TW: Gross description of a dead body.

— Bonus —
Three Days After the Explosion

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C H A I N S

"I'm here." Sauntering across the ashen gravel of an abandoned rail yard, I spoke out, "What's the big fucking emergency?"

Having navigated through the corroded tracks with my trusty motorcycle, I made my way towards a tired-looking Rusty and Tats as they stood alongside their own menacing pair. Behind them rested a tall, cobalt-coloured shipping container. There weren't many to be found around here—maybe a dozen or so, scattered around aimlessly, and right at home among the desolate rows of unmoving and run-down freight trains.

This place creeps me the fuck out.

Being here almost made me miss the hospital. The safeness of those busy hallways, with their clean, sterile walls and harsh, blinding lights.

Edge was in a coma.

He could wake up at any second—die, at any second. And instead of spending every waking second by his side, I'd been the one left in charge of dealing with the aftermath of everything.

Somehow, I'd become the one taking on all the responsibility. Which included being the emergency contact for all things Stray Dogs, apparently. I was the one who had to fend off questions from the police. I was the one who had to calm tensions among the bikers. I was the one everybody kept turning to for advice.

I was the one who had to reassure everybody else, even when all I wanted to do right now was sink down next to those hospital doors and give up for good.

I need my best friend back.

"About damn time," said Rusty as I approached, picking at his orange-brown neck scruff. Leaning against his stickered-up Harley, the grime under his nails was as thick as the attitude in his voice."We called you two hours ago. What, you got held up?"

"My best friend is lying in a hospital bed, you inconsiderate fucks. I've got enough shit on my plate right now."

He closed his mouth at that.

"Speaking of..." Clearing his throat, Tats asked me, "How's Edge? Any better these last two days?"

My brows knotted. "You kidding? His shoulder was blown to bits. Poor fucker basically bled himself halfway to hell, and you want to ask me how he's doing? How do you think he's doing?" Folding my inked-up arms, I leveled a half-glare. "Don't waste my time, Tats."

"Guess he's still comatose, then." Whistling, the Mayhem leader put his hands up in surrender. "Sorry, man. Touchy subject."

Eager to change the topic, I asked them, "What did you want to show me?"

The two bikers exchanged glances, unspoken words hanging in the air like smoke. Or maybe the smoke was literal—even though the cargo ship was long past charred, the surrounding atmosphere still reeked of oil and burnt rubber, thick and oppressive in the rising heat of the day.

Rusty's voice dropped, his tone more serious now.

"We found something," he said, gesturing to the imposing shipping container. "A body."

"Christ—" Tats huffed— "not just any body. Shooter. Shooter's body."

My stomach lurched. For a moment, I was sure I could hear my pulse quicken, but I forced my face into neutral lines.

Guilt was an icky sensation I wasn't allowed to show. I was still the idiot who'd been stupid enough not to see through Shooter's facade—me, the oblivious fuck who'd spent the most time around him. Me, the man who should've been smarter. Me, the fool who'd entertained a traitor.

The success of Shooter's double-cross was my burden to bear.

As I processed the information, Rusty's eyes scanned the ground for something to kick at. Tats stayed unnervingly silent.

Fucking hell.

"So what are we waiting for?" Stepping closer, I demanded, "Open it."

Hesitating, Tat's obsidian eyes flitted between me and the shipping container. "You might not want us to," he warned, coarse palms rubbing together. "It's in a bad state, man. Really bad state. Rusty nearly coughed up his own guts standing next to it."

The other biker chimed in, his voice quieter now but not reverent. "We think it's been rotting here for a few days. With this can of metal burning in the sunlight, the damn thing looks and smells like an abandoned slaughterhouse from hell. It might be better if you don—"

"I said, fucking open it."

Rusty sighed, shooting Tats a look of resignation before reaching to pull open the container doors. "Don't say we didn't warn you."

The smell hit me immediately—a rancid stench of necrotic decay, hot and festering. I instinctively stepped back and covered my mouth as the morning shadows receded into grimy corners. The sight that greeted us all made my stomach churn.

