Chapter 2: Psychos Inc.
October 1, 1998
6:10 PM
East Raccoon City
East Raccoon City was held fast in the grip of pandemonium. Looters were everywhere, frightened and angered they took to the streets, pillaging all they could find. Whatever was left they burned, stole or destroyed. Shop front windows were smashed, homes burglarized, vehicles stolen or hijacked. Those that were not creating the chaos sought to flee it and many lost their lives in the process, succumbing to the ceaseless violence of the mobs.
The police officers did what they could to surpress the rioters but were heavily handicapped by a lack of personnel and quickly became overwhelmed. Outraged citizens discharged firearms and hurled home-made explosives at the massive police barricades that sealed them within their city of disease and death. The police returned fire and launched tear gas rounds, momentarily dispersing the crowds only to have them come back again with another suicidal charge. The scent of smoke, gunpowder and blood hung thick in the night air.
Four men, riding on metallic black Harley's sped away from the barricades where the rowdy mobs were thickest and around the street corner. They drove past a group of men cleaning out a local sporting goods store and continued down the block and around another corner. The bikers rode at the same speed in a straight line, going fast but at a velocity that would allow them to make sudden stops and get out of harm's way should such an occasion arrive.
If one were to look at the four bikers closely all at once they would swear the men to be related. They all sported the same brand of thick beards, braided like a Viking's with shaggy sprouts of hair popping out that seemed to mesh well with the long, greasy hair that drifted down from their heads and across their broad shoulders. Each man stood over six feet tall and was built like a Mac truck with muscles. Their arms bore many of the same tattoos, scars and callouses. The crew even dressed the same: wearing ripped blue jeans, dark work boots, fingerless leather gloves, deep purple bandanas and leather vests.
Imprinted across the back of the vest was the design of a laughing skull. Spewing forth from the skull's cackling jaw was murky blue smoke. The pits of its eyes were a fiery shade of red. Written along a banner underneath the intimidating picture were the words "Psychos Inc." Etched on a banner atop each man's jacket was a nickname, from left to right the titles were: Slugger, Shots, Shank and Boomer.
While the vest may certainly have looked cool, the sentimental value of the garment was much more important to the squad of Harley riders. The jackets declared them brothers of a sort. All four of them belonged to the biker brotherhood of the Psychos Incorporated gang. The vest that had been given to them as the final part of their initiation was a badge of honour to be worn proudly and at all times. Never was it to be removed, not even during sleep.
Since the club's formation in 1984, Psychos Inc had never consisted of more than six members. Throughout the biker social circles it had become known as the most exclusive and tightly knit motorcycle gang in all of the United States. To the police they were just another band of dangerous trouble makers, no doubt out to sell drugs, guns and stir up their fair share of barroom tussles.
Aside from the group's shady, outward reputation, on the whole the six men were like a band of brothers. A family even. They had all been outcasted from society for one reason or another and few understood the hardships they had faced better than one another. The rest of the world cared little, and knew even less, about the band of rogues, giving the bikers nothing to live for but the freedom of the open road and the solace of each others companionship. While Psychos Inc had faced many dangers and life threatening situations before, nothing compared to the bedlam being unleashed in Raccoon City.
Taking the corner onto Willard Avenue the cyclists passed by a Future Shop and watched as four figures hopped out of a broken window lugging televisions, DVD players, and boom boxes. They continued on down the block, witnessing an elderly black man being savagely beaten by a pair of teenagers. Doing their best to stay clam the four Psychos increased their speed and kept going, ignoring the thought that at any moment the furious rioters would turn their attention to the group of riders. Panicking would not help them find their friends any faster.
Currently the group was on a search and rescue mission of sorts. Having arrived in the city only a couple weeks prior to it being quarantined and locked down by the police, the Psychos Inc crew checked in and spent a few days drinking hard, partying harder and smoking some of the finest grass they could find. When news of the "mystery virus" reached the roughnecks they barely gave it a second thought. All the sick people would be put up in hospitals right? As long as no one with this skin disease started rubbing up against them what was there to worry about?
The gang learned its lesson soon after, when cops started making barricades and people started going crazy. Tonight was not the first riot the group had seen, there had been a few smaller ones in previous days. Generally, the local law enforcement had quelled the uprising easily but had done so with lethal force more often then not. Anyone foolish enough to try and jump or force their way through the blockades was shot on sight. During these violent altercations between citizen and police officer the Pyschos Inc group stayed hunkered down in their motel rooms at the Lucky Clover and waited for things to settle down. Respect for the law was something the gang had in short supply but participating in all out mayhem was simply not their style. Being trampled to death in an unruly mob had its downside.
None of these riots could hold a candle to the one currently exploding within the eastern part of Raccoon. To make matters worse, two of their own were lost within its midst. The other pair of the posse, Blaze and Tech, were still unaccounted for. Braving the volatile streets of Raccoon, the four men set out in search of their comrades.
The group had been pouring frosty mugs of Budweiser down their throats at Wyatt's Pub when the frenzied shouts of the rioters pierced the uneasy silence of the October night. Not long after, bricks, rocks and other projectiles came crashing through the windows of Wyatt's. The four bikers knew another riot had been incited and entertained no plans of sticking around for it. The other patrons at the tavern that night seemed to share similar ideas and hauled tail out of the establishment.
Upon leaving the dank bar, the four members of Psychos Inc discovered that the party was already in full swing. Looters charged back and forth with stolen items clutched greedily in their hands. Vehicles swerved haphazardly , trying to avoid the crowds of people racing across the traffic lanes. Police and fire department sirens wailed in the darkness. Gunshots broke out in sporadic patterns. Officers were yelling over loud speakers, demanding the civilians to return home or meet with deadly force, the authority in their voices masking their fear. Ignoring the hazardous surroundings as best they could, the four broad-shouldered men pushed their way through crowds of fired-up Raccoon residents and made it to their Harley's.
Now, they rode in a tight line through the death trap of the city's streets. Somewhere out there were two of their friends and they would be damned if they did nothing to find them. Each member of Psychos Inc regarded the others as more than his pals, they were his brothers, bound forever by the call of the open road and the smell of gasoline. They would stop at nothing short of death to help one another out. The club's most cherished rule, and one that was identical to the Army Rangers motto, was that no one ever got left behind. Ever.
