Tag Archives: biker

Iron Jack’s

Before you read Chapter 4, I’d like to invite you to like my facebook page What Zombies Fear.  The link opens in a new window, so you can click it without losing your place here.

Now, on with the show, thank you for reading.


A new free web story by Kirk Allmond


Table of Contents
<<Chapter 4                                                                                                    Chapter 6>>

It took Nyko almost an hour to retrieve the carburetors from the ceiling tiles where he’d hidden them when he locked Iron Jack’s for the last time.  These two choppers were his babies.  He’d crafted them, by hand, in the back of shop.  Even though they sat in the show room, each with a price tag hanging from the handle bars, he’d never really had the heart to sell them.  They were designed to pique the interest of potential buyers, who would want a bike built according to their own specifications.

Nyko started working at Iron Jacks since he was a kid, tinkering on bikes.  At first he did grunt work, adding aftermarket parts and doing minor repair work after school.  When Jack died Nyko was already running the place.  Jack’s son Henry didn’t want any part of the business, so Nyko bought it from him, and grew the business into a successful custom bike shop.

He enjoyed the time getting the two bikes ready to run.  He worked by the light of a small lantern, quickly and quietly, trying not to draw too much attention to himself.  The infected were all around out here, and Nyko knew from experience that light and sound could draw them from miles away.  The work reminded him of better times.

In just a few minutes, the stainless steel carburetors were installed, the batteries had water added, and he added a gallon of fresh ethanol to each.  The fuel lines were all stainless, so there wasn’t any real need to worry about the ethanol rotting rubber tubing.

When they were ready to crank, he resisted the urge to kick the starter and roar off down the road.  He was on a mission.  The old shop truck was in the first garage bay right where it was supposed to be.  He drained the oil out of it, and while that was draining, he topped off the battery with water, and checked his portable jump-starter.  The battery in it was dead too.

His motorcycle was a six-volt, not enough power to turn the old truck’s motor over.

Nyko searched the shop, looking for an old twelve-volt alternator.  While he was looking, he grabbed a pair of jumper cables, and the cordless drill out of his saddlebags.  In his office, he searched through his desk until he found a nine-volt battery.

An hour later, he squeezed the trigger on the cordless drill, spinning the alternator.  The nine-volt battery excited the actuator, and current began to flow through the jumper cables into the old truck’s battery.  He wasn’t sure if it would be enough, but after he’d expended both of the batteries for his drill; the truck turned over slowly and finally fired.

“Fuck yeah!” Nyko shouted when the engine caught.

Without the shop’s air handling systems running, he knew he couldn’t leave the truck running for too long, but he also knew it would take some time to recharge the battery, and his drill was dead.  He knew the noise he’d been making would have drawn several infected to the shop.  His old bike trailer was still parked outside, he’d made sure when he pulled up.

Nyko scouted the shop.  If there were only one or two out there, he wanted to dispatch them as quietly as possible.   The first thing he found was an eighteen inch pipe wrench.  He picked it up and hefted it over his head in a trial run.  “Quit stalling, pussy,” he said under his breath.

He laid the pipe wrench down on the work bench and picked up a pry-bar.  A couple of practice swings later, he laid the crowbar down.  Blunt instruments always resulted in large amounts of bodily fluid.  Even a single drop in the eyes or mouth could result in infection.  The biker laid the crowbar down on the bench, and picked up a long, flat bladed screwdriver.  The shaft was over a foot long, and forged steel.  An idea formed.

A pair of safety goggles hanging on a hook on the back of the bench caught his eye.  Nyko grabbed them and slipped them over his head, resting the goggles just above his forehead.

The cleaning cabinet delivered the second half of his weapon, as he unscrewed the fiberglass handle of the push broom and used two pipe clamps to fasten the screwdriver securely to the end.  He now had an almost seven foot spear, tipped with a massive steel point.  He tied a clean rag from the cabinet around his face, covering his nose and mouth, donned a pair of mechanic’s rubber gloves, and lowered the goggles onto his face.

Nyko checked his keys to make sure he had the right one for the lock on the trailer.  He set the key ring on the bumper of the truck, laid the spear down quietly beside the door, and drew his pistol.  The heavy steel door was good protection, but without any windows, Nyko had no idea how many might be in the general area.

With a deep breath, he lifted the door about waist high, crouched on one knee and peered out into the parking lot.  By the light of the full moon he made out four shapes.  All four immediately turned and started making their way towards him.

“Four. Fuck.” Nyko cursed.  Four was the worst number.   If there’d been five, it was clear he’d have to use his pistol.  No one went hand-to-hand with five.  Three, he could pretty easily take down without making any noise.  But four was always a toss-up.

“What I wouldn’t give for a silencer,” he said, heaving the door the rest of the way up.

The four infected moved quickly.  Nyko holstered his gun and picked up the screwdriver-spear, waiting to see which would make it to him first.

He jabbed outward, piercing the nose of a redhead.  He felt the spear stop against the back of her skull, and quickly pulled it backward.  Pus and gore dribbled down her face as she collapsed.  “Sorry Darlin.  Always did love a redhead,” he said, stabbing another.

The third and fourth infected stepped within spear range at the same time.  Nyko backed up as he speared one straight through the eyeball.  As he removed the spear, the eyeball came with it, stuck at the base of the screwdriver.  He kicked the final one in the chest, pushing it onto the flat of its back.

“I wish you’d just fucking stay down,” he said, stepping towards it.  The infected, of course, didn’t.  The drive to infect others was all they felt.  No humanity, no memories, nothing left of what they were.  Just some genetically manipulated virus created in the basement of some research laboratory contracting muscles and firing enough synapses to keep blood circulating.

