This story is copyright Ellen Hayes, as a derivative work, and is subject
to her license.

This story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance between this story and
any actual person, living or dead, is coincidental. 

While Ellen Hayes holds copyright on the story, she bears no
responsibility for it.

I wish to thank Ellen for permitting me to use her characters, and for
providing me with her invaluable advice and assistance in writing this
story. It's a MUCH better story becuase of Ellen's input.


Evil Clutches

By Wayne Scott


He rode into town feeling tired and very cranky.

He'd been riding motorcycles for over 21 years, and had developed an
almost holographic state of awareness which let him ride without having
to concentrate specifically on the four-wheeled assassins around him. 

But the fact that the damn Yanks drive on the wrong side of the damn
road had fucked that right up.

Normally when he rode his bike he sang, but this time he was muttering,
"A six week contract that blows out to seven months, on call twenty-four
of seven for the last frigging month while the shithead clients managed
to screw up the fully functional system I handed them. And now that I'm
free I can't goddamn relax 'cause these moron septics insist on driving
on the wrong side of the fucking road!" He swerved to avoid yet another
driver who just could not be bothered checking his mirror before
changing lanes. "And most of them drive like they got their licences out
of corn flake packets!"

He pulled into a petrol station, rolling his eyes at the thought of an
entire country who had decided that they HAD to call petrol 'gasoline',
and then contracted it to 'gas', which it wasn't. As he refuelled the
bike he sighed and patted the tank. "Sorry, hon, perhaps tomorrow I'll
get into the groove and we'll be able to do some decent riding." He saw
nothing wrong with talking to a motorbike - after all, he talked to the
computer systems he designed and installed for a living. 

After he paid his bill he wheeled the bike to the side of the lot and
lit up a smoke, wondering where the hell he was. Not that it mattered;
he'd find a motel, crash out for the night and then hit the road again
in the morning. There was nowhere he had to be, and nothing he had to
do, for several months. 

He watched an old beat up looking car pull in for 'gas' and chuckled
indulgently as a stream of teenagers, mostly girls, poured out of it in
a scene reminiscent of a clown's car at the circus.

Pulling out his mobile phone,  he dialled Ken, his agent in the Land of
the Formerly Free. "G'day mate. Just me letting you know I'm still
alive. How's everything going?"

As he listened to Ken's litany of complaints he wandered over towards
the kids, because he knew that Ken was going to want to know where he
was.

The only boy in the group, an Asian looking guy, must have passed a
comment about something because one of the girls punched him in the arm
just as the biker arrived. "Hang on a sec, Ken" he said. "Excuse me?
Could you guys tell me what the name of this town is?" 

As expected, the teens looked at him as if he'd lost his mind, but
politely informed him of his current location. He thanked them and
turned away as one of the girls resumed her conversation with the Asian
guy.

"This isn't over, Mike!"

"Aw jeez, Val, it was only a joke!"

He spun back, phone hanging by his side. "Mike? Val?"

At his exclamation all the kids turned to look at him, their confused
expressions turning to wariness.

His eyes flicked over the group, gathering details, and with a hoarse
voice he pointed to teens, naming them "Debbie? Kim? Kathy? Jill?" Then,
pointing at Val, "Tucker?"

Everyone went pale, no one more so than Valerie. The guy, Mike, began
moving to one side. The biker's tactical awareness warned him that the
kid was moving to get an angle on him, but he disregarded that as he
lifted the phone to his ear and heard an evil chuckle.

He looked at the phone in horror, "Oh shit! Ellen?"