"So," the biker whose jacket read Slugger, shouted to the man riding in the middle of the line, "remind me again where we're going Shank. I'm just a bit curious considering we have no fucking clue where either Tech or Blaze might be." Shank, leading the rest of his brethren down the road, turned and glanced over at Slugger. The other two, Boomer and Shots, watched on and listened for orders or directions.
"We're heading back to the Lucky Clover." Shank replied in his thick, baritone voice, his long hair blowing in the wind. "Blaze and Tech aren't as stupid as they look so they're a lot more likely to be holed up there than they are to be prancin' around out in the streets."
"You sure?" Boomer chuckled, his considerable beer belly bouncing. "The folks breaking into all the stores around here sure do seem to be having a good time."
Shank took a quick look around as his chubby friend gestured to the different squads of rioters. Men and women were engaged in all manner of criminal acts, from aggravated assault to petty theft. Surveying the scene he found it bitterly ironic that his gang was not a part of all the chaos.
'Badass biker gang trying to avoid causing damage for a change.' Shank smirked absently, steering to avoid an abandoned cardboard box. 'Yeah, that's almost funny. What's real funny is the fact that we come here looking to kick back and party, only to wind up in some diseased city, then have the pigs seal us in here with all the crazies trying to break everything in sight. I know I'm laughing, well fuck it, we need to get back to the motel and find Blaze, he's always got a plan for everything.'
The man by the name of Blaze was Pyschos Inc true leader, the father of the whole troop, and a force to be reckoned with. He was forty-five now but had spent his younger days as a fire fighter in Detroit. One night an inferno had ravaged an apartment complex and his team had received the call. The fire was extremely severe, leaving a family of five trapped in one of the upper rooms. Blaze (then known by a much different name) had done all he could to reach those trapped, becoming badly burnt in the process, but it was all for not. In the end he was forced to listen to the family's gruesome screams as they died, consumed by the flames.
The next day he quit the unit, deeming the disaster his fault, and took to the open road. He tossed aside his birth name like a dirty garment and adopted the title of Blaze as a reminder of that which had left him terribly scarred and stolen the lives of a half-dozen innocent people.
The incident, coupled with his own grief and quilt, left Blaze a disturbed individual. He was quick to violence and a man who enjoyed taking pain as much as he did dishing it out. The Psychos leader was considered by many who knew him to be a frightening masochist.
For all this he was still a competent and efficient commander. Even with all his mental and emotional trauma, Blaze was quick-thinking and sharp as a spearhead. Everyone in the group found him to be an asset in any situation, high-pressure or not. Shank was praying he was still all right. If anyone could get them out of Raccoon City in one piece it was Blaze.
Only a few weeks after leaving his old life behind and taking to a nomadic way of living, the tortured biker met a man running from his past as well. The stranger would not give his name but preferred to be called by Boomer. Later, the portly and well-humoured drifter came to reveal that he had once been an NYPD bomb specialist. He had been assigned to disarm an explosive package left in a school by a disgruntled staff member but, when he pressure was on, he choked. When the smoke and dust had cleared one teacher and four young students had been killed in the blast. The ex-cop had also been crippled in the explosion, leaving one leg practically useless. Blaze quickly came to respect and understand the other man's problems as they were nearly identical to his own. While both came to learn more about the other's past, Blaze never felt the need to ask where Boomer came up with his nickname. Deep down he knew that the man had chosen it for the same reasons as he had chosen his own, it was a scar, a reminder of his failures.
Nearly a year after the two travellers met and had taken to journeying the country together, a third man was soon brought into their midst. They'd found the younger drifter laying in a ditch by the roadside late one afternoon in March, his Hog running on fumes, it seemed he had been driving a long while without food or sleep and simply collapsed. Boomer and Blaze checked the grubby stranger over and, after determining he was not seriously injured, got some hot chow in him and took the wanderer under their wing.
The half-dead rider told the two his name and opened up about his past. Previously, he had been employed as a wilderness guide in Colorado leading hikers on tours through the many different woodlands covering the area. Misfortune had also sunk its teeth into him when, one night during a heavy rainstorm, he had misread the map and gotten his entire group lost. At the offset of the tour there had been five of them in total but when search and rescue showed up two weeks later on their guide was found alive, shaking and dehydrated inside a cave. Ever since that foul night he had been running, hard and fast, away from himself.
This new drifter would continue his travels with Blaze and Boomer, beginning to think of them as the only family he had, for they knew first hand the quilt and shame he lived with each day. So it was that Psychos Inc came to be, given its title by three men driven halfway mad by their failures, now roaming the highways looking to escape their personal turmoil and seek out some kind of redemption. During the trio's time together this third man proved his skill time and again with a knife (the gang was accustomed to solving its disputes with other rivals in less than civilized ways after all) and came to be known as Shank.
Over the years three more members would come to join the Psychos ranks. Shots, a former surgeon from Maine who had botched a complicated procedure, causing his patient to lapse into shock and then death. While none of his fellow practitioners blamed him, the doctor could not live with his conscience and traded in his smock for a leather jacket. Alcohol was one of his preferred crutches and had helped gaining him his title, as the doctor could out drink anyone shot for shot.
Slugger was brought into the group next. Back in Pittsburgh he had led a happy life as a newlywed and an upcoming star on the Pittsburgh Pirates. At just twenty-five, the youngster was nearing the home run record. All that changed one night when an obsessed fan breached the sanctity of his house and broke in. Luckily the pro baseballer was playing a game in San Francisco at the time. Unluckily, his beautiful bride had remained home, being too sick to have made the flight with her husband. Hearing the intruder in their home she went down to investigate and startled the stalker. Having brought a gun with him, the frightened fan opened up and fired twice into the young lady. She died instantly.
Later, Slugger would return home and find the love of his life laying at his feet in a pool of blood. Grief gave way to vengeance rapidly for the baseball star and while the cops were tied up in warrants and red tape he took matters into his own hands. It took the Pirate only a couple of days to track down the murderer, a fat, filthy man named Carl Broder and when he did Slugger grabbed his trusty Louisville bat then went to pay the fugitive a visit.
