Mason:Inked Reapers MC(143)

"We're not the type to run away," Sylar gave him an apologetic smile.  "Nor are we the type to blend into normal society. We were groomed to be  pack members. Now it's our turn to take the reins and mold us into the  most powerful pack in the state."



"I do like the sound of that," Smith was running his hands through his short hair.



"We'd live like Kings," Sylar added, grinning devilishly.



"I can't really argue with that," Smith laughed. "Maybe it's time we get back to the bar and wait on the arrival of the others."



"Yeah," Sylar took one last look at the fight which was drawing to a  natural conclusion. He was ready to lead his pack. A part of him knew  that all along this had been his destiny. He glanced up at the stars as  he kick-started his bike. He no longer cared if his deceased parents  disapproved of his choices. He was making his own way in life and he was  proud of himself and that was enough.





Chapter 97



Hank had lost count of the throats he'd sliced through with his machete.  But for every killing blow he'd made, some punk had managed to sneak in  a cheap shot. Someone had stabbed him in the thigh, another had brought  down a hammer against his cheek. He could feel his teeth jangling  loosely in his mouth following the blow. Limping he pushed his way  through the carnage. He had to pick his way over the fallen who either  groaned in agony, curled up in the fetal position, or were deathly  silent.



He knew that the fight was over. He had to do his best to walk away with  his life. He spied Colin wrestling with some asshole with a two by four  embedded with nails. It struck Colin in the leg and he folded like a  piece of paper. His opponent raised his crude weapon, about to swipe it  across Colin's face when Hank intervened. With one quick movement, he  severed the guy's arm with his machete. Hot blood spurted from the wound  like a gothic fountain, soaking Hank's face.



"Argh!" the man sank to his knees, squealing in agony and grabbing helplessly as his bloodied stump of an arm.



"Let's get out of here," Hank helped haul Colin on to his feet. "We're done."



"But they're still standing," Colin objected, pointing in the direction of another fight.



Looking around, Hank wasn't quite sure if standing was the correct term.  People precariously remained on their feet as blood seeped into their  clothes.



"If we want to see tomorrow we need to go now," Hank urged. "Let's get back to the bar."



Any alcohol in his system had run out, along with his blood, and now he  felt impossibly tired. The bar on the outskirts of town felt a million  miles away. But he knew he had to get there. He urgently needed medical  attention, they both did.



"Deacon will kill us … if we … go back," Colin stuttered. He was zoning in  and out of consciousness and starting to shiver. Hank knew that they  didn't have much time.



"I saw the old man go down," he told his friend gravely. Deacon had been  struck down within the first twenty minutes of the fight. Five guys  with hammers and baseball bats had set upon him, beating him to death  until the bloodied pulp they left in their wake was barely recognizable.



"He got jumped," Hank explained. "He didn't even have a chance."



"Shit."



"So we need to get the hell out of here so that the Highway Reapers can eventually rise again."



"Will we run the Reapers?" Colin asked dreamily as Hank finally reached  their bikes. He climbed up on his own and hauled Colin up behind him. He  just prayed that he'd be able to drive them safely back to the  protection of the bar.



"Run the Highway Reapers?" Hank wiped the blood from his eyes and  started the engine. He hadn't thought about it but with Deacon gone, the  pack would be rudderless without a leader. Miles would have been  Deacon's natural successor, but he was long gone by now. Hank rolled the  idea around in his fogged mind and pulled away on his bike. The more he  drove, the more he warmed to the idea.



"Sure," he shouted over the roar of the engine, the bar now blissfully  in sight. "Why the hell not? Let's run the Reapers, me and you."



"Sounds good," Colin coughed. "Now let's go get us patched the hell up."                       
       
           



       





Chapter 98



Gina couldn't sleep. Outside the night was disturbed by piercing screams  and haunting moans. The main street of Colridge had become a  battlefield. Just after midnight, she dared to peel back her drapes and  glance outside. The street was covered with fallen bodies and those men  who still stood, did so on unsteady feet.



"Holy shit," Gina felt like she was looking down on a war zone. Where  were the cops? Why hadn't they come and broken any of this up? Because,  like everyone else, they were too scared. Gina thought of her beloved  tattoo parlor and hoped the shutters had been strong enough to keep out  any trouble. Her stomach knotted as she then thought of Sylar. Where was  he in this fray? She hoped that he'd had the sense to stay away. In the  darkness, she strained to try and make out the faces of some of the  fallen. Was Sylar among them? But each twisted expression was too far  away from her window for her to be able to see anything clearly.



With a sad sigh, Gina moved away from the window and climbed back into  bed. Outside it was becoming quieter but Gina knew that sleep would  struggle to find her now. And even if it did, her dreams would be  haunted by the sights she'd seen beyond her window.





Chapter 99



Gina woke up before her alarm had a chance to kick in. She blinked away  the last remnants of sleep and slowly sat up. Her apartment was eerily  silent. It was as if the death, which stalked the nearby streets, had  infected the building; seeping into its walls and smothering all those  inside with its cruel indifference.



She wanted to just hide out in bed, to snuggle down beneath her duvet  and pretend the previous night hadn't happened. But she couldn't do  that, as tempting as it was. She had to go and check on her store, make  sure it was still standing. She didn't relish the conversation she'd  need to have with her insurance company if anything was trashed, nor the  additional premiums she'd incur.



There was no one outside her apartment building. Everyone had sensibly  tucked themselves up inside, reluctant to come out. But Gina only had to  wander a few feet down the street before she came upon the aftermath of  the night before.



The authorities had eventually showed up. They must have arrived in the  early hours of the morning, when Gina had finally managed to get some  sleep. Paramedics were onsite, tending to the more gravely wounded.  There were stretchers everywhere and ambulances parked alongside the  road, with cop cars preventing any vehicle access down the street. And  blood. There was so much blood. It ran like a river down the center of  the street, pooling like oil around the drains. Gina felt sick at the  sight of it. She pressed a hand against her stomach and pushed away the  uneasy feeling.



"You're going to need stitches, we'll have to send you to a hospital," a  young brunette paramedic was telling a battered old man. He was propped  up against a wall, one of his eyes swollen shut. His entire face was  caked with dried blood and his lips had been burst open by a well-placed  punch.



"No," the old man managed to cough.



"Sir, you're at risk of infection. You need to be hospitalised for your wounds."



"No," the old man protested again, trying to struggle to his feet. The  brunette signalled for some of her colleagues to come and assist her.  Gina wondered what the old man feared. Was it the hospital or was it the  prospect of police intervention? If he went to the hospital, would he  ultimately have to answer for his crimes? And anyone present the  previous night would have chalked up an impressive number of crimes.  Disturbing the peace, disorderly conduct, violent assault, maybe even  manslaughter to name a few.



Gina was relieved to see that the carnage of the fight hadn't seemed to  have spread up to her store. And the shutters were still all the way  down. Shaking with relief Gina opened up. It felt surreal to even think  about working after what she'd just seen. But she needed the normalcy of  it to take her mind off worrying about Sylar. And Brea. Would Brea even  show up for work?



Gina wandered through the store and into the back room where she'd left  her purse and jacket. When she moved back through to the reception area,  a man was standing in the doorway. He had shaggy blonde hair and  stooped as though he were in pain. Gina recognised him instantly and  flinched.



"We're closed," she announced stiffly, her voice hard.



"You look pretty open to me," the guy edged further into the store. He  was walking with a limp, pressing a hand against his thigh each time he  moved. His face was adorned with numerous fresh stitches over seemingly  deep wounds. He was as pale as paper, almost hauntingly so.