontrolled abandon. Bodies flew from him, tossed, reeling from heavy blows, and his dark eyes shone, alive with reflected lightning and deep-seated rage.

There were too many. For each he knocked aside, two more slid from the shadows. And they were fast. It wasn't the speed of youth; Vasquez was fast. It was inhuman speed. They shot out of the shadows and tried to climb him like a tree, swarming like rats over something dead and rotting.

Vasquez bellowed in rage, kicking and slashing, leaving a trail of Escorpiones strewn across the park, but it wasn't enough. Those he left broken and sliced rose again as if nothing had touched them and launched at his throat.