Two down.
The third was a female. She had the distended belly of a pregnant woman. She even waddled and from what I could tell was wearing only undies. I thought I saw her belly move, exposed as it was, but it could have been a trick of the light. I was relying solely on the shine of the headlights. She fell easily, she was tiny, except for her large belly and the tomahawk went easily through her rotten skull.
The good thing about old zombies- they were softer, a little more squishy and easier to stab.
I saw the belly move once again and tried not to think too hard about what was in there as I impaled her stomach with the bowie knife.
Did that count as five?
It felt good to fight. It felt good to have a purpose that didn’t require planning or politics. All this required was my baser instincts. I was good with baser instincts. Each zombie that I took down got me one step closer to Alexis.
By the time the fight was over, the ground was littered with the bodies of the dead. We stood over them panting, a few of the new soldiers high-fived each other. A few less dead out there to cause chaos.
We got back into the vehicles and since they blocked our path, we rolled over the dead. The squish and crunch of the bodies were almost sickeningly rewarding. Job well done.
ALEXIS
The amount of drugs and liquor the bikers consumed was staggering. The fact that they didn’t curl up on the floor and die of an overdose was disheartening. Give me a few glasses of liquor and I was puking up my guts. Wasn’t there any divine justice in this world?
Who the fuck was I kidding?
The divine had made the dead rise and feast on the living…justice was for the naive.
The group that hung around the all mighty leader, Senior, were all the higher-ups in the club. From what I could tell, ruling class meant you got to hang around with the president and fuck-off, no manual labor needed.
After about an hour of drug use and the occasional lewd shared story, a few new faces began to trickle in. From what I could tell, various members would report the comings and goings of the civilians that the gang had working as glorified slave labor. They also ventured randomly outside of the camp and went on scavenging trips throughout the neighborhood, but it didn’t happen often from what I gathered from the conversations. The club seemed to be living mainly off of the grocery store’s remains and the MREs the National Guard had brought in.
And of course, the trade items that civilians would bring in for a bit of one-on-one action with the women.
The club members that didn’t have enough clout to hang out inside the store and do drugs seemed to be less inebriated than the leaders. From what I gathered, they weren't full-on members yet, or had just recently joined and were trying to push up the ranks and acting like guards. Why they put up with this bullshit was beyond me, but I assumed it was about protection and food.
The general members also seemed to have to pay for their drugs and girls, mostly from scavenged items. But a part of their scavenged haul also had to go to the main camp. So, when they came in with a haul, they had to fork over a major portion, and then the remaining supplies had to be used for luxury trade. It seemed like a losing game on the part of the “have-nots” but they stuck around and they kissed ass. Especially when it came to Senior’s ass.
Most of the civilians and lower members of the club came in for the drugs. One did trade for a girl and I watched as a choice of four were brought out for his inspection. He picked his favorite and then moved on to one of the enclosed, tarp areas that were used for a community bunk.
I hoped they changed the sheets regularly.
For most of the evening it was only club members that entered the store, so I came to the conclusion that the civilians, what the bikers called cagers, weren’t allowed to roam free.
As the day wore on, a man in street clothes who didn’t wear the leather and patches that denoted a biker, entered the store. This was the first citizen that they actually allowed in and treated with respect. He hauled a large box to the office area and placed it on the floor at Senior’s feet.
“Got some good shit today,” the man said.
Senior rose from his seat and took the man into his office, giving him a resounding slap on the back as he hauled the box up again. They stayed in Senior’s office for at least an hour.
When they exited, Senior directed him to the back and told him he could have his pick of the room. Must have been something awesome in that box.
After this first man came and went, a few more trickled in looking for trades. They were from groups that lived close, but didn’t live within the base. Some would have goods that Senior wanted, others were sent away wanting. I stayed alert through the entire day. I noted that the guards on the door switched out every four hours and would make a beeline to the pile of white powder after their shift, as if this was their reward. I watched as the guards went on shift even if they had been drinking or doing drugs beforehand and they were often distracted by the girls or the partying of the other men.
From what I could tell, meth was the drug of choice and would keep them up and buzzed for hours, but they loved to chase it with alcohol and they were constantly popping pills to bring them down. I assumed they were Ambien, Oxy, or Valium to counter the pumped up effects of the meth and smooth out the comedown. These were professional drug users and Senior encouraged their habits as if to justify his own gluttonous using.
I played dumb and quiet.
When their eyes began to glaze over and the night grew long, the lamps were turned on high and Senior pulled me into his room.
This time, I didn’t laugh when his flaccid dick failed to react to my forced nudity. This time, I whimpered and played the helpless female. This time he didn’t hit me, he grabbed a bottle of bourbon and chugged it like it was water. He pumped his dick until finally he gave up and fell down next to me, passed out cold. For about an hour I lay awake, the tears streaming down my cheeks, freezing as I lay nude next to a man that was the epitome of what was wrong with humanity. I was afraid to move, afraid to wake him up, scared that he would rouse and this time he would be able to achieve an erection, or take it out on me again with his fists.
Every sound that penetrated the walls of the office had me flinching and I was nauseous from the smell of the man next to me and the pungent smell of liquor.
A strong handsome face flashed through my vision and all I could do was push it away, only to be replaced with another…forcing the tears to come harder. I couldn’t think about them. It would push me over the edge. I couldn’t even think their names. I would only think about them when I was making my way out of this shithole. I would call their names when I saw their faces in real life. When I felt their strong arms around me.