Only a moment after Broder came to answer the door he felt the thick hickory wrap around his head. Like a man possessed, Slugger went to work. He unleashed blow after blow, swinging like Babe Ruth did in his prime. Each crack of the bat carried with it all of the young man's grief, hatred and loss. Tears streamed down his face each time he lashed out. When the blood haze cleared from the all-star's eyes, Carl Broder lay dead. Welts covered his arms and legs, his skull cracked open and spilling its contents across the floor.
After making the grizzly discovery, police immediately put out an A.P.B. For the baseball star's arrest, forcing him to run. Blaze and his crew would later find the athlete outside a bar in Cincinnati, engaged in a brawl with a pair from the Wolverines band. He had once again put his bat to work, sending the two attackers running with their tails between their legs and thus earning his name as Slugger among the Psychos. He had joined up with the gang that same night, sensing within them a kinship, that they were running from something as well. Slugger roamed the free roads with the biker gang trying to escape the grief he still harboured at the loss of his beloved wife.
Last but not least to be picked up by the crew was a man whose appearance denied his biker background. The sixth member of Psychos Inc was only about five feet tall and a hundred-forty pounds soaking wet. He had the features of a weasel or rat and scruffy spots of hair along his chin.
Tech, called so for his incredible knack with computers and technology of almost every kind, was skinny, paranoid and as foul-tongued as a sailor. The thirty-year old was once a top programmer for IBM but had been fired after the company learned he was publishing his own conspiracy newsletter.
Upon losing his job due to his personal interests, Tech would go on to loose his house, car and everything but the clothes on his back. He came to meet the other Psychos members as after they saved him from a mugging outside his motel room. Travelling around with a posse of muscle heads seemed like a pretty good investment in personal security to the techie. Besides, it was a pretty good way to spread his newsletter about the brain suckers from Mars too, right?
"Good thing we always come expecting a warm welcome, huh?" Shot's voice snapped Shank back to the present.
Shank shot a look over at his partner and saw him reach down to caress the handle of a sawed-off, double-barrel shotgun protruding from one saddle bag. Boomer flashed that wild-eyed grin of his and reached inside his jacket to touch the cool metal of his compact PA-3 shotgun. To the left of Shank a Louisville bat stuck our of Slugger's saddle bag and tucked into the waist band of his pants was a black finished Smith & Wesson Model 29 revolver. Shank instinctively felt down the folds of his own jacket, pressing the lumps where his numerous throwing, butterfly, and jacknives were holstered. In each boot a sharp-edged Bowie knife was sheathed. In addition to his arsenal of melee weapons, the biker also carried a Colt King Cobra .357 in his belt. He was well aware that it was not always a good idea to bring a knife to a gunfight.
"Damn right!" Boomer replied, his grin making Shank wonder how he could always find everything so humorous. "We've got guns, bikes and are full o' booze, ain't nothing greater!"
"Just keep moving and hopefully we won't have to use them." said Slugger going a bit harder on the throttle with Shank and the others following.
"There it is!" Shank hollered a second later, trying to hid the spark of relief he felt as a neon green sign with the words Lucky Clover Motel came into view. "There's no guarantee that Blaze and Tech are here but I'll bet you a dollar to doughnuts they are."
"You call that a bet?" Boomer grinned.
"Just shut up and follow me." Shank sighed.
Finishing his retort, Shank turned and led the group into the motel's parking lot. Only one vehicle still remained, a brown pick-up with its windshield shattered and front tires deflated. The small, rectangular check- in office for the Lucky Clover was pitch black, its windows utterly destroyed leaving trails of glass, like glittering crystals, across the asphalt. The motel itself may have been a dump, with its tacky green paint and rusty steps, but it had certainly seen better days. Doors to rooms on both floors stood open, literally torn off their hinges. Lights were on in some of the rooms, revealing broken or stolen television sets, overturned mattresses, open drawers with their contents sprawled across the grey carpet and phones hanging off the line. Many of the windows had also been smashed in by the frenzied rioters, shards of glass lay on the ground reflecting the streetlights cold glow.
"Sons of bitches!" Slugger exclaimed indignantly, looking at what had once been his bedroom. "Those shitheads broke into my room!"
The Psychos Inc band had all checked into rooms on the bottom floor in a straight line. Shank noticed that only Slugger's door was standing ajar. While the big man did feel some sympathy for his friend (as well as some feelings of irony that Slugger had been the only victim of crime out of their group), sweet relief also swept over him as he spied the light on in Blaze's room. 'It's still not a sure sign but it's better than nothing.' He thought quietly then turn to the others.
"Alright," Shank spoke quickly, sounding eerily like a drill sergeant giving orders, "things seem to have gotten particularly fucked up around here as well so this what we're gonna do. Boomer?"
"Aye, Cap'n?" Smiled the hefty biker.
"If you could never do that again I'd appreciate it." Shank sighed. "I want you to go over and see if anyone's in the check-in office who knows why everyone in town went crazy. Think you can handle that, bud?"
"Aye, aye sir!" Saluting like a military messenger, Boomer kicked his Harley into gear and raced over to the Lucky Clover's front desk.
"Slugger go check your room and see what the damage is." The big hitter zipped off without a word as Shank finished talking. "Shots, you go and see if Tech is here. I think I can see a light on in his room.
"Alright." Shots nodded then took off down to Tech's room which stood next to the one occupied by Slugger at the end of the row.
Blaze had checked into room 1A, about ten feet away from the front desk which Boomer had just entered. Shank took a final look around his surroundings before proceeding. Judging by the mighty racket approaching from up the street, the riot seemed to be zeroing in on the motel, meaning that he had to hurry up and find the rest of his crew. Stumbling underneath a lampost down the street to his left, the biker spotted a man and woman staggering about. Both looked sickly pale, wore tattered, bloodstained clothes and walked as if intoxicated or badly beaten. With the riots raging in Raccoon as they were Shank figured the later was more likely. 'Doesn't matter,' his mind chided, ' you've got your own problems now.'
Nodding inwardly, Shank rolled towards the door of his friend's motel room. Hopping off his hog, the biker felt glass crunch beneath his thick boot. Looking down, Shank felt a pang of anxiety course through him as he noticed several patches of crimson fluid on the ground. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Shank reached up to knock only to have the door to 1A pulled open and a heavy hand wrap around his neck. Too startled to react, Shank felt himself being pulled in and slammed up against the wall. His skull painfully absorbed the brunt of the impact as a gun was simultaneously thrust into his face.
