Page 18 of Volt
As the minister speaks, I glance over at Prophet’s bike, which is parked near the gravesite. It’s immaculate and gleams in the sunshine, the sun glittering upon the chrome and the deep green paint of the tank. It’s a beautiful bike and it’s going to be difficult not seeing it on the road anymore but parked in the clubhouse like a fucking museum piece.
“First Sergeant Graham Holt loved the Corps just as he loved Blue Rock Bay,” the minister goes on. “And all of our lives are a little emptier today without him.”
Up in the parking lot on a rise overlooking the ceremony, half a dozen of our guys rev their engines in tribute—our version of a 21-gun salute. The throaty rumble of their bikes echoes across the boneyard, fading away into nothing. When the rumble of the engines quiets again, the minister continues his eulogy, and as he speaks, my mind keeps flashing back to the day Prophet died. I keep hearing the shot. Keep seeing the gore and blood. I feel my face growing warm and tears welling in my eyes. I do my best to fight them off but it’s a fight I lose. The tears race down my cheeks, and I let them fall. There’s no shame in shedding a few tears when saying goodbye to a good friend.
I don’t know how long I zoned out for, but I snap out of it when I hear Doc’s voice reverberating through the speakers. I look up to see him holding the microphone and addressing the crowd.
“I’d like to thank everybody for coming out here to say goodbye to our friend and brother, Prophet, with us today,” he said. “Seeing this kind of support from the community—I know Prophet’s smiling. I know he appreciates your love, and I know he can feel it. He loved this community with everything in him and everything he did was to help keep it safe and clean. So thank you to everybody who came out and made his send-off special. Secondly, I wanted to invite you all to the compound after this for our reception. There will be food and drink. Anybody who wants to come out to share some stories and end the day on a happier note is more than welcome. Thank you again.”
Chapter Eight
Volt
The sun dips below the horizon and the purple and blue hues of dusk are encroaching upon the world by the time the last of the townspeople who made the trek out to the compound finally leave. Most of the people who were at the service didn’t come to the reception but a fair number still did. I think most of them were there to show genuine respect but there were still a few who just wanted a look-see at the inside of our compound. Among the attendees still here is Sheriff Singer, who’s sitting over with Doc and the guys, talking and swapping stories.
It’s strange to think that not all that long ago, Sheriff Singer was one of our biggest adversaries. He had a hard-on for us a mile long and was always looking to put us in bracelets. But over time, Prophet won him over. He started to see that the club isn’t the lawless band of thugs he imagined us to be. I mean, we’re not totally and completely law-abiding citizens of course, and Singer knows that, but I guess he figures on balance, we do more good for the town than bad. And now he has a personal stake in the club, having become something close to friends with some of the guys.
When the last of the townspeople are gone, we close and lock the gates behind them. This part of our memorial to our fallen is private. I see Adam over at the banquet tables cleaning up, so I walk over to give him a hand. A playlist of Prophet, Beaker, and Axle’s favorite music is pumping through the speakers, filling the compound with song—though it is a little disconcerting to go from Pink Floyd to Metallica, to Led Zeppelin, to Tim McGraw, to… Billie Eilish?
“Have you ever seen so many goddamn casseroles?” Adam grumbles as he puts foil over the top of one of the aluminum pans. “We’ve got tuna casserole, tater tot casserole, there’s a cheese casserole over there, spinach casserole—who knew there were so many different goddamn casseroles?”
In addition to what we’d put out on the barbecues and everything the girlfriends of the club members brought along, the townspeople turned up with desserts and casseroles. We’ve now probably got more food than the entire MC can put away in a week. But I’m sure the guys will try to knock it all out. If there’s one thing the boys enjoy more than anything else, it’s a free meal.
I chuckle. “What I want to know is, who decided casseroles were the official food of a funeral?”
He nods. “That’s an excellent question too.”
“I also want to know who had Billie Eilish on their playlist?”
“Axle. Big fan.”
I look at him with my mouth hanging open. “You’re kidding me.”
He shakes his head. “Went to a show with him once.”
“Wow,” I say. “That should prevent you from getting your patch right there.”
“What? She’s a talented girl. Her vocal range—”
“Stop,” I say, laughing. “I’m appalled and don’t want to talk about your horrible taste in music right now. I’m ashamed of you.”
He chuckles as he dumps some plates into the trash can. “You forget, I’ve listened to your playlist.”
“And not one Billie Eilish or Taylor Swift song to be found in all my music.”
We share a laugh together, the light joking tone of our conversation helping to dispel some of the somberness hanging heavy in the air. I put a lid on a plastic container of potato salad, not knowing who it belongs to or how to return it.
“Surprised the sheriff’s still here,” Adam says, nodding to where he’s sitting with the guys.
“I’m not. He and Prophet became pretty tight once they figured out they both wanted the same things for Blue Rock,” I reply. “Just a difference in methods, obviously.”
“Yeah, maybe. But it’s not often you see the town sheriff buddying around with a group of bikers.”
I shrug. “At the end of the day, Singer’s a good man. So was Prophet. And they saw that in each other.”
Once everything is packed up and stored in the refrigerators inside the clubhouse, we walk back outside to find some of the guys stacking the wood in the middle of the compound for the ceremonial bonfire. Some of the girlfriends are standing behind the banquet tables Adam and I just cleared and are pouring out three different shots—Jack for Prophet, Jim for Beaker, and Fireball for Axle. Those are their favorites and to honor them, we’ll take a shot of one of each, as is our tradition.
“Pharaohs,” Doc calls out. “It’s time.”
