Before the Dawn (11 page)

“You ain't so cocky now, are ya, bitch?”

She glared up at him, playing the only card she had. “You gutless pussy—afraid to take on a girl by your ownself? Gotta have your buddies hold her down?”

He leaned over and slapped her and it sounded like a gunshot, ringing off the cement of the former monkey house, and her head exploded in pain accompanied by colorful starbursts.

“I'm about to accept your
apology,
bitch. . . .”

Spitting blood up into his face, Original Cindy said, “I
told
you to stop callin' me that!”

He reared back a snake-draped arm to hit her again, but before he could strike, a small hand gripped the biker's thick wrist.

The olive-skinned young woman in black leather jacket and pants was petite if shapely, and she had slipped through the circle of bikers without anyone thinking to stop her. Those who'd noticed merely admired her lithe yet voluptuous figure; a few others were amused to see such a little thing walk out into the center ring of this circus.

But now they all froze, including Original Cindy's antagonist, whose nostrils flared and eyes widened, as he turned to see who dared interrupt him—and who it was that belonged to the viselike grip on his wrist.

“Walk away,” the young woman advised him.

“You . . . gotta . . . be . . .
kiddin,
” the biker said, upper lip peeling back over a smile that now had a few holes in it.

The young woman smiled back. From the floor where the other bikers still had her pinned, Original Cindy basked in the radiance of the stranger's smile, expecting the sweet thing to soon be joining her on the floor, where together they'd pull a horrible biker train. . . .

“Yeah,” the young woman said, little smile, little shrug. “I'm just kiddin' around.”

Still holding on to his wrist, the black-clad girl thrust a sideways kick that caught the biker behind the knee, and sent him to the floor, kneeling hard. From her awkward vantage, Original Cindy couldn't focus on what happened next.

The leather-clad woman became a dervish, striking, spinning, striking again, again, kicks knocking the bikers every which way. Suddenly finding herself free, Cindy jumped to her feet, catching only the blur as her unlikely rescuer threw dropkicks and fists into one biker after another, like a damn Bruce Lee movie; but that burly biker who'd started it all was getting onto his feet, that knife still in one hand.

Original Cindy slammed a small hard fist into the side of his head and sent him down, even as the girl in leather threw a casual kick sideways, knocking the knife from the man's grasp. The biker was still on his feet, but groggy; Original Cindy doubled him over with a knee in the groin, and his mouth gaped in a silent scream until she closed it for him with a hard right.

And for the second time tonight, the big biker with the tiny mind fell to the floor barely conscious, spitting teeth like seeds.

In less than thirty seconds, the only people still standing in the bar were the band, the bartender, and the two women. The others were in various stages of semiconsciousness, moaning, rolling into fetal balls, a few crawling off, looking for a corner to bleed in.

“I'm Max,” the young woman said.

“Original Cindy.”

Max raised a fist and Original Cindy touched it with a fist of her own; neither had even bloodied a knuckle in the brawl. The bartender was smiling—maybe whoever had given him his shiners had gone down in this melee; he handed the two victors cold-sweating beers and held his palms up: no charge.

Toasting with the brew, Max said, “You can handle yourself, girl.”

“Sister girl,” Original Cindy said as she surveyed the damage, “you got a move or two your ownself.”

“Think maybe we should bounce?”

“Yeah, things've kinda died down around the ol' Monkey House, don't you think?”

“A little dull?”

“I don't think these people wanna party no more.”

Winding casually through the casualties, the two women walked out of the bar.

“Those peckerwoods are lucky you come along,” Original Cindy said, hitching her shoulders.

Max gave her an amused sideways glance. “They're lucky?”

“Oh yeah—jus' 'fore you stuck your teeny nose in, I was about to bust loose on their asses, and cause some serious harm.”

Max laughed lightly. “You shoulda said somethin'—I wouldn'ta spoiled your fun.”

“How did you even know to come in?”

“I don't know—I can sorta smell trouble.”

“Original Cindy hears that—'specially when there's that much of it and it smells that rank.”

The night seemed suddenly chilly to Original Cindy, and she hugged herself. Max slipped out of her jacket, revealing a baby blue, well-filled sleeveless T-shirt, and passed the leather garment to Cindy.

