Unparalleled Universe: Part 1

Nick was conflicted by the desert. He felt it was dry, dusty, egregiously hot and far, far too empty. The blue domed void gave him a delicate sense of fear. As if the sky would swallow him up whole. Though simultaneously, the near quiet environment with the occasional gust of dust stirring wind gave him a sense peace. It allowed him to think clearly and thoroughly. As Nick sat in his dusty, primer black and slightly abused 1969 Dodge Charger, he sweated profusely. Nick could handle heat, but today was a hot one. He wondered if he should remove his leather cowboy hat, then decided an ice age was the only real solution. Might as well just take it like a man. He smirked at the thought, and took a healthy pull off from his bottle of beer, condensation ran down the brown glass, wetting his chin. Nick wiped at his face with the back of his bare arm. Letting out a deep breath, his nerves eased slightly.

Even though the brim of his hat cast a shadow over his eyes, he squinted at the little concrete shack of a dive bar in the middle of Nowhere, Nevada. A line of a dozen or so dusty motorcycles, old Harleys and the like, were stood up beside it uniformly. A small deserted cracked paved road ran only 20 feet from the front of the bar. A half lit sign proclaimed the establishment to be called Dirty Harry's. “Dirty” being the only lit part.

"What a fuckin' dump." Nick muttered. He tilted his bottle back again, and with it half full, he guzzled down the remainder of its contents. Nick didn't really want to go inside. He knew what waited for him, but he had a job to do, and he always finished what he started. After thinking over his plan of action, or lack thereof, he checked his old Colt .45 1911 one more time, then tucked the heavy gun into the waist of his jeans. Nick exited the car, as the big heavy door slammed shut a small cloud of dust swirled into the air. Nick crunched his way over the dirt and rocks, getting his game face on.

Though Nick wasn't a large man by any means, he walked strong, and gave off a confident presence. People typically underestimated him, he was 37 years old, but due to his baby-face and light blue eyes, he looked 10 years younger. Well tanned, and several days unshaven. His black leather cowboy hat gleamed in the unforgiving sun with medium length almost black hair escaping out from underneath. The half unbuttoned red plaid light cotton shirt, with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tucked into black well fitted jeans. A black belt with a pair of handcuffs as a buckle he had custom made after seeing the lead singer of Blue Oyster Cult wearing them on an album insert. The red Converse high tops he wore were usually the attention getters. It was a peculiar look, but he made it work.

Before entering, he took one last deep breath. The heavy bass of a rock song could be heard through the large metal door, Nick recognized it as Steppenwolf's "Born to be Wild". What a cliché he thought, shaking his head slowly with mild amusement. Suddenly he flung the door open, letting smoke and the blaring music gush into the desert. The bar was half full to capacity, roughly 20 or so biker types, all men, either sat at the bar, or were playing pool at one of three tables or throwing darts. The air was thick with a combination of heat, cigarette/cigar/pot smoke, stale beer and dust. The run down bar had a look of an old west saloon, only with far less charm. All eyes immediately turned to Nick. He was a bit out of place to say the least. The jukebox cut off, and the sudden silence made him very uneasy.

"I'm looking for Gus Babbit!" Nick shouted, spittle flying. He glared over his audience as he made his announcement "I was told he is in fact here. I'm not in the mood for any fucking games, and nobody here wants to see me in a bad mood, trust me. So Gus, step forward, or somebody point his ass out to me. Now!" With that, Nick shot his arm straight up and fired his Colt into the ceiling.

****

Desmond wasn't sure if he was on the right road or not. Everything looked the same out here. Nothing but sky, dirt, and the narrow ill kept road he drove along. He was about to pull over and reconsider his navigational skills until he suddenly saw it. In the distance a small grey structure poked out from the desert through waves of heat rising from the tortured ground. He remembered what the clerk at the motel he had stopped at for directions had told him that morning, that the bar was just a concrete box in the middle of nowhere. The clerk also told Desmond not to go there, that it was not a place people like himself should ever go. When he asked what the clerk meant by that, the clerk replied that he seemed like a good kid.

Desmond was a good kid, came from a nuclear family. Had an older brother and younger sister, and a loving mother and supportive father, all of whom he was very close with. Standing at a few inches over six feet and weighing about 230 pounds of thick muscle he was a star athlete. Excelling in football, wrestling, and baseball, and with a 3.98 grade point average he had multiple scholarship offers from some of the country’s best colleges. All-American apple pie looks, with a head full of curly blonde hair, dark green eyes, and a strong chiseled chin. Desmond had it all. Well - he used to.

