I was snapped out of my introspection when I suddenly heard the snarling of more Reaver Dogs outside, and I cursed myself for losing track of the danger we were still in. Same for the others - elation quickly turned to weariness as everyone realized that our victory was just the first skirmish in our fight for survival.

“Close off that street over there,” a voice suddenly boomed outside. “The rest, fan out and chop, chop!”

Everyone moved to a window to look at what was going on while I was stuck on my wheelchair in the middle of the room.

“It’s those bikers,” Mike said in an incredulous voice. “They are attacking the Reaver Dogs!”

Everyone was just standing there and gawking.

“Annie,” I said pleadingly. “Would you mind…?”

“Oh, I’m sorry Daniel.”

She immediately rushed back to me and pushed me toward one of the windows. And there it was… the Hell’s Devils biker gang was rounding up a group of about twenty Reaver Dogs and was beating them to a pulp. It was quite impressive to watch how well the group was able to fight. They mostly had baseball bats, chains, and iron rebars and used them quite proficiently. A few of the guys also brandished swords - it looked anachronistic, but it probably beat using a chain or baseball bat any day.

The swords looked like they were from the antique store down the road. They almost assuredly were fake, with too many faux gemstones and such inserted into the hilts, but they still looked like serviceable weapons the way they were cutting into the beasts. I knew my way around swords because I had done some reading on medieval and classic sword-fighting styles and had practiced a bit of HEMA, short for Historical European Martial Arts as part of my reenactment hobby.

What the bikers were doing was more like a wild brawl style suitable to large-scale battles, perhaps akin to what the Anglo-Saxons might have been using – mostly overhead chops, crude, yet effective for dealing with beasts. Certainly not the more refined techniques of the Italian or Japanese sword masters of yore. But what the bikers did, worked well, and they reduced the dogs to minced meat in no time.   

Once the bikers had mopped up all the Reaver Dogs, they casually approached the Bed and Breakfast.

“Yo there, you can all come out now and stop pissing yourself. Got them doggies all chopped up,” one of the bikers with a sword shouted.

Hesitantly, we filed out of the house. I was relieved that the Reaver Dogs had been killed, but I was less than happy about the bikers doing the deed. Not because I begrudged them their shot at glory, frankly, I couldn’t care less about that. In fact, it was not really about the bikers killing the dogs or not, but about the ease with which they had done that – I was a bit worried about how organized and powerful they seemed compared to our rag-tag group of ordinary people.

And based on the muttering of the people around me, I was not the only one with that sentiment. Ben exchanged a worried look with Annie, before whispering in a voice just loud enough for the rest of us to hear: “Just about now, I really wished, for once, that there was a bunch of cops around. Those bikers were annoying before, but now they are actually intimidating.” 

Right on cue, a huge guy wearing a dark leather vest with various swastika symbols on it said mockingly: “Look at them pussyfooting!”     

Before we could respond, a smaller guy stepped toward our group and pulled out a handkerchief. “Does anyone need to blow their nose or dry off some tears?”

The whole group of bikers started laughing raucously. All apart from one guy, that is - a gangly man, with leathery skin, a goatee, and a somewhat sophisticated appearance. He was still dressed in leathers, just like the rest of them, but he looked smart in them. Perhaps it was a better cut. Maybe it was the effect of him wearing glasses. Whatever it was, he was different somehow.

And I felt that he was studying us, watching our reaction to the insults, classifying the people in our group. When he looked at me, I involuntarily shuddered, at the ice-cold penetrating stare, the calculating intellect behind those dark eyes, that were devoid of any warmth or empathy. And then he winked at me, a gesture that might have been interpreted as warm, funny, or entertaining by some, like a little sign of normalcy… but with this guy, it provoked the opposite reaction. I felt like a deer caught in the headlights.

And then it happened.

While Mike, Ben, Jimmy, and all the others were getting agitated by the provocations and ridicule, the smallish guy stepped forward and spread out his arms.

“Good people. Please excuse the language of my friends. No harm, no foul, right? Let’s not distract from the significant challenges we are facing. I’m Big Pete,” he continued, “and I’m the leader of these stalwart heroes that just risked their lives to defend you. And let me tell you – you are welcome!”

He stared expectantly at us, obviously waiting for a response.

At first, everyone just stared at Big Pete, unsure what just had happened - at first, a bunch of uncultured hooligans had confronted our group, only to then be addressed, out of nowhere, by someone with a sophisticated and clearly educated voice.

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The silence started to be a bit uncomfortable, but Big Pete was just tapping his foot on the ground, still smiling.

Finally, a few people in our group started mumbling their thanks.

“Let’s give them a round of applause!” Big Pete shouted and started clapping his hands.

Reluctantly, everyone started following along, because it felt weird not to. Finally, the clapping died down, and Big Pete cleared his voice.

“Well, clearly, the dangers that confront us require strong, fearless fighters. And you, my friends, are obviously in need of protection. So, from now on the inner part of Lake Placid will be defended by us. Let’s give another round of applause!”

This time some people in our group were a bit more enthusiastic in their clapping and even gave each other relieved smiles as if a huge burden had been lifted off their shoulders. But I was getting more and more worried. Big Pete was playing us masterfully.

And there was the hook.

“If you want to enjoy that protection, all you need to do is provide us with goods and services in exchange. Which is quite fair, isn’t it? After all, you don’t need to risk your life any longer!”