"Mother fuck!" he swore, both from the throbbing ache in his head and the metallic barrel of a handgun starring him down.
"Shank?" a surprised, gruff voice said then the weapon was lowered and Blaze's bearded face came into view. "Damn son, you gave me a scare. I figured you were another of those rat bastards trying to bust my door down."
The Pyschos Inc leader released his vice-like grip on Shank's throat and took a step back. Blaze holstered his pistol, a custom-finished Browning HP, and took a seat next to the skinny form of Tech. The slender man held his arm close to his body, cradling it against him like a sick infant and wincing with pain. The motel room was boringly simple. A pair of single beds, a chest of drawers, a small TV with rabbit ear attenas, a circular coffee table where the two sat by the front door and a bathroom at the far end of the area.
"What happened to your arm?" Shank asked, gently rubbing his hairy throat where Blaze's hand had left a large red imprint.
"The fucking crazies in this damn city fucking broke it!" Tech yelped, nursing his injured appendage.
"We got jumped coming back here." Blaze explained. "Me an' him were coming out of the Cat's Meow strip club once everyone started going apeshit and some punk asses jumped us. There must have been six or seven of 'em. They took our bikes and one of the fuckers busted Tech's arm with a tire iron."
"Yeah, well I got that prick back." Tech interjected, his weasel features contorting with pain as he reached around and produced a sleek Glock 17 from the back of his waist band. "I put at bullet right through that jerk's forearm, he won't be jerking off for months to come."
"Well, at least you're alright. More or less I mean." Shank said, then poked his head outside and spotted Shots waiting beside Tech's motel room. He gestured him over. "I'll have Shots take a look at you when he gets here."
"The other guys are with you?" Blaze asked as Tech set his pistol down on the table.
"Yeah," Shank nodded, "I had Boomer go scout out the front desk and it seems some of the looters beat down the door to Slugger's room and helped themselves to some of his stuff, so he's checking that out now."
"What's up boss?" Shots asked with a rueful smile as he entered the room. "Enjoying the festivities so far?"
"Yeah right." Blaze snorted. "Take a look at Tech, some of those whackos out there jumped us tonight and busted his arm up pretty good."
"What happened outside your room?" Shank inquired as the group's medic moved over to examine Tech. "There's blood all over the place."
"Those fucking nuts out there tore through this place like a hurricane a few minutes ago." The Psychos crew chief answered. "Some of 'em tried getting in here but that's a lot harder to do when the guys on the other side are shooting at you. I must have winged four or five of the shitheads in the arms and legs, got one guy in the stomach for sure. I know the cripple over there hit at least one."
"You're a fucking comedian man, let me tell you." Tech replied sarcastically then cried out as Shots probed his arm, looking the injury over. "Shit, fix it Shots don't make it worse."
"Quit your whining." The former doctor said as he rose to his feet. "It's definitely broken. You're going to need a splint or sling until we can get you to a hospital."
"No hospitals!" Tech screeched, recoiling from the word as if it were poison. "Do you know what goes on there? Biological weapons research, genetic manipulation and a host of other diabolic crap! They let you die there then use your body for experimentation!"
"You watch too much X-Files, buddy." Shots quipped.
"It's true!" Tech insisted.
"Just get him the sling, Shots." Blaze sighed, rubbing his temples. "You're giving me a headache."
"I've got a first-aid kit and some medical gear on my bike." The ex- surgeon said, heading back outside. "Might have some painkillers too."
"You guys get into any trouble of your own getting over here?" Blaze asked and Shank shook his head.
"We didn't run into any problems getting over here, but let me tell you, it's like a fucking midnight madness sale out there and everything you can get your hands on has five finger discount."
"Fucking A!" Slugger boomed angrily, entering in behind the three men and giving them all a start. "Those pricks took my CD player, headphones and about half the clothes I brought with me. Good thing I keep all my important stuff safe and sound on my bike."
"On the bright side," Boomer said, beaming with humour as he approached his friends, "with your fat ass those clothes probably won't fit whoever took them."
"You're a fucking riot, Boomer." Grumbled the ball playing biker as Boomer chuckled and slapped him on one thick shoulder.
"What an ironic choice of words, buddy." He said, laughing and then stepped inside. "Glad to see you're alright boss. What happened to your arm, skinny?"
"Ran into some unfriendly locals on the way back here," seethed Tech, then added darkly, "don't ever call me skinny."
"Shots went to get a first-aid kit for him." Shank said, leaning his broad back against the wall. "Find anything at the check-in desk?"
"Nothing helpful I'm afraid." Boomer shook his head. "Looks like the manager decided to try and skip town. He took all the money in the register with him and I found a safe behind a painting that had been cleaned out too."
"Well we can't stay here anyways, can we?" Shank looked askance at their leader.
"No way, man. Blaze answered, rising to his feet. "I can hear them getting closer every minute and it appears that John Law isn't doing a good job of teaching these kids a lesson and sending them back on home."
"I read in the paper that the cops were suffering from a shortage of men." Slugger added as the sounds of shouting and gunfire began to close in on the motel's location. "Apparently it had something to do with the skin- infection that showed up after we arrived in this cozy little neighbourhood."
"You don't think we could be infected with that shit do you?" Tech said, his voice dripping with worry, as he looked up at Blaze.
"I'm sure if we were we'd have known it by now," the Psychos leader replied, "try not to worry about it."
"So what's the plan then, boss?" Boomer asked, looking over at Blaze.
"We wait for Shots to get back and patch up Tech," the Pyschos captain began, "then we'll cruise by the barricades and see what kind of condition they're in. Maybe all the cops got whacked and we can just waltz on through and head somewhere a little calmer."
"I sure hope so." Shank murmured quietly to himself.
Blaze opened his mouth to say more but was cut off by the sound of squealing tires and rowdy hooting from outside. Next came the thunderous pop of gunfire followed by the crash of glass and the sound of licking flames. There was a pair of heavy shotgun blasts and then an excited call from Shots.
"Get out here fast guys!" He yelled desperately. "We've got some company!"
The Psychos hauled out their weapons and charged into the Lucky Clover's parking lot.