He continued to drive. The bar was further away than he originally thought. These long desert roads gave him false sense of depth perception. He drove the old red Toyota Camry across the scorching hot blacktop, clutching the wheel hard enough to make his knuckles white. He kept thinking to himself he was about to get one step closer. He felt he was making up ground. It didn't ease his mind any though, he wasn't sure if his mind would ever be at ease ever again. Not after what had been taken from him.

Desmond arrived at the bar, Dirty Harry's the half lit sign proclaimed. Just like what the book of matches he kept in his wallet had written on it. A small, dumpy looking bunker like building in the middle of the desert, on a road with no name. Desmond couldn't help but wonder what kind of person would come to a place like this. The Harleys gave him somewhat of an idea, but if only he really knew. If he had known, he surely would have came better prepared. Or maybe not even had gone at all. He didn't know any better, and he parked his car and made his way to the entrance. He curiously peered at a dusty beat up old Charger parked across the road. It seemed to him it didn't quite belong. As he got closer to the bar, he could hear what sounded like a commotion. His suspicions were proven true when he made out shouting and some breaking glass. Desmond stopped a few feet from the heavy metal door, and started having second thoughts. Then he reminded himself why he was there, and that was the motivation he needed. He opened the door and stepped in. He first noticed how heavy the air felt, and saw a few guys in leather and jeans lying on the floor. Then he realized all was still, and everyone was looking right at him. Things stayed like this for a few moments. Probably only lasted five seconds, but to Desmond much longer. He started making out other unusual details. Like how everyone was male, that it seemed like the majority was having a problem with one guy. One of the bikers, a fairly large bald man covered in tattoos had a smaller guy pinned up against the wall. The little guy had on a leather cowboy hat and red high tops. When the little guy noticed Desmond studying him, he broke the silence.

"Man, did you just walk into the wrong bar kid." High Top said. "I'm looking for someone." Desmond blurted out.

"That sounds familiar." an older biker with a long grey beard said. The other bikers laughed.

"What's so funny?" Desmond asked the old biker, flashing him with a heated glare.

"You are kid. Now beat it, before it's too late." The old man growled.

"Not until someone tells me where I can find Victor Mace." Desmond replied.

"Ha! Now you are definitely out of your league kid!" A short, skinny and unusually hairy biker, who stood to Desmond's right, rasped at him.

Desmond shot his big right arm out, with alarming speed, at the hairy little man, grabbing him by the collar of his dusty leather jacket, picking him off the floor a good six inches to bring him eye level.

"Tell me where Mace is now or we’ll both figure out what league I’m in.” Desmond said through clenched teeth.

Suddenly, as if it were a cue, High Top threw a knee into the biker's groin who was restraining him against the wall. Then pulled his old .45 and fired a shot into the biker’s chest. If Desmond wasn't mistaken, the biker surprisingly let out dog yelp.

"Kid, get the fuck out of here, NOW!" High Top hollered at Desmond.

Desmond didn't turn to run immediately, a bit in shock at what he had just witnessed. The little guy in red high tops was sprinting towards him, or more towards the door behind him. All this happened in just a few short moments, but in slow motion. Desmond looked at the hairy biker he still held in his hand, but he had changed. The biker’s eyes had turned yellow with pupils like slits, much like an animal, and his teeth had grown longer and sharper. The biker let out a canine like growl, and without really thinking Desmond heaved him at some of the other bikers, whose eyes also glowed the same yellow. Panic filled Desmond, and he instinctively followed High Top out the door. Except when the door opened it wasn't the bright glaring sun and brutal heat Desmond expected, but instead cool black desert night only illuminated by a massive, oversized moon.

As if reading his mind, High Top yelled over his shoulder "Kid, don't think about it, just follow me, I will explain!"

"But my...." Before Desmond could finish what he was saying, he looked and realized his Camry had disappeared, and that the Charger he and High Top ran towards was different as well. Clean, gleaming black in the moon light, the Charger now looked immaculate. Also sported a white snakehead decal on the hood Desmond was sure had not been there before.

"Just get in and shut up kid!" High top yelled. Desmond did so, the interior was quite impressive. Black leather with red accents on the seats, chrome plating here and there, and a speed shifter that had a skull for a hand grip. High Top fired up the Charger, and it came to life like a beast from Hell itself.

"Buckle up, this is gonna be a rough ride." High Top advised. Desmond listened to this as well, and struggled for a short moment with the racing harness he had to bring over his head. He hadn't even been able to buckle one of the two buckles before High Top threw the car into gear. The front end of the Charger lifted at least a foot off the ground, and twisted slightly due to the immense torque of the big block under the hood.

"Son of a bitch..." Desmond said, barely able to get the words out as he was pinned to his seat.

