Red Engine
Red Engine
by Bret Tallman
Folks passing through on the naked rock under the high sun would joke that Stonehenge had somehow gotten moved to Arizona. But if they walked closer to the double circle of what they thought were stones, they would see that each marker was actually compacted metal, the crushed carcasses of motorcycles and cars. Intuitive travelers wondered what kind of man would build such a place and what kind of magic he worked there.
There were two men standing in the circle at noon of that day, the day the Red Engine ran wild. The man wearing only cutoff jeans, tattoos and scars, the one who had built the place, was called Spur, not without a sordid story behind it. He was hairless, middle-aged, muscles still working but starting to sag under his sun-cracked skin.
The scruffy young man with the black hair and gray eyes was Grief Tanner. He patted dust off his riding leather, glanced around, taking in the dilapidated tent and grimy Winnebago sitting on the far side of the circle as well as whatever lurked under a dusty tarp a few feet away, and shook his head. He didn’t belong to any bike club but he was a member of the Hallowjacks, the men who walked the borders, the cheaters supreme. That meant he didn’t want to be here.
“This is a real nice setup you’ve got here. Maybe you should have a realtor out to appraise it. It’s missing a bean bag in the center though. That would really complete it.”
Spur didn’t smile when he rasped, “It’s safe here. Nothing can get me in this place, my Steelhenge. I’m glad they sent you. I asked for you. The others aren’t riders.”
Grief shaded his eyes. “Yeah, well the others aren’t exactly itching to come running whenever you cry for help. Why don’t you just get to the point before I die of heatstroke, okay?”
The older man bent his head and cleared his throat of what sounded like gravel. “I rode with Mad Frank Madison, kid. I was part of his crew. The things we saw on the haunted roads of America… the things we did…
“I would take the Throttle Wolves over your Hallowjacks any day of the week, kid. We all of us had the skills, you know? But old MF was the powerhouse. Never seen anyone like him.”
Spur was silent a moment, lost in time, unaware that his desert-dry lips had cracked and started to bleed. He went on. “Didn’t save him though. Not when we ran into the Red Engine.”
Grief took a step closer to Spur. “Are you telling me you’ve seen it?”
Spur smiled, widening the split in his lips, and his eyes watered. “Oh, yes. I was the only one who escaped. And I never wanted to see that thing again but I have.” He waved a weary arm towards the markers surrounding them. “At night, the stars speak so clearly to this place. They’ve told me of it every night for the past three weeks. The Red Engine rides again and it’s going to be close tonight, to the east.”
“There’s a whole lot to the east. Where exactly?”
Spur’s face suddenly twisted up into fury. “You know damn well it doesn’t work like that! Exactly? Exactly? But I think… I think it’s going to be coming down Interstate 17. That’s my best guess.”
Grief turned and began to stride back to his ride. “Then I’ve got a few hours on the road ahead of me.”