It was a dark and stormy night. I was riding my motorcycle down route 15 south. In just a few minutes the downpour of rain had soaked me to the bone, so finding an overpass to hunker under until the rain let up didn’t seem to matter now. The problem was it was getting harder and harder to see the road. A fog had formed and it was getting thicker. I was also getting tired. I decided to look for a place to pull over for a few hours and take a break, then I remembered the sign I saw earlier for a roadside rest ten miles ahead. That was at least five miles ago, so it wouldn’t be much farther.
I pulled into the parking lot and coasted the bike to the far corner where I could see a few park benches. The place was as desolate and quiet as a cemetery. Even the street lights were out. I parked the bike and turned off the ignition but left the head light on. In the bike’s light I retrieved a tarp from the saddle bag and fastened one edge of it to the top right-side of a park bench by jamming twigs over the tarp and into the space between the second and third boards to secure the tarp from falling down. I let the tarp roll down over the bench, forming a lean-to, and unrolled the rest of the tarp out flat on the grass under the bench. It wasn’t much but at least I’d be out of the rain and I could lay on the tarp instead of the wet ground.
After a few minutes I was actually beginning to doze off when the sound of a vehicle entering the parking lot brought me back to consciousness. I peered out from under the tarp for a look. All I could make out through the fog was a pair of headlights slowly work their way down one side of the parking lot in my direction.
Great. I thought. Now what?
At about 100 feet from me, the vehicle stopped. I figured the driver must have spotted my bike. From the sound of the engine and the height of the headlights, I guessed that the vehicle was a pickup truck. Not the sort of vehicle typically chosen by little old ladies. I smelled trouble.
Suddenly the vehicle lurched forward, almost spinning the rear tires on the wet pavement. It came right at me, then quickly turned in front of the bike and stopped. The passenger window was down and someone was handing out of it yelling in my direction, “Watcha doin’ here boy?” I didn’t know if he could see my face or not.
“We don’t like your kind around here. If you know what’s good fer ya, you’ll get the hell outta here!” I then saw the man’s arm move and a second later a glass bottle crashed into the edge of the park bench above my head. The pungent smell of whisky wafted over me. Then the truck sped off, weaving slightly as it went. The window must still have been down, because I could here the passenger and the driver whooping and hollering as the truck pulled away and turned sharply out of the parking lot.
I didn’t know if they’d be back or not, but I decided not to wait around to find out. Besides, the rain had stopped, and it would be light in a couple of hours. I was rolling up the tarp when the truck reappeared in the parking lot, only it wasn’t moving slowly this time and it was coming straight for me. It was too late to anywhere now. I was out of time.
I held the rolled tarp in front of me with my left hand drew my pistol from its holster and held it behind the tarp with my right hand. I thumbed the safety lever to its Off position.
The truck came to an abrupt stop near the bike and three men emerged from it. Two were carrying what appeared to be wooden axe handles and the third held what looked like a revolver. They walked toward me. The same voice I heard before broke the silence, “Thought I told you to leave here boy? We don’t like bikers round these parts.” They stopped a few feet in front of me, three abreast, smirking toward each other and eye-balling me like three cats with a cornered mouse. “Reckon we’re jus gonna hafta teach you a lesson,” said the voice, as he tapped the end of his axe handle against a palm. Even with several feet between us I could smell whiskey on them.
“I’m not looking for trouble,” I said. “I was packing up to leave and would’ve gone if you hadn’t come back so soon.” I motioned with the rolled up tarp cradled in my arm as proof of compliance. I continued to reason with them, “Now if you fellows just get back in your truck, I’ll finish up here and be on my way.”
“We’ll help ya,” offered the man in the middle. I knew if I turned my back on them I’d get cracked over the head with one of those solid oak handles—or maybe even the tire iron.
“Thanks, but I can manage alone,” I said.
“Now that’s unfriendly,” said the man with the gun. He looked at his accomplices and said, “Go on boys; teach that sombitch some manners.” In unison, the two men took a step forward.
“I don’t want any trouble,” I said quickly, and took a few steps backward.
“Oh, it’s no trouble,” said one of them as he sprinted forward, raising his axe handle.
I raised the tarp in a defensive position to block the blow I knew was coming, but focused my eyes instead on the gunman. I pointed my pistol in his direction and fired. He lurched to one side and in a reflex action pulled the trigger on his gun. The unaimed bullet slammed into the leg of the man closest to him. That man screamed and fell to the ground, clutching at his lower leg. At that same instant, a sharp pain ran down my arm and into my shoulder as I dropped to my knees. The tarp helped, but the man wielding the axe handle was now more determined than ever. He probably thought I’d shoot him next so he had no choice but to kill me if he could. I held my arm up as a shield, desperately trying to protect my head. Another blow crashed down on me and I shrieked in pain.
As the man cocked his arm back for another strike, I swung my pistol toward him. When the muzzle touched his thigh, I pulled the trigger. He immediately screamed and dropped to the ground landing almost on top of me. Groping wildly around the tarp, he found my neck and started choking me. The constriction was horrific and immediate. All I could do was press my gun against his body and pull the trigger. I fired twice more. Each time his body jerked, yet he continued to squeeze. Seconds later, a discernable sigh came from him and his body went limp. He was dead.
I crawled out from under him and struggled to regain my breath and my feet. I looked around at the remaining man still alive. He was still writhing on the ground clutching at his calf. I took an unsteady step toward him. He saw me and reached for his partner’s revolver.
“Don’t do it!” I said. “Don’t do it!” I yelled this time and pointed my gun at him.
“You bastard! You killed my brothers! I’m gonna kill you for that!” he yelled back, as he cocked the gun and attempted to aim it at me.
I shot before he had a chance to pull the trigger. My bullet disappeared into his forehead. He slumped to the ground stone dead.