"Jesus Christ," spilled from my lips.

Eyes. Wide-open eyes. Dead eyes, staring right at me, unblinking.

He was looking right at me.

A dozen familiar terrors rippled through my head.

Shooter's bloated body rested in a heap at the other end of the container. Flesh had peeled off his limbs like paper soaked in gasoline. Twisted unnaturally, his broken bones peeked out through impaled muscle. I knew it was him—I knew every single one of the patches on his vest by heart.

Though there was no threat, I felt instinctively for the switchblade tucked away by my thigh. Buzzing above Shooter's corpse was a frenzied cloud of flies, some feasting on the myriad of bullet holes that were visible from where I was standing. The pool of dried blood around him was littered with torn fabric.

Ribbons.

Bright, pink ribbons.

They wrapped him up like a fucking gift.

Tats winced at the smell. "Not pretty, is it?"

My head spun. Shooter's lifeless presence loomed over me, and the weight of everything—his betrayal, his death, and my role in this mess—rushed back to me all at once.

I swallowed hard, trying to block out the sight and smell. A hazy fog blurred my senses. My knees were frayed toothpicks and my mouth was sandpaper. I noticed a burning in my throat, and for a moment, I thought I might lose my stomach too.

But I couldn't—wouldn't—show that weakness. Not here.

"We called you because..." Tats took a second to find the right words. "Well, this prick was the one who shot you, right? He's the one who betrayed the Stray Dogs. How do you want to deal with it?"

"Deal with it?" I frowned inattentively, frozen gaze stuck on the corpse. Shooter's betrayal was still fresh in my mind—like it was bleeding from the open wounds. "What do you mean, deal with it?"

Rusty shuffled, clearly awkward with the direction this was going.

"I have a buddy up north," he explained. "Army brat, like me. He can clean all of this up and make it look like nothing happened. Nobody will ever find out—not even the police. Shooter will stay a missing person."

"You want to cover it up?"

"We're just saying it's an option," Tats murmured, a poor attempt to reason.

My mind raced. Weighed down by endless exhaustion and the annoying pressure of a brutal headache, I swayed slightly on my feet. Shooter's face—or what was left of it—seemed to smirk up at me, accusing. My stomach flipped once again. I held my ground.

Tats and Rusty were staring holes through me. Their collective nervousness was making me jittery.

"What?" I asked in a pointed tone.

With an exhale, Rusty confessed, "Someone's gotta be making the decisions, kid. With Edge out of commission, the Stray Dogs are vulnerable. We don't have a leader. We're sitting ducks."

"Christ, you're talking like he's dead already." I hid my white-knuckled fists.

He's going to make it.

"I'm being realistic." Rusty's voice was steady now, the blunt edge of truth cutting through. "I'm thinking about what's best for the Stray Dogs. Because unless you feel like taking on every biker club this side of the country, someone's gotta step in and fill those boots as soon as possible."

"He's not fucking dead, Rusty."

The biker's gaze hardened. "What if you wake up tomorrow and he is? Don't be naive, kid. I want Edge back as much as the next guy—he's family and you know it. But let's face it. If he kicks the can, the person most likely to become our next chief is you. Are you ready for that?"

My chest squeezed. The weight of his words sunk into my bones like a hot knife through shit.

"What exactly are you suggesting?" I wondered aloud.

"Being the president isn't just going to biker meets and playing cool for the camera." As though he'd rehearsed this speech a hundred times before, Rusty's stony voice was measured and calm. "It's strategy," he continued. "It's sacrifice. It's hard work and dedication. It's responsibility, resilience, and aggression. All of those qualities are exactly what the Stray Dogs need leading them at all times."

"So... what? You think I don't fit the bill?"

He shrugged, weathered eyes unreadable. "I think most people have dreams of being a leader, but in this day and age, very few people can live up to the fantasy." He gestured to the body. "You think you have what it takes to be in charge? Then you prove it by making the right choices. The smart choices. And that can start right now."