"That’s nothing, I'm only in second gear." High top said calmly, as he straightened out from a fishtail pulling on to the road. The tires of the Charger wailed on the pavement for what seemed like forever. Desmond noticed the road had changed too. The blacktop was a fresh and dark, with bright yellow lines running down the middle, and fresh white lines marking the shoulder, as if it had been paved within the last week. He also noticed lights from behind them, and turned to look to see at least a dozen motorcycles in hot pursuit.

"They're following us!" Desmond shouted over the roar of the engine.

"I was sure they would, and I'm not sure if we can out run them. But I know we can out gun them." High Top said, watching his rearview mirror. He shifted the car into, if Desmond had kept track accurately, fifth gear. The engine snarled like nothing he had ever heard before, and he use to work on his Uncle Mack's race cars. By the sound of it, the Charger had more to give too, and Desmond took a quick glance at the speedometer, finding the needle already pinned at 110 miles per hour.

"Who the hell are those guys anyway?" Desmond asked in an octave he didn't recognize, his mouth suddenly very dry.

"More like ‘what are’ they. And I would tell you, but you wouldn't believe me. Better you see for yourself." Just as High Top finished his statement, a biker pulled up beside Desmond's side of the car, when he looked at him, he couldn't believe what he saw. No longer was the man a man, he appeared to be a fur covered beast, wolf like almost, and still wearing biker gear, which made the event even more surreal to Desmond. The wolf biker leapt from its bike and landed on the roof of the car with amazing ease.

"It's on the roof!" Desmond cried, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and panic.

"Yeah, get use to that. You know how to shoot a gun kid?" High Top asked rather calmly.

"Um, yeah I used to hunt..."

"Good enough." High top said cutting Desmond off. "In the glove box is a big silver gun. Loaded and ready to go. Put a round in that fucker on the roof if you wouldn't mind. Just one shot will do."

Desmond opened the glove box, it had several guns holstered in various locations, but he found the big silver one and pulled it out. Desmond knew his guns, and recognized it immediately as a nickel plated Desert Eagle. He dreamed of firing one of these, now it was in his hands.

"50 cal.?" Desmond asked in awe.

“Only way to have an Eagle. Less talking, more shooting." A biker rode up next to High Top, and he leveled his Colt with his right arm over his left, which was on the wheel, and fired a single shot at the rider. It let out a deep yelp and turned to glowing embers and blew away, leaving the bike wobbling and then toppling over and tumbling out of sight. The wolf man on the roof looked in suddenly through the windshield and let out a roar from its inverted maw. Desmond didn't even process a thought, and just pulled up the hand cannon and pulled the trigger in the beast's fanged mouth. The gun erupted, and kicked liked the 10 gauge shotgun his father use to let him practice with. The beast's head exploded into sparks and embers that flew off into the night.

"HA HA! WOOOOO HOOOO!" Desmond cried.

"You're doing good kid, but we ain't out of this shit yet. Keep blasting these fuckers, but make sure your shots are sound, 'cause we have limited ammo."

Four wolf bikers, two from each side of the Charger, pulled past the car and grouped up two deep in front of them. Desmond noticed these were not the same bikes he saw before entering the bar. Much like the Charger, they were immaculate, and had been somewhat upgraded. Large exaggerated exhaust pipes in gleaming chrome, and fat oversized tires. The bikes were comparably as mean looking as the riders. Without needing an order from High Top, Desmond fired his gun at the rider furthest to the right. The .50 caliber round opened an ember ringed hole the size of a cantaloupe melon in the middle of the wolf biker's back. The ring spread and enveloped the entire biker turning him to embers and flying off into the dark ether.

"Watch out!" High Top cried out. The bike the now evaporated rider was on, wobbled and dropped to its side, right in front of the rocketing Charger. The muscle car slammed into the bike, making Desmond duck to his left, and watch the bike catapult over his head. Sparks and shards of metal and chrome exploded into the air. The front of the Charger suffered moderate damage that concerned Desmond. High Top fired two quick shots through the windshield at the two riders on the left. Both blew away in embers, and the bike to the furthest left toppled out of the way of the Charger, the other went and flipped high enough in the air for the Charger to pass underneath it. One biker remained, but the rider was standing on it, facing the Charger. Before Desmond could get a shot off, the creature leapt from its bike, and landed dead center on the Charger's hood. This one was a particularly nasty one, a bit larger than the others. Wearing a sleeveless leather vest, large muscular arms coated in reddish-brown hair flexed and with a roar the beast slammed his two large fists into the hood. The force of the blow made the front of the Charger suddenly drop, making the rear of the car spin to the right. Desmond was sure the car was about to flip into barrel rolls, and braced for it. High Top fought the wheel as the rear tires screamed across the near virgin pavement.