It tried to get up, reaching for Nyko’s leg.  He drove the sharpened metal screwdriver through the back of its throat, interrupting the few synapses still firing.


Table of Contents
<<Chapter 4                                                                                                    Chapter 6>>

If you’re interested in my other work, please check out kirkallmond.com or my Amazon Author Page



Before you read Chapter 4, I’d like to invite you to like my facebook page What Zombies Fear.  The link opens in a new window, so you can click it without losing your place here.  Facebook is the easiest way to keep abreast of everything going on in the worlds I create, however with their new rules reducing the number of news items you see from a page (it’s now below 10%) it’s still easy to miss something.  The most foolproof way to know when a new book comes out is to please sign up for my email list.  I promise I won’t spam you.  I publish 4 – 5 novels per year, so you’ll get 4 – 5 emails per year.

Now, on with the show, thank you for reading.


A new free web story by Kirk Allmond


Table of Contents
<<Chapter 3                                                                                                    Chapter 5>>

His hair streamed out behind him as he thundered across the desert, enjoying the cool, dry, night air.  He knew the sound of the motorcycle would draw them in.  The infected were attracted to loud noises.

Nyko rode for an hour, due north on interstate 15, dodging dunes and wrecked cars.  At times, the reverberation of his bike bouncing off the walls that held the desert back was almost deafening.  It was the sound of freedom.  It was a sound that he craved.

Every time he passed a car he looked inside.  One in three had some sort of movement inside, sun-cooked flesh barely holding on to the bones.  In many cases, the inside of the windows were completely coated with dried gore.  The sun cooked the infected meat-sacks until the gasses inside exploded.  Everyone knew; never, ever open the door to those cars.  The smell took days to wash off, and nothing in the vehicle was salvageable.

He steered off the highway at Moapa, a small town in the middle of nowhere.  A left at the top of the off-ramp led him down the main street, and just past the long-dark traffic light, he stopped his bike in front of Iron Jack’s customs.  He deftly killed the engine, swung his leg over and took a step towards the door.  Keys still in his hand, Nyko unlocked the front door to Iron Jack’s and stepped inside.

There was a small front showroom with his two completely custom, hand-crafted choppers in it.  He looked them over fondly, each now covered in fine dust.  Nyko had pinned his hopes for Iron Jack’s on these two bikes.  They represented the future and his dream of being a custom bike builder.

Two years ago, he’d been sitting in his office in the back of this building when he got the call.  “It’s Molly,” the woman on the other end of the phone sobbed “She’s sick.  She’s dying, Nyk.  She’s got these sores all over her face.  The doctor doesn’t know what it is.  Her fever is over 107.”

That was how it had started for him; a desperate phone call from his ex-wife all the way across the country.  Nyko hung up the phone, hopped on his bike and headed down to Las Vegas to catch a flight to Northern Virginia. He rode south on Interstate 15, at times pegging the speedometer at the 130 miles per hour mark.

Ten miles north of the city, Nyko topped a small rise and brought the bike to a screeching halt.  Brake lights lit up in front of him and the sound of twisting metal eclipsed the sound of his bike. Cars and trucks went everywhere, filling up the median and the emergency lane.

He eased the bike over next to the wall on the west side of the highway, and idled through the cars, looking briefly for something he could do to help.  He reached into his inside coat pocket, retrieved his phone, and dialed 911.

“All operators are currently busy.  Please stay on the line and the next emergency responder will be with you as soon as possible.  If you are in need of immediate medical care, do not hang up.”

Nyko hung up his phone.  Half the people involved in this wreck were probably calling.  He stood up on the pegs of his bike to get a better view.  At least a hundred cars were totaled.  Fifty more were stopped with minor damages.  Everywhere he looked, doors were opening and people were walking up towards the front of the accident.

The biker wasn’t trained in any sort of first aid, but he looked in each car he passed to see if there was some way he could help.  He pulled up beside a blue Nissan Sentra.  The driver was slumped over the wheel, and there was blood on the inside of the windshield.

He knocked on the passenger side window.  “Hey buddy, you okay?” he asked.  The front of the Sentra was buried half-way up the hood under the rear of a black Suburban.  There was no movement inside the car.  Nyko pulled on the door handle, but it was either locked, or jammed.  From the wrinkles in the quarter panels, he assumed it was jammed and leaned out, pulling hard.

The door handle broke in his hand at the same time he heard screams from the front of the accident.  It wasn’t just one scream, it was hundreds of them.  He looked up in time to see a flood of people running towards him.

“Hey dude!” Nyko yelled, banging harder on the window.  “You alive in there?”

The crowd of screaming people was getting closer.  Nyko looked up from the car.  It looked like they were running for their lives.  Those in the front were looking back over their shoulders, while in the back, a group was chasing them, head-down and running as fast as they could.

Nyko saw one of the people fall.  Several of the group chasing dove on top of the fallen accident victim, like a pile of football players after a fumble.

“Dude! You gotta get up!” Nyko yelled, banging on the window again.  The crowd was less than fifty feet away now.  Hopefully, if the guy was alive, he’d be safe inside his car.  He could see the group chasing them clearly now.  All of them appeared sick with some kind of rash on their faces.  Like his daughter had.

There wasn’t room between the Sentra and the wall to turn his bike around.  With a grunt, he lifted the rear wheel up and spun the bike around in place, before hopping on it and racing off, away from the crowd of people.

Table of Contents
<<Chapter 3                                                                                                    Chapter 5>>

If you’re interested in my other work, please check out kirkallmond.com or my Amazon Author Page