Page 32 of Anchored to the Storm

Fallen uncles… Dad…

Viewing the whole room, Styx pointed to the far left wall. “Over there, we were thinking new black couches, a bar, games—essential man shit. You know.”

Seeing some of this had already been coming to fruition with worn furniture, I imagined my uncles laughing, tossing back some brewskies, and hopefully creating great memories.

I must’ve appeared sad because Styx grabbed a shoulder. “Hey, or whatever you want in here.”

Not wanting him to think of his dead biker brothers, I mumbled an impossible request “A saltwater pool for my girlfriend?”

Styx laughed. “Now wouldn’t that be brilliant?” Then he got back to the tour, pointing to a set of double doors with windows down a corridor, closer to the ‘church’ door. “Main entrance, also bulletproof.” He walked us to the entrance of the corridor, then proceeded to shut another double-door entrance. These doors were thick, heavy wood. No windows. “In case a vehicle rams the first entrance, we have a backup plan.” He grunted, shutting the doors that looked to be from Viking days, then brought a massive rod iron bar down over them, locking the entrance shut. “If someone wants in this bad and gets through, we’re fucked either way.”

His dismissive shrug made me believe he had balls of steel, like the doors. I asked, “Have you ever been told you're insane?”

Styx delivered a proud smile. “I have, actually. Thanks for noticing.” He motioned to the upper parts of the tall walls. “Don’t need windows.”

“Oh shit!” I hadn’t even noticed all the TV screens with live feeds from outdoor cameras, all over the compound. This place may have been short on furniture, flooring beyond concrete, or any décor, but clearly, no expense was spared when it came to state-of-the-art security.

“But none of those TVs deliver football like that one.” He pointed to a big screen hanging on a wall in front of a weathered brown couch.

I couldn’t help but wonder how many nights he’d spent here, alone. “When not in Cali, is this where you’ve been?”

“Not for the first couple of years. Needed to lay low and recon. And—” His eyes were staring at the floor, but I knew they were seeing much more.

“And what?”

He squinted at me as if deciding on something. “Want to know where the bleach is stored?”

Sharply, I inhaled and held my breath. He’d been on a killing spree. I growled, “Hey, you better have left Dad’s murderers for me.”

Walking toward the left corner of the large room, he rolled his eyes. “My son. So, fuck off.”

I followed him, pissed. “My dad, so I want blood.”

Dismissively, he waved a hand at me in the air behind him. “Don’t worry. Gramps is only one man, so a few got away to breed more.”

Apparently, I was joining the party of the insane because I gave a curt nod and said, “Good,” happy that some revenge was still mine to have. “Where’s the bleach?”

In a kitchen area, Styx pointed to a white cabinet. The only one. “White for bleach. Made sense to me.” The rest of the cabinets were a beautiful wood like the main Viking doors.

My head bobbed. “Makes sense to me, too.”

He guided me to a commercial refrigerator and freezer. The fridge had some glass in the doors, so he pointed, announcing, “Beer,” like a caveman. “‘Nough said.” He touched the freezer. “Nuke-dinners.” Then he gestured to a massive freestanding stove. “Commercial-grade to handle feeding everyone.”

Peering about, I didn’t have the heart to tell the old man this was a two-man crew. According to what he said outside, he was raised by a biker but hadn’t always been one himself. “Was your dad a part of a clubhouse like this?”

Without another word, he reached into the refrigerator and grabbed a beer. “Not exactly.”

“Sore subject?”

He guzzled the beer, then went to a large piece of wood resembling a table over some sawhorses and started rearranging some tools.

Lots to be heard in silence.

I pondered, then asked, “So, the biker world hasn’t always owned your heart?”

That got his attention. As he studied me, I felt a wall lower.

He finally said, “No, it hasn’t.” Mindlessly, he fiddled with a hammer. “Because of my father’s actions, I thought bikers were only for committing crimes.”