Free Encounters by Stewart Felkel Page A

her face close to his. She gasped in air and her whimpering stopped suddenly. She tensed up momentarily and then began frantically beating at him in an attempt to get away, but he laughed while lifting her off the floor. She struggled and flailed until other members of his gang grabbed her limbs and they ran with her to the pool table where her crying grew louder as they pawed at her and tore at her clothes. She begged them to stop, but they were indifferent to her pleas.
    The man in the corner, still unnoticed, glanced down at his empty left hand. He quietly stood up and slowly slid along the back wall to the door. His shoulders were hunched and he kept low trying not to catch the attention of the gang. Luckily for him, if not for the brunette, all eyes were on the woman struggling on the table. He slipped through the front door and ran bent over to his truck parked along the side of the building. As he ran he heard the music from inside swell, presumably to cover the sounds of screaming and raucous laughter. It would also help cover the sound of him cranking his vehicle to make a quick getaway. He started his truck and brought it around to the front of the building, leaving it idling. Inclining his seat he retrieved a double barrel 12 gauge shotgun. He pulled out a small box that held an assortment of rounds from buckshot to slugs and even a round known as Dragon’s Breath. He broke it open and loaded it with two slugs. Several other rounds, including the Dragon’s Breath, went into his coat pocket. Snapping it closed he walked stiff legged back to the bar.
    Slipping back inside he was greeted with a scene straight out of a thriller movie. The bikers were in a half circle around the pool table laughing at the brunette’s struggles. Their leader had not quite gotten around to his full intent. He was standing beside the table holding her wrists down against its surface while making shushing sounds and laughing. She was throwing her head side to side with her eyes tightly closed and tears leaking down her face. Her feet were beating a staccato rhythm against the table that could be heard even over the jukebox.
    Immediately in front of him, with his back to the door, was the lanky haired rider who had first spotted the woman. Holding his shotgun in a two handed grip he approached him on the balls of his feet. When he was in position behind him he struck him with the butt of his weapon just like Uncle Sam had taught him to. Lanky haired biker went dropped to the floor in a heap. He stepped over him as the other members of his gang finally noticed an armed man in their midst and began frantically backpedaling. The leader looked up just in time from his sport to see the drifter level his shotgun to his shoulder. They locked eyes for a split second before the drifter shot him in the face permanently erasing his smile. A red spray drenched the woman on the table and several of the bikers who were diving for cover.  He grabbed the woman’s arm and pulled her off the table to her feet. She had stopped crying, but she was breathing quickly and shallowly as she stared at the blood covering her. He pushed her behind him and raised his shotgun back to his shoulder. The next shell was buckshot. If any of them charged he wanted to catch as many of them as possible when he fired. He stepped shuffled back towards the door keeping an eye on the bikers, waiting for them to find their nerve to attack. He had hoped that taking out their leader would rattle them enough to buy them the time they needed to reach the door. That’s when the juke box cut off and they heard the giggling.
    He spun around towards the sound. Standing in front of the door holding the power chord for the juke box was the young man who had passed out on the counter. His eyes were bloodshot and his face was pale. He slowly smiled revealing sharp jagged teeth and ran a forked tongue over them. The drifter heard several gasps and more than a few expletives from the shocked