Gang Up: A Bikerland Novel (3 page)

The Long War had torn everything apart. Ruined everything. Civilization did not necessarily crumble—too ingrained for that—but it did fray and burn, like a quilt left over a burning fire. Pieces remained, none of them truly part of the fabric that had once been.

After the war, with so many men fighting, there had been an excess amount of women. Only the prettiest—the sexiest, the most willing to submit and comply—had been left. Others had been left behind and unused, unbred. Women now were largely busty, largely wide of hip and narrow of waist. Their bodies beautiful in every way, some voluptuous and some skinny and some slender and some athletic and some a mixture—but always lovely. Always pleasing to men. Otherwise they would not be alive.

Men got bigger and meaner, then, the ones who were left. To fight over the women who had survived. It was possible to think that with all the women being so pretty, it was impossible to tell which ones were truly more attractive than others—but the body knew. The body always knew. Cocks knew, and pussies too.

Abigail knew she was horribly attracted to Robin, for example, but the only worse thing than her attraction to her stepbrother was an attraction to a woman; at the end of the day, even a stepbrother could get a stepsister pregnant and give her that perfect feeling of purpose in her life. Two women could not say the same thing for each other, and that was inexcusable in the new order. Lesbian forays were permitted, but only for the display to and pleasure of men.

Their town, Temple, was one of only five or six such towns that they knew about. Sometimes they would get traders coming in with tales from the East and the North—big protected, shielded supercities that were relatively untouched by the Long War. But Temple was not one of those places. They lived where the Long War had not spread, in the hot badlands of what once was Texas.

The closest city was Dallas, and Abigail had never been there. They had law there, and order.

In Temple, the order was the Family, and the law was whatever the Family decided.

The Cauldron, fools that they were, thought they would infringe on the Family’s territory—to their demise, most likely. Other gangs had tried, and Abigail had seen many of them fall.

And so, Abigail operated with the shopkeeper with perfect confidence, knowing that she didn’t even have to use her considerable feminine qualities to get what she wanted. All she really had to use was reputation.

The door rang—or tinged really, a small piece of tin hitting brass on the edge of the poorly crafted door.

Like a mountain in motion, Brall walked in. He did not make a pretense of looking around at other items. He was there for one object, and one object only—Abigail. She knew it as well as he.

Brall wanted Abigail. He had made no secret of this. Even Titus had known, before he died. It was one of the few times that the brutal wasteland barbarian-turned-warlord had offered any kind of a deal. Common terms of open negotiation for business in Temple, so long as Brall was able to indoctrinate Abigail into his gang.

“Indoctrinate.” Abigail scoffed inwardly. As if that were any term for a gang bang.

Titus had refused, of course. Abigail was a Family member. She would never be allowed to suffer under the brutal gang bang tutelage that the Cauldron required.

“Hello Abigail,” said Brall. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“I doubt its coincidence.” She shook her head. “Who do you have following me today? The one with the lazy eye? Or maybe that fellow who carries a hook around?”

He smiled. “Neither. You’re important enough for a man to do his own recon work for.”

She supposed he meant it as flattery. Being such an important, strong man, following her himself.

Abigail’s place, in his world—or any man’s world—was as an object.

There wasn’t much of a place in the world anymore for women. If a girl didn’t have a man’s approval or protection, she was basically walking naked through the streets. Forced marriages were common. Many women said they got used to them...but if they didn’t say that, Abigail knew, they’d have hell to pay.

Case was her protection. The biggest, baddest guy in the region. Or at least, he almost was. Only Brall was the clear stand-out tough guy who could top Case’s reputation.

Brall was bigger. Tougher. Monstrous, really. In a town full of monsters like Troy and Case and even Brall’s second, Carthage—Brall was the worst. Everyone knew it.

And he wanted Abigail, according to him, worse than he had ever wanted anyone or anything.

It was an exhilarating feeling. If every part of her didn’t already feel completely owned by Case, she would have probably easily accepted. Brall was a hunk and that was easy enough to see. Probably hung like a fire hydrant.