Not now
. Now I could only think about one thing: escape.
As Senior's snores got louder, I slipped out of bed and crawled around on the disgusting floor, pawing through dirty clothes and spilled drinks until I found his recent outfit and with it one of the knives he kept on him at all times. I also found the box that the man had brought in earlier. There were a few shotguns in it, and one handgun. I couldn’t take the risk of taking these tonight, but I could keep the knife. He wouldn’t notice the knife.
Hopefully
.
I wanted to go over to the bed, stand over him and plunge the blade into his throat, into his chest. I wanted to watch as it buried to the hilt in his flesh. But I didn’t. I slipped back into the bed and I placed the knife under the mattress, on my side. It was where I could reach it easily. It was there. It would be used soon. But not yet. Now I had to make a plan.
BLAKE
I was pumped and ready as we crossed the Orleans Canal on Harrison Avenue and turned the lights of the vehicles off, effectively sneaking into Lakeview. There were only a few blocks left to travel to get to the church. We didn’t want to take the main street, too conspicuous and we didn't know if the bikers were running patrols this far. We turned down Argonne Avenue and headed into the surrounding neighborhood streets.
Before Z the streets of Lakeview were a mess of potholes that could take out a vehicle with one misstep. Now, without maintenance, it was like off-roading. We slowly made our way through the dark streets, the monstrous houses that were once home to pretty little families, with 1.5 children, a dog and a big fat mortgage, stared down at us. Their lawns were overgrown, the gardens that were meticulously maintained before Z, with their boxwoods all perfectly aligned and trimmed, were now a mess of vines and tall grass, burnt and wilted from the hard winter.
Even in this darkness I could see the houses were being taken over by the fast-growing vines that crawled up the stucco, pushing through anything in its path. These hastily built houses would be piles of rubble in a few years. Mother Nature had a way of taking back the land.
We pulled into a parking lot and cut the engines off. I saw a flash of light in the window and the Major flashed his lights three times in answer. The door pushed open and everyone quickly exited the vehicles and made their way into the church.
I had become the Major’s point of contact for the group and he went straight for me and dragged me into the depths of the church without a backward glance for the rest of the team. He introduced me to people as we passed, but I couldn’t remember their names the moment they were out of my sight. He had a large group here. Finally, he had me standing in front of a female trooper and he introduced her as Trooper Tammi Ryan. She seemed to be the one in charge of the police, where Major was in charge of the Army. She also seemed to know more about the operation than the Major.
Typical Army
.
After our introductions were over, she broke it down, what they had learned about the abandoned refugee camp, its new leaders and the traffic that went in and out of there every day. They hadn’t gotten close enough to set up a permanent observation post, but they knew a little about their behaviors. It helped that she was also familiar with the MC from police investigations PreZ.
“We know there are about thirty of them that wear the patches of the gang. It’s the Southern Clan group that has been active in New Orleans since the 60s. Bunch of lowlifes, if you ask me,” Tammi said. “Racists, drug dealers and they don’t even try and act respectable like some of the other outlaw MCs.”
“Are they prior military?” I asked since most MCs are known to recruit from prior service members.
The first clubs were started by World War II veterans who couldn’t settle into normal civilian life.
“Some, but mostly the older members. The younger ones are usually just legacy, they wouldn’t know patriotism if it bit them on their asses. Granted, the President’s son did serve in the Army for two years, and I think they have one or two others that might be current Actives. It was a large group PreZ, but they’ve lost a lot of members.
Brandon Junior, the son, served one tour in Afghanistan and was given a dishonorable for selling drugs to his unit members. Nice piece of work, again. But he's got combat experience. We had full dossiers on him before the infection and this apocalypse seems to have brought out his leadership qualities.”
“Do you know how supplied they are?” I asked.
“No, we haven’t gotten that close. We had planned on sending in a few of the soldiers, dressed as survivors wanting to trade. They let in civilians, if they come for trade, especially if they have weapons or alcohol,” Tammi shared.
“We need to get close,
now
, there is no more time.”
“We shouldn’t rush these things. The more intel we have, the more of an impact we can make.”
“We’re not here to gather intel, we’re here to act. They took someone who is really important to me and I won’t stop until she’s safe. Right now there is no question that she’s being abused and I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, until I know she’s out of that hellhole.” Tammi was nodding at my diatribe, but she didn’t look convinced.
“A bit of information on their behaviors and patterns could mean the difference between a successful mission and a failure. Please, give us some time to assess and get their schedule down so we can strike at the most opportunistic moment.”
“The more time we waste, the more time they have with Alexis. I can’t allow that to happen. I would do anything to get her out of there,” I said emphatically, but Tammi wasn’t having it. She could understand my stance, or I hoped she could, but she wasn’t going to budge. She wasn’t going to sacrifice her men for my cause.
“I understand, but I can’t risk my men,” she said sadly.
“I’m not asking you to risk your people. We were going to do this, help or no help. This wouldn’t be the first time we went into a situation outnumbered.” I laughed, but there was no feeling to it. Most of the ops I had been involved in we were outnumbered and outgunned. But never out-trained. The men and women that were on our teams were the best of the best and Zach and I had recruited the same caliber of soldier for our company. We didn’t settle for a B-Team.