Visions (Hell Portals, Book One)

Chapter One: The Journey Begins...

THE HOT AIR STREAMED PAST HIM AS HE RODE UP HIGHWAY 36 toward Susanville. The asphalt blurring under his wheels. The black 2014 Indian Chief Classic feeling powerful and smooth between his legs.

He leaned the bike to the left while correcting his steering so he wouldn't actually turn. He leaned to the right. He liked to play with the physics of the bike, rolling on the speed and leaning into the gentleness of proper angles and tangents and circumferences and the pull of gravity. He smirked at his asinine way of embellishing these ideas. What the fuck were angles, tangents, and circumferences? What a bunch of poetic crap. Physics. Just physics. That explains it all.

Jack Maxton was having a good day. He was riding. His favorite thing to do. He was on his way to meet up with his buddy Nate whom he hadn't seen for what, two years? Crap that was a long time.

He wondered what Nate would be wearing. He'd only ever seen him in his jail threads. The black and white striped, Hamburglar-style jumpsuit, fluorescent-orange t-shirt, and navy-blue Keds the County Jail of Tuolumne, California had so graciously provided.

Jack was there in jail with Nate for just twelve days. Nate hadn't been so lucky. He ended up serving two years in state prison for his burglary charges. A twinge of guilt shot through Jack as his black goggles, black half-helmet, and blond beard raced through the heat at 79.5 miles per hour.

The guilt wasn't for Jack getting off easier than Nate on some sort of shared heist they had pulled. It was nothing like that. In fact, Jack hadn't even known Nate before being assigned to cell K10 at the jail. In Jack's case, he had simply taken a plea bargain on a ridiculous incident he'd brought upon himself. He had held a handgun to his side while repo assholes were on his property doing their jobs, hoisting up his vehicle onto their tow truck. Simple as that. Now, the repo guys had unfortunately lied to the sheriffs, stating that Jack had held them at gunpoint and said he'd "fill them with holes" (repo guys are trained to do such naughty things, after all), but even so, Jack knew he'd brought this crap upon himself and felt like a complete fool. What a bad fucking year.

No, Jack's guilt was because Jack hadn't visited Nate in two years, although they had traded many long, sincere and revealing letters during that time. What kind of friend wouldn't visit his buddy for two years? A fucked-up one, he thought. He shook off the guilt and pictured how great it would be to see Nate again.

At six-foot-five, Jack was a tall guy. He'd been that way since high school when he hit a growing spurt and shocked everyone around him when it just kept on going. He was tall, but not awkward or gangly. He was strong and lean and athletic. With blond, bushy hair, mustache and longish, angular goatee, a good tan, and a thick silver pirate hoop in his left ear, he looked like a surfer-turned-biker, and fit right in atop the powerful Indian motorcycle.

Jack was on a journey. Not just a ride—but a white-knuckled, life-changing, kick-ass journey. He had sold almost all his earthly possessions, stored with a friend what little remained that was actually important to him, cashed in his 401k, and purchased two Indians. One for him, and one for Nate.

Jack had the second Indian Chief Classic, his Indian Chief Classic in deep red, delivered to a location close to the prison, and hadn't told Nate about the bikes at all. Nate had just agreed to spend a good chunk of time taking a road trip with Jack, as a get-out-of-jail celebration, but didn't know any details and probably pictured the two of them riding cross the country in some piece of shit car.

Jack smiled at the thought. What a shock this is gonna be to my bro. Holy shit—who just rides up and gives a bitchin bike like this to a friend?

Smoothly gearing down and thoroughly enjoying the deep rumble of the upgraded exhaust on the bike, Jack rolled up to the gates of the prison. He lowered the black bandanna from his face, pulled down his goggles so they were hanging loosely under his chin, and studied the huge concrete "box" that had held his friend captive for the past two years.