Hell, she might have accepted now except for a couple of small reasons, like sparking a war that might kill her entire clan and the fact that Brall would never, ever just accept a simple fuck from her. Brall fucked for keeps—his cock didn’t touch anyone he didn’t own.

Of course, since Case's cock didn't touch anyone he didn't own, and Abigail had been thoroughly fucked by Case's cock over and over again, she could feel the appeal of Brall's ownership easily enough.

“Your father’s dead,” he said.

“I had noticed.”

“His stupid decisions kept you from me. But we both know that was wrong of him. You should be mine. There’ll be peace in it. Lots of blood avoided.”

“That’s why you want me?” Slowly, Abigail gripped the knife she kept right above her waist. “To avoid blood?”

Abigail’s knife was a gift a long time ago from Titus. It was a wicked, curved thing, shaped like a crescent moon. The blade was hard steel.

He smiled. “You know why I want you, girl. You know why it is I deserve you.”

“That’s big talk from a man who isn’t even welcome in this part of town. If any of my brother’s men see you this close to me, they’ll shoot you.”

“They better shoot on target, then. Else they’ll wake up with their guts in their mouths.”

He closed the distance between them, pushing her up against the wall. His hands so big on her shoulders The shopkeeper sputtered out some protest. Silence overwhelmed him the second Brall turned his head.

“I want to fuck you for days,” said Brall. “God, you even smell pretty. Do you know that? Of course you do. I want to ruin your life, girl. I truly do. I want to ruin every last thought you'll ever have with my cock.” His hands ran up her waist, gripping tight. His grip was rough and hard, and Abigail fought to ignore the hot excitement she felt at his urgency in needing her. She had been bred, after all, to reward exactly this sort of forward behavior. Her cunt sang with the need to give in—
submit, submit, please, lick, suck, submit!

But she wanted Case. Her love for her brother was everything to her. Everything.

She pressed up into Brall’s crotch with her blade. Instantly, Brall’s eyes widened, and his touch relinquished. He tilted his head slowly, smiling without teeth.

“If you talk to me again, if I
see
you again,” she held the knife up against his cock, thickly outlined in his tight pants, “you will not have much to boast about for the rest of your life.”

Brall smiled at her. “If you try that, I’ll kill you.”

“If I try it, I very well might succeed. You wouldn’t be the first that this blade has tasted. And how would you like that? Can you risk it?”

He let her go, slow. Desire still burning in his eyes.

Despite all her bravado, Abigail was a bit terrified. But the terror only encouraged her lustful rage that he would touch her. She wanted to be wanted, it was true—she wanted to be admired by all, held in high opinion by each and every man she came across. But she wanted to do it at Case’s side. No one else. Her heart thrummed with the need for all to know that her brother’s cock was the only one she had ever tasted, the only one she had ever had enter her.

Brall, exquisite a specimen of manhood though he was, was not her brother. And therefore, he would not do.

Slowly, he backed away. “I leave you, now. But you know where to find me once you change your mind.” He smiled. “And I know where to find you.”

“You’ll find me in your nightmares, animal. Fearing slaughter like every other pig.”

But despite her words, she found it hard to catch her breath, and harder still to fight the desire roiling in her pussy. She needed to find Case, right away, and work this out.

––––––––

B
rall returned to the shantytown outside of Temple. In truth, the shantytown was not much worse off than Temple itself; it simply did not have walls around its edges to create protection nor any solid stone-and-steel buildings to create legitimacy. But otherwise, much the same. Buildings wrought from spare sheet metal, some houses built from the stacked, hollowed-out bodies of automobiles that no longer operated, pathways paved with long boards over puddles of mud that could have been inches or feet deep.

His headquarters was a large tent bordered by a line of turned over tanks and a long trench, a moat really, filled with broken glass and gears.

Inside of the tent were a number of beds. Carpeting on the ground where there wasn’t shined and polished wood. A small liquor cabinet. A heavy table loaded down with navigational tools and maps—so valuable now in the days beyond regular communication with others. There was a long rack with several guns and a wickedly-bladed axe and a crowbar painted yellow. There was a small fire in the middle of the tent that was kept just beneath smoldering. Outside there was a couple of women tending a large fire, every so often bringing a coal in to keep the tent warm. They had done that for nearly three months now and the tent had not been cold once.