I looked back at Shooter's body, the sudden load of expectations pressing down on me like a boulder.

I was no good with expectations. Wherever expectations were involved, I was always doomed to fuck up and fail.

My specialty.

I wasn't smart. I wasn't cunning, or quick-thinking, or ahead on the chessboard. I wasn't a born leader. My life consisted of running in the shadows, threatening lives, following commands like a loyal stray. I wasn't cut out for being in charge—for the spotlight, or for decisions that could make or break lives.

Edge had always been the one with the mind for strategy. He was the visionary who saw three moves ahead while I was still figuring out how to survive the day without ending it on drugs.

A man like me was never meant to glow in the sun.

How am I meant to succeed?

"What do you want us to do with him?" Tats finally uttered.

The silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant hum of a busy highway and the incessant buzzing of gluttonous flies.

I didn't know what to do.

Did I leave the body here? Close the door, leave the corpse to wither and rot, and pray that I'd be able to forget about it someday? Or would I take Rusty's suggestion? Would I get the body cleaned out of here, have it tossed away where it couldn't be found, and pray that the crime wouldn't eat me alive?

How could I ever walk away from this without being killed by my own guilt?

Why do I even feel guilty?

Shooter was a traitor more than he was ever my friend. There was a good chance that our entire friendship was a facade—that it meant nothing to him. The bastard had looked me in the eyes a thousand times and lied like it was nothing. He'd fucked me over, he'd fucked us all over, and he'd gotten Chief killed in the process.

He ruined everything.

Everything.

And yet, I didn't hate him. I wanted to hate him. I was so desperate to hate and despise him that I wondered if there was something wrong with me—if my conscience was going fucking insane.

But now, looking at his corpse, I didn't feel hatred. I didn't feel an urge to curse his name. I didn't... didn't even know what I was feeling.

Probably some bitter amalgamation of disgust, and pity, and frustration, and anger, and misery... one that clung to my limbs like thick tar.

This would be so much easier if you were still alive.

At least if you were alive, I'd be able to hate you the way you deserve.

A heavy exhale.

"Cut his patches off," I decided. "Pull away the rest of the other bullshit, then call the police."

Rusty's scarred lips pursed. "You want to get the boys in blue involved?"

I nodded slowly.

"Shooter had family in Boston—family that's probably been worried to shit over these last few days." Tucking my hands into my pockets, I muttered, "For the sake of their closure, they deserve to be able to bury him. They deserve to be able to grieve."

There was a thickness in my throat too big to swallow.

Everyone's suffered enough.

"Are you sure that's the right move?" Tats spoke, his tattooed cheeks creasing in the sunlight. "I mean, isn't he part of the reason why Chief is dead? Don't you wanna... well..."

"Well, what? Make an example out of him?" My voice was terse, each word almost sharper than my knives. "Look at him, Tats. The bastard got his karma served up on a platter of silver bullets."

"But—"

"Shooter may not deserve to rest as a Stray Dog," I interrupted, "but even his two-timing ass deserves to rest in peace. I don't want an angry ghost on my conscience. Aside from that—he's not my problem anymore."

There was a moment of pause as the two bikers considered my words.

The silence was disarming.

But, moments before I was about to start second-guessing myself, Rusty's face finally broke a smile.

"That right there was a smart choice, kid." The warm pride in his voice was something that I didn't get to hear often. Foreign, but meaningful, and a load off my shoulders.

Relieved by the vote of confidence, I nodded and turned away.

Tats asked out, "Wait, where are you going?"

"Back to the hospital," I said in a confident stride, flipping him off as I trudged through the gravel. "This whole world thinks Edge is going to die lying on his ass—so I'm going to grab myself a front-row seat. I want to be the first one laughing when he proves all you motherfuckers wrong."

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i love him you don't understand...
he's like a feral little dog.
the kind that just yaps all the time and has, like,
no house training whatsoever.