I like the Packard for a number of reasons. It gets good miles to the gallon. It’s reliable as a cowboy’s horse in the moving pictures. And most importantly, it’s very good for banging some poor bastard around with. I slammed on the breaks and let the Packard come to a screeching halt. The Bike Bats didn’t have the same luxury.
They smashed into the rear of the car, mangling their bikes and themselves. Some of them managed to steer out of the way, off the street and into the ditches on the sides of the road. Their motorcycles weren’t used to handling Nebraska dirt, and they hit the ground soon enough. I gave it a few seconds as the second batch of bikers crashed into their fallen friends.
I took the trench gun from Weatherby and stepped out. I stepped over the fallen Bike Bats, looking for their leader. One of the Bike Bats, lying on the ground with his leg twisted the wrong way, came up at me with a sawed-off shotgun. I fired first, taking off the hand holding the gun at the wrist.