October 1, 1998
6:10 PM
East Raccoon City
East Raccoon City was held fast in the grip of pandemonium. Looters were everywhere, frightened and angered they took to the streets, pillaging all they could find. Whatever was left they burned, stole or destroyed. Shop front windows were smashed, homes burglarized, vehicles stolen or hijacked. Those that were not creating the chaos sought to flee it and many lost their lives in the process, succumbing to the ceaseless violence of the mobs.
The police officers did what they could to surpress the rioters but were heavily handicapped by a lack of personnel and quickly became overwhelmed. Outraged citizens discharged firearms and hurled home-made explosives at the massive police barricades that sealed them within their city of disease and death. The police returned fire and launched tear gas rounds, momentarily dispersing the crowds only to have them come back again with another suicidal charge. The scent of smoke, gunpowder and blood hung thick in the night air.
Four men, riding on metallic black Harley's sped away from the barricades where the rowdy mobs were thickest and around the street corner. They drove past a group of men cleaning out a local sporting goods store and continued down the block and around another corner. The bikers rode at the same speed in a straight line, going fast but at a velocity that would allow them to make sudden stops and get out of harm's way should such an occasion arrive.
If one were to look at the four bikers closely all at once they would swear the men to be related. They all sported the same brand of thick beards, braided like a Viking's with shaggy sprouts of hair popping out that seemed to mesh well with the long, greasy hair that drifted down from their heads and across their broad shoulders. Each man stood over six feet tall and was built like a Mac truck with muscles. Their arms bore many of the same tattoos, scars and callouses. The crew even dressed the same: wearing ripped blue jeans, dark work boots, fingerless leather gloves, deep purple bandanas and leather vests.
Imprinted across the back of the vest was the design of a laughing skull. Spewing forth from the skull's cackling jaw was murky blue smoke. The pits of its eyes were a fiery shade of red. Written along a banner underneath the intimidating picture were the words "Psychos Inc." Etched on a banner atop each man's jacket was a nickname, from left to right the titles were: Slugger, Shots, Shank and Boomer.
While the vest may certainly have looked cool, the sentimental value of the garment was much more important to the squad of Harley riders. The jackets declared them brothers of a sort. All four of them belonged to the biker brotherhood of the Psychos Incorporated gang. The vest that had been given to them as the final part of their initiation was a badge of honour to be worn proudly and at all times. Never was it to be removed, not even during sleep.
Since the club's formation in 1984, Psychos Inc had never consisted of more than six members. Throughout the biker social circles it had become known as the most exclusive and tightly knit motorcycle gang in all of the United States. To the police they were just another band of dangerous trouble makers, no doubt out to sell drugs, guns and stir up their fair share of barroom tussles.
Aside from the group's shady, outward reputation, on the whole the six men were like a band of brothers. A family even. They had all been outcasted from society for one reason or another and few understood the hardships they had faced better than one another. The rest of the world cared little, and knew even less, about the band of rogues, giving the bikers nothing to live for but the freedom of the open road and the solace of each others companionship. While Psychos Inc had faced many dangers and life threatening situations before, nothing compared to the bedlam being unleashed in Raccoon City.
Taking the corner onto Willard Avenue the cyclists passed by a Future Shop and watched as four figures hopped out of a broken window lugging televisions, DVD players, and boom boxes. They continued on down the block, witnessing an elderly black man being savagely beaten by a pair of teenagers. Doing their best to stay clam the four Psychos increased their speed and kept going, ignoring the thought that at any moment the furious rioters would turn their attention to the group of riders. Panicking would not help them find their friends any faster.
Currently the group was on a search and rescue mission of sorts. Having arrived in the city only a couple weeks prior to it being quarantined and locked down by the police, the Psychos Inc crew checked in and spent a few days drinking hard, partying harder and smoking some of the finest grass they could find. When news of the "mystery virus" reached the roughnecks they barely gave it a second thought. All the sick people would be put up in hospitals right? As long as no one with this skin disease started rubbing up against them what was there to worry about?
The gang learned its lesson soon after, when cops started making barricades and people started going crazy. Tonight was not the first riot the group had seen, there had been a few smaller ones in previous days. Generally, the local law enforcement had quelled the uprising easily but had done so with lethal force more often then not. Anyone foolish enough to try and jump or force their way through the blockades was shot on sight. During these violent altercations between citizen and police officer the Pyschos Inc group stayed hunkered down in their motel rooms at the Lucky Clover and waited for things to settle down. Respect for the law was something the gang had in short supply but participating in all out mayhem was simply not their style. Being trampled to death in an unruly mob had its downside.
None of these riots could hold a candle to the one currently exploding within the eastern part of Raccoon. To make matters worse, two of their own were lost within its midst. The other pair of the posse, Blaze and Tech, were still unaccounted for. Braving the volatile streets of Raccoon, the four men set out in search of their comrades.
The group had been pouring frosty mugs of Budweiser down their throats at Wyatt's Pub when the frenzied shouts of the rioters pierced the uneasy silence of the October night. Not long after, bricks, rocks and other projectiles came crashing through the windows of Wyatt's. The four bikers knew another riot had been incited and entertained no plans of sticking around for it. The other patrons at the tavern that night seemed to share similar ideas and hauled tail out of the establishment.
Upon leaving the dank bar, the four members of Psychos Inc discovered that the party was already in full swing. Looters charged back and forth with stolen items clutched greedily in their hands. Vehicles swerved haphazardly , trying to avoid the crowds of people racing across the traffic lanes. Police and fire department sirens wailed in the darkness. Gunshots broke out in sporadic patterns. Officers were yelling over loud speakers, demanding the civilians to return home or meet with deadly force, the authority in their voices masking their fear. Ignoring the hazardous surroundings as best they could, the four broad-shouldered men pushed their way through crowds of fired-up Raccoon residents and made it to their Harley's.
Now, they rode in a tight line through the death trap of the city's streets. Somewhere out there were two of their friends and they would be damned if they did nothing to find them. Each member of Psychos Inc regarded the others as more than his pals, they were his brothers, bound forever by the call of the open road and the smell of gasoline. They would stop at nothing short of death to help one another out. The club's most cherished rule, and one that was identical to the Army Rangers motto, was that no one ever got left behind. Ever.
