PART 1: LOST AND FOUND
ANDERS “TITAN” VAN DER HAAS
Pain has been the one constant in my life. My earliest memories are of crying in a dark closet, nursing the latest beating. Even a bright spot in my life, like the time I earned a little ribbon for spelling in school, was marred by the pain of the whipping from the night before.
Drugs and booze helped. A lot, actually. Once I got old enough to steal a beer from my grandfather’s stash or pop one of my grandmother’s OxyContin, I found relief. Life got easier when I was wasted.
But heroin was a whole new ball of fucking pain.
A pretty girl got me hung up on that addiction. Melanie said I was the most handsome man she’d ever seen, yet my scarred body made her sad. She was certain heroin would make my pain disappear. I still remember the way she smelled that night she first hooked me up. Shit, Melanie was beautiful, and I felt like the luckiest, most powerful man on that high.
In reality, I was a fucking moron. That pretty girl saw nothing worth loving in me. Melanie’s heart belonged to Lonnie Root—the president of the Killing Joes Motorcycle Club. That pretty girl might have been a liar, but she wasn’t dumb. Getting a big guy like me hooked on drugs I couldn’t afford meant I’d be loyal to her man. That’s how I became the club’s new enforcer.
My size always got me into trouble. If I wasn’t a giant in a world of norms, I could have lived my life with less hassle. People always noticed me, though, and they never liked what they saw. I was a freak or a monster or a dupe to be used as a weapon. I never had any damn use except for my size.
For over a decade, I remained a slave to heroin. Those years are difficult to remember. I murdered people—good or bad, didn’t matter—for the Killing Joes. I fucked women who disliked me, and I called myself a brother to men who didn’t care if I lived or died. My high was the only good thing in my fucking life.
My eventual rejection of heroin and the Killing Joes wasn’t spurred by a great internal desire for a better life. There’s only one reason I’m alive and clean—Bronco Parrish didn’t take the shot.
The president of the Elko Executioners had me dead to rights in that drug den. Barely conscious, I’d been hiding out there for weeks. The entire club was scattered, scared of a war Lonnie started, but we weren’t equipped to finish.
That day, Bronco had his shot. I’ve never understood why he didn’t pull the trigger. The man wanted revenge. The Killing Joes ambushed his friend. My life should have been over.
Bronco has never told me why he didn’t put a bullet in my head. He swears he doesn’t know. Early on, Bronco claimed he didn’t care how the video footage from the bar where Wheels was murdered proved I wasn’t there. He assured me that he wanted every member of the Killing Joes dead. Yet, he walked away when most men would have ended me.
For weeks, maybe months, I wondered why Bronco Parrish let me live when he shouldn’t have. He killed other guys in my club. The man wasn’t weak. Did he see something in me worth saving?
Many men in my line of work were angry kids who wanted to burn down the world. When I was young, I rarely got mad, though. Mostly, I felt sad and confused. Why was everyone such an asshole to me? Why couldn’t I catch a break with a single fucking person? I just wanted to feel love like everyone else. Was I a monster like my grandparents claimed?
Bronco’s choice that day left a door open for me. I could walk through it and do something different. Or I could remain on the ground of that drug den and do more drugs. Either path would lead to an early death, but dying in a blaze of glory sounded better than OD’ing in a dirty house where my body would rot for days before anyone noticed.
Melanie got me hooked on heroin, so the Killing Joes could have a giant on their payroll. After my epiphany with Bronco, I turned my size against my club. But killing them wasn’t enough. I needed more if I expected the Executioners to let me into their world.
Bronco Parrish didn’t know what to think of me showing up at the security gate of his fancy community in Elko. I told him I had a peace offering. Or maybe I claimed it was a thank-you gift. I can’t really remember. By the time I showed up in Elko, I hadn’t slept in days, and I was beyond wasted.
Despite my rotten brain, I do remember the look on Bronco’s face when he looked in the duffle bag filled with severed heads.
“What do you want?” he asked, frowning while his men pointed guns at me.
“A new home.”
High and exhausted, I couldn’t find the words. Mostly, I wanted to explain how the mercy he showed me that day was more compassion than I’d gotten in my entire life.
Accepting the duffle bag, Bronco let me crash at the apartment building the Executioners used for their club girls. I didn’t know how long he would allow me to stick around.
Three years later, I’m still here. I’ve built a house in the swanky community where the Executioners live—Woodlands at Dry Creek. I wear their vest and even claimed the Sergeant at Arms title. I’m one of the Executioners. And I’m clean.
But the claws of addiction never completely released me. When stress builds, I can’t see straight. Then I can’t think of anything except getting a fix. Sometimes, I don’t even need a trigger to set off that need. A happy day isn’t enough of an antidote to a decade-long toxic love affair.
Pot helps the most. Enough booze to knock me on my ass does the trick too. If a craving is mild, I’ll hit the gym in my basement. Or if the weather isn’t too bad, I’ll ride Elko’s back roads until I settle down.
During one of my drives, I come upon a young woman dancing on the side of the road to no music. Though she stops when I slow down and idle, she doesn’t run off or look embarrassed.
I know right off that she’s one of the cult members from the Village. The Volkshalberd believe they possess a superior bloodline that must be protected from the modern world’s pollution. Living on a large acreage of land surrounded by woods, the weirdos keep to themselves.
Like all Volkshalberd, this girl’s long, dark brown hair is tied into many braids. She wears an ankle-length brown skirt and a raggedy red shirt. Her tanned face is without makeup. Her feet are bare.
I ought to keep riding. The Volkshalberd are bad news.
Yet, the girl’s gaze is too direct. I start wondering what she’s doing out on the road. Have the Volkshalberd moved into prostitution? If so, they need to pick a better spot than this back road.
“Whatcha doing out here?” I ask after shutting off my Harley and strolling to where she stands in the long grass.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, swaying in a way that makes me think she’s likely high.
“I’m driving around Elko. What are you doing?”
“I’m not driving around Elko.”
I think to walk back to my bike and ride away. The Volkshalberd are a strange breed of people living off the grid. They believe in pagan gods and joyfully raise their kids in poverty. Beneath her baggy clothes, this young woman is likely underweight. Possibly, bruised and battered, too.
But I don’t have a lot going on in my life, and she’s especially pretty.
“What’s your name?”
“What’s your name?” she asks, and I wonder if she’s sick in the head.