"Kid, ice that motherfucker!" High Top yelled over the sound of squawking rubber. Desmond tried to level the Desert Eagle, but couldn't get his sights on the beast due to the G-force of the spin that had brought the car perpendicular to the road. Suddenly, Desmond's fears became a reality. The tires of the car caught, and the car launched into the air. Time slowed once again in Desmond's mind. He saw the beast thrown from the hood. He saw the ground rotate and trade places with that empty and dark night sky. He saw High Top turn to him and about to say something just as the car hit the ground. Then time moved too fast, it was pure chaos. Flying glass, the sound of molested metal, pain, sky, ground, sky, ground, sky, and ground.

Desmond was sure he had blacked out, but only for a short moment. The bent and twisted Charger had landed on its wheels. The windows all blown out. High Top had already gotten out of the car. He had climbed through the window because he couldn't open the door. High Top was also yelling something, but Desmond couldn't make it out. His ears rang, and things were foggy. High Top came over to Desmond's side of the car and opened his door with a great deal of effort. High Top was saying something to Desmond, but he couldn't understand him. He undid Desmond's racing harness, and helped him out of the car. Desmond's body ached something fierce, and he felt warm wetness on his face. In a daze he touched his face and his hand came away coated in blood.

"I'm hurt." Desmond heard himself say, his voice deep sounding within his head.

"You will be ok, but you have to help me!" High Top shouted, but Desmond could barely hear him, and just nodded in agreement. High Top lead Desmond by the hand like he were a small child to the trunk of the car that was already opened. The Bikers who had been following from the rear had stopped their bikes 50 or so feet away, and had dismounted and were charging. They ran on all fours, at a speed that fired electric panic through Desmond. The beasts would be on them in a matter of seconds.

"Here!" High Top yelled, handing Desmond an automatic rifle of some sort, "Light 'em up!" Desmond took the rifle with shaky hands, turned to the charging beasts, and from hip level, just held down the trigger. Most of the rounds missed, but between him and High Top firing his 45., they turned all the charging beasts into glowing ash just as the last few survivors made it within ten feet of the two of them. Desmond turned to High Top, who had a smile on his face, blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and coated his teeth tinting them a yellowish-brown hue.

"There," He said with a somewhat chuckle "That should do it."

Then abruptly, out of nowhere, the big bastard that was riding the hood appeared and backhanded High Top out of Desmond's sight. The beast stood at least 7 feet tall, massive in bulk. If Desmond had to guess, the thing might have weighed 400 pounds of solid muscle. It stood only a few feet from Desmond panting and flexing the muscles in its massive shoulders and arms. It glistened with sweat in the moon light, and then spoke to him.

“Wrong place, wrong time red blood." It snarled. Then it swung an overhand right at Desmond. Desmond lifted his left arm out of instinct to block the blow, but he was sure it was going to be futile. To his surprise, and also what it appeared to the surprise of the beast, he stopped the forceful blow. Desmond suddenly noticed he felt a strength he had never had before, and he had never been a weakling to begin with. It inspired him, and he used it. With the beast's right arm still blocked by Desmond's left he began slugging it in the ribs with his right hand. The brute lurched with every blow, with the forth one cracking ribs, making the monster let out a yelp. The wolf man staggered back a few steps, worry showing in its yellow eyes. The animal shot a straight left at Desmond, he slipped it, then grabbed the thick hairy arm by the wrist, turned, and snapped the elbow over his left shoulder. The beast howled, and took another few steps back, now expressing fear, clutching at its ruined arm.

"Who are you?" The beast asked, sounding much weaker than it had from the first time Desmond heard it speak.

"A friend of mine." High Top said, cocking a round into the chamber of his .45, and leveling at the beast.

"Wait!" The wolf man cried, but it was too late. High Top shot it right in the head. The monster dissolved into glowing embers and ash and blew away like it had never existed.

High Top, stooped and rested with his hands on his knees let out a long pain filled groan "Well, now it should be over."

Desmond stood there for a moment, trying to digest what had happened, and wondered if he would ever wake up from this nightmare.

"What the hell is going on?" Desmond finally worked up the nerve to ask.

"I will explain. We can talk during the drive. Also need to get your cut taken care of."

"What cut?"

"The one on your forehead, you’re bleeding everywhere." Desmond had forgotten he was bleeding. So much had happened over such a small time span, the cut seemed trivial. "Come on, get in the car." High Top said.

"But the car...." Desmond turned to look at the Charger, and couldn't believe it. It was in pristine condition. "How?" was all he could manage to say.

"Like I said, we have a lot to talk about. But I will tell you this, we're lucky it landed on its wheels."