Who said, “Thanks,” and pulled the coat on.

“We probably shouldn't hang around here.”

“All bullshit aside, girl, we best watch our asses in this Jamestown, else we get caps popped in 'em.”

Max stopped in front of a sleek black motorcycle. “This is my ride—you got wheels?”

“This is Original Cindy's wheels.” She held up a thumb. “My stuff is hidden in the woods.”

“Stuff?”

“You think these is the only clothes Original Cindy owns?” She grinned. “Got me some stylin' threads out there in them woods.”

“Can you find your stash in the dark?”

“Does the pope shit in the woods? Is a bear Catholic?”

Max laughed and threw a leg over the bike. “Climb on, O. C.—we'll get your stash and put some distance between us and that biker brain trust.”

“You don't have to tell Original Cindy twice.” She climbed on behind Max, her arms locking around the middle of the leather-clad rider.

Max turned the key, gunned the bike, and, kicking a dirt cloud, took off into the forest. They picked up Original Cindy's backpack from its hiding place and hit the road. Max kept the speedometer pegged at nearly one hundred, making conversation impossible until they stopped at a small, roadside coffee shop on the far side of Redwood National Park.

Clean by post-Pulse standards, the place had six booths along one wall, a counter with a dozen or so stools, and behind the back counter a wall with a pass-through window to the tiny kitchen. At this hour, the cook and the waitress were the only people in the place; they sat next to each other at the counter, each reading a section of newspaper. Wearing a white T-shirt and blue jeans, the cook rose when they came in. A paunchy man in his late forties, with bug eyes and greasy dark hair, he moved back toward the kitchen without a word. The waitress wore tan slacks and a brown smock. She had short dark hair, a birdlike body, and a drawn, cowhide-tough face. She stayed put until the women had chosen a booth.

“Coffee, you two?” she asked as she rose.

They both said, “Yes.”

The waitress moved quickly for someone in the middle of a graveyard shift and gave them each a cup of coffee and a glass of water. “You ready to order?”

“This is fine for now,” Max said.

Original Cindy said, “Yeah, me too.”

Nodding, the waitress returned to her seat and picked up the paper. “False alarm, Jack!”

The guy in the kitchen came back out and picked up his paper, too; this time though, he stayed on his side of the counter.

“Original Cindy just wanted to thank you for steppin' in tonight.” Sitting forward, she leaned across the booth and patted Max on the hand. “A sistah coulda looked at them odds and walked the hell right back out the door.”

Shaking her head, Max said, “Wouldn't do for sistahs to be lettin' each other bump uglies with the likes of those dickweeds.”

“They ain't Original Cindy's . . . type anyway.”

“Low-life bikers.”

“Dickweeds.”

Max gave her a look.

Original Cindy explained what had started the altercation with the biker—namely, the blonde. Watching Max carefully, she said, “You gotta do what floats your boat.”

“None of my business,” Max said, “where people put their paddles.”

Original Cindy smiled and Max gave her half a smile back. They sat and sipped their coffee for a while, letting the silence grow, both of them comfortable with it.

Finally, Original Cindy sat forward again, saying, “What the hell
was
that back there, girl?”

Max shrugged, playing it low-key. “What was what?”

Original Cindy made a couple of mock Kung Fu hand gestures. “That Jet Li, Jackie Chan action—what was up with that?”

Another shrug. Avoiding eye contact, Max said, “Had some training.”

The other woman waggled a finger. “No, girl, no no. . . . Original Cindy was in the army and
she
had some training, can take of herself . . . but
whew,
nothin' like what was goin' on in that bar.”

Max stared into her coffee. “Let's just say I'm a good student.”

“You wanna leave it at that?”

Max held her coffee cup in both hands, as if warming them. “You don't mind?”

“That's cool. That's where we leave it then.”

A smile blossomed on the heart-shaped face. “Thanks.”

“
You
thankin'
me?
That's whack.”

“If you say so.”

“Anyway, Original Cindy just wants to say she owes you big-time.”

This seemed to embarrass Max, who said offhandedly, “I was just jealous, all the attention you were getting.”

“Well, you my girl now—you need anything, anytime, Original Cindy got your back.”