"So," the biker whose jacket read Slugger, shouted to the man riding in the middle of the line, "remind me again where we're going Shank. I'm just a bit curious considering we have no fucking clue where either Tech or Blaze might be." Shank, leading the rest of his brethren down the road, turned and glanced over at Slugger. The other two, Boomer and Shots, watched on and listened for orders or directions.
"We're heading back to the Lucky Clover." Shank replied in his thick, baritone voice, his long hair blowing in the wind. "Blaze and Tech aren't as stupid as they look so they're a lot more likely to be holed up there than they are to be prancin' around out in the streets."
"You sure?" Boomer chuckled, his considerable beer belly bouncing. "The folks breaking into all the stores around here sure do seem to be having a good time."
Shank took a quick look around as his chubby friend gestured to the different squads of rioters. Men and women were engaged in all manner of criminal acts, from aggravated assault to petty theft. Surveying the scene he found it bitterly ironic that his gang was not a part of all the chaos.
'Badass biker gang trying to avoid causing damage for a change.' Shank smirked absently, steering to avoid an abandoned cardboard box. 'Yeah, that's almost funny. What's real funny is the fact that we come here looking to kick back and party, only to wind up in some diseased city, then have the pigs seal us in here with all the crazies trying to break everything in sight. I know I'm laughing, well fuck it, we need to get back to the motel and find Blaze, he's always got a plan for everything.'
The man by the name of Blaze was Pyschos Inc true leader, the father of the whole troop, and a force to be reckoned with. He was forty-five now but had spent his younger days as a fire fighter in Detroit. One night an inferno had ravaged an apartment complex and his team had received the call. The fire was extremely severe, leaving a family of five trapped in one of the upper rooms. Blaze (then known by a much different name) had done all he could to reach those trapped, becoming badly burnt in the process, but it was all for not. In the end he was forced to listen to the family's gruesome screams as they died, consumed by the flames.
The next day he quit the unit, deeming the disaster his fault, and took to the open road. He tossed aside his birth name like a dirty garment and adopted the title of Blaze as a reminder of that which had left him terribly scarred and stolen the lives of a half-dozen innocent people.
The incident, coupled with his own grief and quilt, left Blaze a disturbed individual. He was quick to violence and a man who enjoyed taking pain as much as he did dishing it out. The Psychos leader was considered by many who knew him to be a frightening masochist.
For all this he was still a competent and efficient commander. Even with all his mental and emotional trauma, Blaze was quick-thinking and sharp as a spearhead. Everyone in the group found him to be an asset in any situation, high-pressure or not. Shank was praying he was still all right. If anyone could get them out of Raccoon City in one piece it was Blaze.
Only a few weeks after leaving his old life behind and taking to a nomadic way of living, the tortured biker met a man running from his past as well. The stranger would not give his name but preferred to be called by Boomer. Later, the portly and well-humoured drifter came to reveal that he had once been an NYPD bomb specialist. He had been assigned to disarm an explosive package left in a school by a disgruntled staff member but, when he pressure was on, he choked. When the smoke and dust had cleared one teacher and four young students had been killed in the blast. The ex-cop had also been crippled in the explosion, leaving one leg practically useless. Blaze quickly came to respect and understand the other man's problems as they were nearly identical to his own. While both came to learn more about the other's past, Blaze never felt the need to ask where Boomer came up with his nickname. Deep down he knew that the man had chosen it for the same reasons as he had chosen his own, it was a scar, a reminder of his failures.
Nearly a year after the two travellers met and had taken to journeying the country together, a third man was soon brought into their midst. They'd found the younger drifter laying in a ditch by the roadside late one afternoon in March, his Hog running on fumes, it seemed he had been driving a long while without food or sleep and simply collapsed. Boomer and Blaze checked the grubby stranger over and, after determining he was not seriously injured, got some hot chow in him and took the wanderer under their wing.
The half-dead rider told the two his name and opened up about his past. Previously, he had been employed as a wilderness guide in Colorado leading hikers on tours through the many different woodlands covering the area. Misfortune had also sunk its teeth into him when, one night during a heavy rainstorm, he had misread the map and gotten his entire group lost. At the offset of the tour there had been five of them in total but when search and rescue showed up two weeks later on their guide was found alive, shaking and dehydrated inside a cave. Ever since that foul night he had been running, hard and fast, away from himself.
This new drifter would continue his travels with Blaze and Boomer, beginning to think of them as the only family he had, for they knew first hand the quilt and shame he lived with each day. So it was that Psychos Inc came to be, given its title by three men driven halfway mad by their failures, now roaming the highways looking to escape their personal turmoil and seek out some kind of redemption. During the trio's time together this third man proved his skill time and again with a knife (the gang was accustomed to solving its disputes with other rivals in less than civilized ways after all) and came to be known as Shank.
Over the years three more members would come to join the Psychos ranks. Shots, a former surgeon from Maine who had botched a complicated procedure, causing his patient to lapse into shock and then death. While none of his fellow practitioners blamed him, the doctor could not live with his conscience and traded in his smock for a leather jacket. Alcohol was one of his preferred crutches and had helped gaining him his title, as the doctor could out drink anyone shot for shot.
Slugger was brought into the group next. Back in Pittsburgh he had led a happy life as a newlywed and an upcoming star on the Pittsburgh Pirates. At just twenty-five, the youngster was nearing the home run record. All that changed one night when an obsessed fan breached the sanctity of his house and broke in. Luckily the pro baseballer was playing a game in San Francisco at the time. Unluckily, his beautiful bride had remained home, being too sick to have made the flight with her husband. Hearing the intruder in their home she went down to investigate and startled the stalker. Having brought a gun with him, the frightened fan opened up and fired twice into the young lady. She died instantly.
Later, Slugger would return home and find the love of his life laying at his feet in a pool of blood. Grief gave way to vengeance rapidly for the baseball star and while the cops were tied up in warrants and red tape he took matters into his own hands. It took the Pirate only a couple of days to track down the murderer, a fat, filthy man named Carl Broder and when he did Slugger grabbed his trusty Louisville bat then went to pay the fugitive a visit.