“That is a fucking protection racket! Do you think we are idiots?” Mike shouted immediately.

Which, I had to admit, surprised me. Mike was sharper than he looked.

“Oh my, that is a harsh accusation, don’t you think?” Big Pete responded with a smirk on his face.

“So, what if we don’t want your protection?” Ben asked.

“Everyone can feel free to find a place to stay outside of town,” Big Pete calmly replied, looking at all of us. “But in case you decide to stick around,…” he slowly walked up to Mike who was staring down at him with an angry scowl. “You better learn the consequences of refusing to cooperate with us.”

There was no warning, no sign of what was to come.

One moment Big Pete was talking in a calm and relaxed tone, entirely at ease, and then, the next moment, he pulled in a frighteningly fast and smooth movement two curved and wickedly sharp-looking knives and buried them in Mike’s body.

Before anyone registered what had just happened, he turned around without another look and walked back to his fellow biker.

Mike gasped in pain, feebly clutching at the knife handles with his hands, and then collapsed to the ground.

Everyone in our group was stunned. I had never been exposed to such sudden, seemingly senseless violence, and I suspected that it was the same for most of the others.

After a couple of seconds, as if on command, a few people started rushing forward to try help Mike somehow. Some tried to stem the bleeding, while Annie put her hands on Mike’s body and willed forth her power. I could see intense concentration on her face, and the amber energy rushed from her into Mike’s body. More and more energy flowed, but after a short while, the flood of energy subsided to a mere trickle and then completely dissipated.

Annie was pale and drenched in sweat and couldn’t even hold herself upright any longer. Utterly exhausted she sank to the ground next to the unmoving Mike, sobbing quietly. It had not been enough. Apparently, there were limits to magical healing.

While everyone was trying to help Mike, I did the only thing I could, which was to study the bikers. Most of them were hooting at each other, clearly enjoying the spectacle. Some others seemed to get ready to leave. And Big Pete, the smallest guy in the group, he just stood there and stared at us, calculating, measuring, just as before. And then he looked at me again and did his little wink as if he and I were part of some joke or a play.

I was terrified.

If someone is driven by emotion, they are easy to manipulate. You cater to their expectations, and while not ideal, you can manage the situation to your own benefit. This guy… he was cold. A killer. Ambitious, charismatic, smart, and ruthless, all at the same time, which made him extremely dangerous.   

But I have never backed down from a challenge, maybe because I’m stupid or just because I’m stubborn. Afraid or not, I was not going to roll on my back and offer my throat. That just was not me. So I stared back at Big Pete, right into his eyes, concealing my fear and worry and projecting utter self-confidence.

And then I winked right back and mouthed: “You will pay for that, asshole!”

Which was about as boneheaded as it could be. I mean, I was a fucking quadriplegic. What the hell could I do against the bikers? Bite them?

Right.

But that didn’t change my feelings, and sometimes my mouth just moves before my brain - tough luck. And the momentary narrowing of Big Pete’s eyes was all I needed to make it worthwhile. Unless it would seriously bite my ass later on, but I would deal with that when it came to it.

Finally, Big Pete signaled the bikers to leave, and soon only our group and the pile of dead Reaver Dogs was left in the street. Annie took a few more moments to recover, but then came to help me back into the bed and breakfast. Understandably, she was a lot more subdued than usual - none of the quick smiles and cheerful attitude that usually characterized her. And I didn’t blame her - Mike’s face when he had been stabbed replayed in my mind over and over.

Eventually, we settled in for the night, and I started dozing off, completely exhausted from the emotional rollercoaster of the day.

Suddenly, seemingly after a couple of moments, but probably some hours later, I felt a sack being tossed over my head and a firm hand clamp over my mouth. I couldn’t see anything, but I thought I heard at least two people move around and slowly push the wheelchair out of the room into the night.

At first, I was petrified. Then I tried biting the hand that was on top of my mouth, but the sack was too thick for that to have any impact. All I got for my trouble was a few strings of canvas in my mouth.

As seconds turned into minutes, Panic started setting in, and I was beginning to hyperventilate.

Eventually, perhaps twenty minutes later, a guy with a nasal, high-pitched voice said: “I think we are far enough from the city so that they won’t find him. Just kill him.”

Another man with a rasping voice responded: “Let’s just dump him into this ravine. Less messy like that. I still think that we should have just killed him in the city… as if those pussies from the town would organize and push back for that boy. Could have saved ourselves the effort of a couple of miles hiking in the dark.”

“That is why Big Pete is the boss and not you.”

What do you do if you have quadriplegia in that situation? Do you try to scream? Check. Do you try to toss your head around? Check. Do you try to get your body to move for once? Check. Do you pray to God? Well, I was not really the religious type, but if all other options are exhausted, you give it a shot — nothing to lose. So pray, I did. Until I felt my body tilt forward and my head took its first painful bounce on the ground.

Maybe the prayer worked, because I fell headfirst into a bush that was growing at the edge of the ravine and some branches somehow got stuck in the sack that was still over my head. This jerked my body around so that instead of headfirst I was now feet first pointing down into the ravine, and the sack, which was not tightened up in any way, slipped off my head.

However, none of that arrested my fall in a meaningful way.

A few yards further down, I hit my head on a rock and was blessedly unaware of the rest of my fall.