Max saluted her with a coffee cup, and said seriously, “That's good to know.”

“From now on you my Boo.”

Max frowned, and looked vaguely nervous. “I, uh . . . thought I made it clear I don't go that way.”

Original Cindy cracked up, the laughter bubbling out of her; but Max just studied her.

“Bein' a Boo ain't about . . .
that,
Max—it's about bein' stand-up, it's about I got your back, you got mine . . . it's about bein' tight. You my Boo.”

A natural smile blossomed on Max's lovely face. “Well, then . . . you're my Boo . . . too.”

The rhyme came out awkward, and made Original Cindy start laughing again, and this time Max got caught on the wave, and the two young women just sat there and giggled for maybe a minute.

Then Original Cindy extended a fist, which Max bumped with her own.

The waitress brought them refills on the coffee, an act that served as a time-out. When the waitress left, the two women sipped and talked, the conversation shifting gears.

“So,” Original Cindy said, “where you headed?”

“Seattle.”

“No kiddin'?”

Max looked at her curiously. “Shouldn't I be?”

“No, girl, it's just . . . I'm headed home myself.”

“Seattle is home?”

“One of 'em. Spent some time in the Emerald City.”

Max's eyes tightened in confusion. “Emerald City?”

“Yeah, that's what the peeps used to call Seattle back before the Pulse. You know . . . like
Wizard of Oz
?”

Max got a funny expression on her face. “I've heard of that. . . .”

“'Course you have!” Original Cindy looked at Max like the girl was speaking Esperanto. “Who hasn't seen the best movie ever made?”

“Me,” Max admitted.

“Back in the old days, every kid saw that movie.”

“Well . . . I had a kind of sheltered childhood.”

“Oooh, Boo, we got to introduce you to the
finer
things.”

Grinning, Max said, “I'm up for that.”

“Look, chile, here's the dealio: Original Cindy needs a ride to Seattle . . . and you're already goin' that way.”

Max looked into her cup. “I need to haul. I'm sort of . . . meeting someone there.”

“Haulin' ass is fine with Original Cindy. The sooner we get there, the sooner we're there . . . right?”

Max's eyes widened but she also smiled. “How can I argue with that logic? . . . Let's blaze, Boo.”

Original Cindy's face exploded in a smile. “Boo, the Emerald City ain't never been hit by a pair of witches
this
fine. . . .”

Going inland and traveling on the interstate might have been faster, but Max still took precautions to avoid any possible contact with Manticore; so they kept to the winding PCH and moseyed up the coast at a leisurely eighty-five to ninety miles per hour.

They stopped only for food and the call of nature—and to gas up the bike, which at eight or nine bucks a gallon was burning a hole in her bankroll, as Max had known it would. The roar of the motorcycle and the wind kept conversation to a minimum, but the two young women somehow knew that each had finally found the sort of friend they needed.

There weren't a lot of questions about each other's past; instinctively they both knew the other had secrets not for sharing. Nevertheless, they just sort of fell in together and the start of their friendship felt like they were already in the middle of it.

The last five hundred miles of the trip flew by and before they knew it, Max and Original Cindy were tooling through the streets of Seattle, still a striking city despite the squalor of post-Pulse life.

“Everything's so green,” Max said, over her shoulder.

“That's why it's the Emerald City, Dorothy girl.”

“Dorothy?”

“Boo, you ain't got no sense of culture whatsoever.”

“I might surprise you, Cin. . . .”

At Fourth and Blanchard, Max eased the Ninja over to the curb in front of a place called Buck's Coffee. The sign looked as though it used to have four letters before the
B
, but they couldn't be made out.

“Caffeine calling,” Max said.

“Original Cindy hears it, too.”

Inside, the pair of striking women walked up to the counter behind which stood a heavyset man barely taller than Max, a lascivious grin forming on his fat, five-o'clock-shadowed face. At a counter behind him, a blowsily attractive blond woman about their age—wearing knee-high pink boots, a blue miniskirt, and a pink top that bared both her midriff and most of her formidable chest—hovered over a sandwich in the making.

“Ladies, don't even bother orderin' no frappes, lattes, cappuccinos,” he said. Staring at Original Cindy, he added, “I serve my coffee just like I like my women—hot and black.”