Only a moment after Broder came to answer the door he felt the thick hickory wrap around his head. Like a man possessed, Slugger went to work. He unleashed blow after blow, swinging like Babe Ruth did in his prime. Each crack of the bat carried with it all of the young man's grief, hatred and loss. Tears streamed down his face each time he lashed out. When the blood haze cleared from the all-star's eyes, Carl Broder lay dead. Welts covered his arms and legs, his skull cracked open and spilling its contents across the floor.
After making the grizzly discovery, police immediately put out an A.P.B. For the baseball star's arrest, forcing him to run. Blaze and his crew would later find the athlete outside a bar in Cincinnati, engaged in a brawl with a pair from the Wolverines band. He had once again put his bat to work, sending the two attackers running with their tails between their legs and thus earning his name as Slugger among the Psychos. He had joined up with the gang that same night, sensing within them a kinship, that they were running from something as well. Slugger roamed the free roads with the biker gang trying to escape the grief he still harboured at the loss of his beloved wife.
Last but not least to be picked up by the crew was a man whose appearance denied his biker background. The sixth member of Psychos Inc was only about five feet tall and a hundred-forty pounds soaking wet. He had the features of a weasel or rat and scruffy spots of hair along his chin.
Tech, called so for his incredible knack with computers and technology of almost every kind, was skinny, paranoid and as foul-tongued as a sailor. The thirty-year old was once a top programmer for IBM but had been fired after the company learned he was publishing his own conspiracy newsletter.
Upon losing his job due to his personal interests, Tech would go on to loose his house, car and everything but the clothes on his back. He came to meet the other Psychos members as after they saved him from a mugging outside his motel room. Travelling around with a posse of muscle heads seemed like a pretty good investment in personal security to the techie. Besides, it was a pretty good way to spread his newsletter about the brain suckers from Mars too, right?
"Good thing we always come expecting a warm welcome, huh?" Shot's voice snapped Shank back to the present.
Shank shot a look over at his partner and saw him reach down to caress the handle of a sawed-off, double-barrel shotgun protruding from one saddle bag. Boomer flashed that wild-eyed grin of his and reached inside his jacket to touch the cool metal of his compact PA-3 shotgun. To the left of Shank a Louisville bat stuck our of Slugger's saddle bag and tucked into the waist band of his pants was a black finished Smith & Wesson Model 29 revolver. Shank instinctively felt down the folds of his own jacket, pressing the lumps where his numerous throwing, butterfly, and jacknives were holstered. In each boot a sharp-edged Bowie knife was sheathed. In addition to his arsenal of melee weapons, the biker also carried a Colt King Cobra .357 in his belt. He was well aware that it was not always a good idea to bring a knife to a gunfight.
"Damn right!" Boomer replied, his grin making Shank wonder how he could always find everything so humorous. "We've got guns, bikes and are full o' booze, ain't nothing greater!"
"Just keep moving and hopefully we won't have to use them." said Slugger going a bit harder on the throttle with Shank and the others following.
"There it is!" Shank hollered a second later, trying to hid the spark of relief he felt as a neon green sign with the words Lucky Clover Motel came into view. "There's no guarantee that Blaze and Tech are here but I'll bet you a dollar to doughnuts they are."
"You call that a bet?" Boomer grinned.
"Just shut up and follow me." Shank sighed.
Finishing his retort, Shank turned and led the group into the motel's parking lot. Only one vehicle still remained, a brown pick-up with its windshield shattered and front tires deflated. The small, rectangular check- in office for the Lucky Clover was pitch black, its windows utterly destroyed leaving trails of glass, like glittering crystals, across the asphalt. The motel itself may have been a dump, with its tacky green paint and rusty steps, but it had certainly seen better days. Doors to rooms on both floors stood open, literally torn off their hinges. Lights were on in some of the rooms, revealing broken or stolen television sets, overturned mattresses, open drawers with their contents sprawled across the grey carpet and phones hanging off the line. Many of the windows had also been smashed in by the frenzied rioters, shards of glass lay on the ground reflecting the streetlights cold glow.
"Sons of bitches!" Slugger exclaimed indignantly, looking at what had once been his bedroom. "Those shitheads broke into my room!"
The Psychos Inc band had all checked into rooms on the bottom floor in a straight line. Shank noticed that only Slugger's door was standing ajar. While the big man did feel some sympathy for his friend (as well as some feelings of irony that Slugger had been the only victim of crime out of their group), sweet relief also swept over him as he spied the light on in Blaze's room. 'It's still not a sure sign but it's better than nothing.' He thought quietly then turn to the others.
"Alright," Shank spoke quickly, sounding eerily like a drill sergeant giving orders, "things seem to have gotten particularly fucked up around here as well so this what we're gonna do. Boomer?"
"Aye, Cap'n?" Smiled the hefty biker.
"If you could never do that again I'd appreciate it." Shank sighed. "I want you to go over and see if anyone's in the check-in office who knows why everyone in town went crazy. Think you can handle that, bud?"
"Aye, aye sir!" Saluting like a military messenger, Boomer kicked his Harley into gear and raced over to the Lucky Clover's front desk.
"Slugger go check your room and see what the damage is." The big hitter zipped off without a word as Shank finished talking. "Shots, you go and see if Tech is here. I think I can see a light on in his room.
"Alright." Shots nodded then took off down to Tech's room which stood next to the one occupied by Slugger at the end of the row.
Blaze had checked into room 1A, about ten feet away from the front desk which Boomer had just entered. Shank took a final look around his surroundings before proceeding. Judging by the mighty racket approaching from up the street, the riot seemed to be zeroing in on the motel, meaning that he had to hurry up and find the rest of his crew. Stumbling underneath a lampost down the street to his left, the biker spotted a man and woman staggering about. Both looked sickly pale, wore tattered, bloodstained clothes and walked as if intoxicated or badly beaten. With the riots raging in Raccoon as they were Shank figured the later was more likely. 'Doesn't matter,' his mind chided, ' you've got your own problems now.'
Nodding inwardly, Shank rolled towards the door of his friend's motel room. Hopping off his hog, the biker felt glass crunch beneath his thick boot. Looking down, Shank felt a pang of anxiety course through him as he noticed several patches of crimson fluid on the ground. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Shank reached up to knock only to have the door to 1A pulled open and a heavy hand wrap around his neck. Too startled to react, Shank felt himself being pulled in and slammed up against the wall. His skull painfully absorbed the brunt of the impact as a gun was simultaneously thrust into his face.