Cauldron women knew their place. They knew their jobs. They would not dare to deny a man like Brall. The Family had gotten too lax in showing women their proper place.

Along one side of the tent was a long couch they had taken from a city well past the borders of Texas. There had been plenty of men and women in that city once, and now there none—now there were a great many corpses and women who served at the command of Brall and the Cauldron. If the men had surrendered, Brall would have let them live. He could always use conscripts for his army. Servants to take care of what the army needed. The Cauldron had a code. But the men didn’t submit, and Brall had been clear about what that would mean for them. War was war, after all; life was war.

On the couch was his second, Carthage, enjoying the services of a skinny broad with thick dark hair.

The girl’s name was Miranda, as far as Brall could remember. Last week, Brall and Carthage had picked her up in the middle of a raid on a drug lab outside their border. Stupid Deathheads thinking they could get away with selling their own product in Brall’s market.

Carthage took a liking to Miranda. Busty and short, hair stretching shiny all the way down to her ass, she was Carthage’s type. She was cooing something in Carthage’s ear, stroking his enormous cock underneath a blanket.

This was fairly normal for Carthage. Hell, for Brall. Why would he mind? There was a blanket.

“How long before that Sooner crew gets here? I want those reinforcements soon.”

His entire body burned with lust for Abigail. If he had to burn down Temple to get her, then so be it.

Of course, he couldn't really burn down Temple. They had too many plans for the town. It's fertility was impossible to ignore, like a beautiful woman just on the cusp of knowing her true place in the world. The Cauldron's plan—Brall and Carthage's plan—had always been to take Temple for their own.

But the want of Abigail, burning down the town was damnably tempting.

“A few days at most.” Carthage reached over and grabbed a piece of paper, handing it to Brall. “Wire came in this morning. Said a dust storm put them on the delay.”

Brall took the paper and read it and then balled it up and threw it against the edge of the tent. He took the heavy map table at one end and overturned it, taking a leg off with one hand and then bashing into the liquor cabinet with the other.

Carthage watched all this, apparently nonplussed. Miranda tried to slide off but the huge black man kept her in place with a single hand around her tiny waist.

“I take it you want to attack sooner than that?”

Slowly, Brall began to calm. “Yes. I want it sooner than that.”

“It’s not like you to be so impulsive.” Carthage wavered. “Mostly, anyway.”

“It’s different this time.”

“How?” Carthage grunted, his face lighting up. “H-Hold on.”

Grunting, he took Miranda by the back of the head and shoved her underneath the blanket. Right there in front of Brall, she sucked Carthage dry, moaning and mewling.

Sexuality between the two men was nothing new. Women were the spoils of war and they had always taken what they wanted; any sense of propriety about where and when to fuck had long ago been stripped away by the sheer excitement of fucking some willing, wet, eager submissive beauty just after a battle, when always there were dozens waiting on them. In this new and ancient world, nothing got a woman going like watching blood spilled for her.

“There is a girl.”

“Of course there is!” Carthage laughed. “You always have a girl. Always a girl, and always you are confused. Have you noticed a correlation?”

“You’re not listening.”

“I have.” Carthage huffed now, close to cumming. “Noticed a correlation, I mean.”

“There is a girl,” Brall said again, his tone humming dangerously low. “She is meant to be mine. I know this for a fact.”

“You’ve known that for a fact in the past, as I recall.” Carthage’s head rolled back. Miranda must have been very good. “With Sara. And Hannah. Yolanda. Eve.”

“They were all...” Brall searched for a moment. “They were unworthy. This one is different.”

“Of course she is.”

Finally, Carthage erupted in Miranda’s mouth. She moaned with hot pleasure, swallowing him down, every drop. Some heavy spurts landed on her nose and eyes, and she slid them up with one finger and sucked them dry. When she was done, Carthage pushed her off, and she crawled away, cumdrunk and giggling.