Page 19 of Volt
And with his words, the bonfire goes up with a loud “whoosh”. Suddenly, the compound is bathed in a flickering orange light, the shadows it casts upon the walls writhing like living things. I look up and see the faint orange glow reflecting on the low hanging marine layer above us. A cool wind stirs, making the flames leap and dance, and even standing twenty feet away, I can feel the heat from the fire upon my skin.
All the guys make their way over to the bonfire and when we’ve all taken up spots around it, Doc steps forward, his face pinched and drawn. Of all of us, I think Prophet’s death is hitting him the hardest. He served with Prophet and has known him for more than twenty years. Most of us never served with him and have only known him as long as we’ve been part of the club. We’re losing a brother-in-arms but the look on Doc’s face is that of a man losing an actual brother.
“Pharaohs, tonight, we say goodbye to three of our brothers-in-arms. We say goodbye to three good men. They were more than friends. They were more than family,” he intones, his voice thick with emotion. “They shared a bond with us that people who haven’t served and haven’t survived what we have won’t understand.”
A moment of silence settles over us all, and I can see the light of the flames glinting off eyes all around the fire that are welling with tears. It reassures me to know I’m not the only one who’s got tears running down his face. Doc is right though. The bond we shared with these three men is one forged in the crucible of war. We’ve seen, done, and survived shit nobody could possibly understand. That’s a connection to these men nobody will ever have. A connection I’ll never be able to get back.
As I stare into the flames, the scene from that day in the warehouse comes back. The images are as vivid right now as they were that day, and I have to turn my face away from the fire. And as the recollection of that day comes flooding back into my mind, so too does the self-reproach. The memories and the guilt are burning me hotter and more intensely than the bonfire raging in front of me.
Adam puts his hand on my shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze, making me look up at him. His lips are compressed into a tight smile, and he gives me an encouraging nod as if he knows what I’m thinking and is trying to silently talk me off that ledge.
“As we say goodbye to Beaker, does anybody want to say a few words?” Doc asks.
A few of his closest friends step up and share a few stories that get us laughing and remembering things about him we may have forgotten. When they’re done, the girlfriends come around, passing out shots of Jim Beam to all of us, Doc taking two.
“For Beaker,” he calls. “A good man, a good friend, and a good brother.”
We all repeat the words then take the shot. Doc pours the second shot he’s holding into the flames as a send-off.
“Who will speak for Axle?” Doc asks.
Some of the guys talk about Axle’s friendship and his love for life. They tell us about good times they had with him and the trouble they’d get up to sometimes, and some of the stories leave us howling with laughter. When everybody’s done speaking, the shots of Fireball are passed out and we all take one, then Doc empties one into the flames.
“For Axle,” Doc repeats the words that are our ritual. “A good man, a good friend, and a good brother.”
We repeat the words back and then a silence more profound than I’ve ever heard before descends over the crowd. But that makes sense because we’ve never had a death that cuts this deep in the history of the club. I mean, Prophet was the founder of our MC. He was the original. When we didn’t have a place to go after coming home from war and finding the world—or at least, our place in it—had changed so drastically, Prophet gave that to us. He helped us find one place in this fucked-up world where we could feel safe. Where we don’t have to fear judgment or face people who don’t understand what we’ve been through.
What Prophet created when he started the MC is a place where we can come together with people who’ve been through the same shit we have and are still somehow standing on our feet. He helped us get into support groups. In some cases, he got some of our guys into rehab centers and addiction therapy groups. I almost think he’s single-handedly helped break the opiate addiction of more returning soldiers than our VA hospital down in San Francisco has.
Yeah, maybe not everything we have done and continue to do is clean. Maybe we break some laws and do things that are better not being discussed. But we have all lived by Prophet’s rules—we don’t hurt innocents, we don’t do drugs, we protect the people and this town, and we put in the work necessary to clean up our lives and get ourselves straight.
Prophet believed that we needed a safe space—a bubble, perhaps—that was insulated from the horrors of the outside world. It’s why he fought so hard and ultimately gave his life to defend Blue Rock from guys like the Zavalas. He didn’t want that poison flowing through our streets and bringing the violence inherent in the product along with it. He wanted to keep Blue Rock clean and safe, not just for the people who live here but for us too.
“Who will speak—” Doc’s voice catches and he looks away for a moment, taking a beat to gather himself. “Who will speak for Prophet?”
And everybody does. One by one, our guys step forward, each of them telling us all the various ways Prophet touched their life. Hearing all these stories, many of which I didn’t know about, is moving. It’s a fitting tribute to the man who has impacted each of our lives in some way and always for the better.
There are only a few of us who haven’t spoken yet, and I feel all the eyes turning my way. Everybody’s expecting me to say something, but I have no idea what to say. Everything I want to say, apologizing for what happened and about the guilt I feel, would make this all about me when this is all about them. That’s where I need to keep the focus. Clearing my mind, I step forward and think about everything Prophet meant to me. Everything he did for me. I stare into the flames and try to let those memories fill me instead.
“When I first met Prophet after becoming a prospect, he was hard on me. Said he wasn’t sure I was cut out to be a Pharaoh,” I start, a rueful smile on my face. “But once I kind of got my feet under me here, I knew he was only pushing me to be better. The same way he pushed all of you.”
I look around and see heads nodding as everybody has had the same or, at least, a similar experience with him. Prophet was a quiet leader, but there is no question that he was effective in the role and was the sort of man we could all look up to.
“That was always Prophet’s thing. He was subtle about it, but he always pushed us to be better men,” I say. “When I rotated home, I was a mess. But today, because of his help, I like to think I’m better. Or at least, less of a mess than I was. I wish like hell he was still here. That we weren’t standing out here memorializing him. Prophet’s death is going to leave a hole inside me I know will never be filled.”
I step back and the last few guys who haven’t had a turn yet speak up. I swallow hard and fight my emotions, doing my best to avoid breaking down. I take a deep breath and hold it, counting to ten then slowly releasing it. I listen to the last of the tributes, and when it’s done, shots of Jack are handed out. Doc raises his glass, not bothering to hide the tears streaming down his face as he speaks.
“For Prophet. Our president and our leader,” Doc says. “A good man, a good friend, and a better brother.”
We repeat the words and down our shot. Doc looks at the other glass in his hand, the emotion in his face thick. But then, he sticks to our tradition and turns it over into the flames. The hiss of the liquid hitting the log is loud and sends a plume of white smoke billowing toward the heavens as if it’s bearing Prophet’s spirit.
Doc takes the fabric that was once Beaker’s shirt and tosses it into the fire. We all follow suit and say our final goodbye to him. Axle’s comes next, and it’s followed by Prophet’s. We all linger near the flames for a moment, watching the swatches of fabric curl and burn.
“We’ll miss you, boys,” Doc says. “We’ll miss the hell out of all three of you.”
The ritual complete, some of the guys turn away, anxious to get out of there and spend the rest of the evening in the bottom of a bottle. Some of the guys linger for another minute, saying a few quiet words and then depart. Somebody opens up the gates as the air around us reverberates with the sound of the bikes firing up and it felt like the very ground was shaking beneath us.
As the guys start to pull out, I stand there, staring into the flames. And all I can see is Prophet’s head snapping backward as the bullet passed through him. All I hear is the wet splatter of his blood and tissue spraying the concrete. And all I can feel is the cold numbness spreading throughout my body.