"Mother fuck!" he swore, both from the throbbing ache in his head and the metallic barrel of a handgun starring him down.
"Shank?" a surprised, gruff voice said then the weapon was lowered and Blaze's bearded face came into view. "Damn son, you gave me a scare. I figured you were another of those rat bastards trying to bust my door down."
The Pyschos Inc leader released his vice-like grip on Shank's throat and took a step back. Blaze holstered his pistol, a custom-finished Browning HP, and took a seat next to the skinny form of Tech. The slender man held his arm close to his body, cradling it against him like a sick infant and wincing with pain. The motel room was boringly simple. A pair of single beds, a chest of drawers, a small TV with rabbit ear attenas, a circular coffee table where the two sat by the front door and a bathroom at the far end of the area.
"What happened to your arm?" Shank asked, gently rubbing his hairy throat where Blaze's hand had left a large red imprint.
"The fucking crazies in this damn city fucking broke it!" Tech yelped, nursing his injured appendage.
"We got jumped coming back here." Blaze explained. "Me an' him were coming out of the Cat's Meow strip club once everyone started going apeshit and some punk asses jumped us. There must have been six or seven of 'em. They took our bikes and one of the fuckers busted Tech's arm with a tire iron."
"Yeah, well I got that prick back." Tech interjected, his weasel features contorting with pain as he reached around and produced a sleek Glock 17 from the back of his waist band. "I put at bullet right through that jerk's forearm, he won't be jerking off for months to come."
"Well, at least you're alright. More or less I mean." Shank said, then poked his head outside and spotted Shots waiting beside Tech's motel room. He gestured him over. "I'll have Shots take a look at you when he gets here."
"The other guys are with you?" Blaze asked as Tech set his pistol down on the table.
"Yeah," Shank nodded, "I had Boomer go scout out the front desk and it seems some of the looters beat down the door to Slugger's room and helped themselves to some of his stuff, so he's checking that out now."
"What's up boss?" Shots asked with a rueful smile as he entered the room. "Enjoying the festivities so far?"
"Yeah right." Blaze snorted. "Take a look at Tech, some of those whackos out there jumped us tonight and busted his arm up pretty good."
"What happened outside your room?" Shank inquired as the group's medic moved over to examine Tech. "There's blood all over the place."
"Those fucking nuts out there tore through this place like a hurricane a few minutes ago." The Psychos crew chief answered. "Some of 'em tried getting in here but that's a lot harder to do when the guys on the other side are shooting at you. I must have winged four or five of the shitheads in the arms and legs, got one guy in the stomach for sure. I know the cripple over there hit at least one."
"You're a fucking comedian man, let me tell you." Tech replied sarcastically then cried out as Shots probed his arm, looking the injury over. "Shit, fix it Shots don't make it worse."
"Quit your whining." The former doctor said as he rose to his feet. "It's definitely broken. You're going to need a splint or sling until we can get you to a hospital."
"No hospitals!" Tech screeched, recoiling from the word as if it were poison. "Do you know what goes on there? Biological weapons research, genetic manipulation and a host of other diabolic crap! They let you die there then use your body for experimentation!"
"You watch too much X-Files, buddy." Shots quipped.
"It's true!" Tech insisted.
"Just get him the sling, Shots." Blaze sighed, rubbing his temples. "You're giving me a headache."
"I've got a first-aid kit and some medical gear on my bike." The ex- surgeon said, heading back outside. "Might have some painkillers too."
"You guys get into any trouble of your own getting over here?" Blaze asked and Shank shook his head.
"We didn't run into any problems getting over here, but let me tell you, it's like a fucking midnight madness sale out there and everything you can get your hands on has five finger discount."
"Fucking A!" Slugger boomed angrily, entering in behind the three men and giving them all a start. "Those pricks took my CD player, headphones and about half the clothes I brought with me. Good thing I keep all my important stuff safe and sound on my bike."
"On the bright side," Boomer said, beaming with humour as he approached his friends, "with your fat ass those clothes probably won't fit whoever took them."
"You're a fucking riot, Boomer." Grumbled the ball playing biker as Boomer chuckled and slapped him on one thick shoulder.
"What an ironic choice of words, buddy." He said, laughing and then stepped inside. "Glad to see you're alright boss. What happened to your arm, skinny?"
"Ran into some unfriendly locals on the way back here," seethed Tech, then added darkly, "don't ever call me skinny."
"Shots went to get a first-aid kit for him." Shank said, leaning his broad back against the wall. "Find anything at the check-in desk?"
"Nothing helpful I'm afraid." Boomer shook his head. "Looks like the manager decided to try and skip town. He took all the money in the register with him and I found a safe behind a painting that had been cleaned out too."
"Well we can't stay here anyways, can we?" Shank looked askance at their leader.
"No way, man. Blaze answered, rising to his feet. "I can hear them getting closer every minute and it appears that John Law isn't doing a good job of teaching these kids a lesson and sending them back on home."
"I read in the paper that the cops were suffering from a shortage of men." Slugger added as the sounds of shouting and gunfire began to close in on the motel's location. "Apparently it had something to do with the skin- infection that showed up after we arrived in this cozy little neighbourhood."
"You don't think we could be infected with that shit do you?" Tech said, his voice dripping with worry, as he looked up at Blaze.
"I'm sure if we were we'd have known it by now," the Psychos leader replied, "try not to worry about it."
"So what's the plan then, boss?" Boomer asked, looking over at Blaze.
"We wait for Shots to get back and patch up Tech," the Pyschos captain began, "then we'll cruise by the barricades and see what kind of condition they're in. Maybe all the cops got whacked and we can just waltz on through and head somewhere a little calmer."
"I sure hope so." Shank murmured quietly to himself.
Blaze opened his mouth to say more but was cut off by the sound of squealing tires and rowdy hooting from outside. Next came the thunderous pop of gunfire followed by the crash of glass and the sound of licking flames. There was a pair of heavy shotgun blasts and then an excited call from Shots.
"Get out here fast guys!" He yelled desperately. "We've got some company!"
The Psychos hauled out their weapons and charged into the Lucky Clover's parking lot.