Rotting to the Core (Keep Your Crowbar Handy Book 2) (27 page)

One guard rolled his eyes and gave the writer
an understanding look. “Trust me, pal. I know exactly how you feel.
There's not enough Tabasco in the
world
to make that crap
taste good. Doug, get the shotgun and we'll pull the door. I think
the MREs can stay right where they are. Supply room's full of the
fuckin' things.”

“No need to close up. A friend of mine will
be taking it back out shortly,” Jake told them.

The men ignored him. A pair of them shut the
garage up, while the other two continued to watch him, weapons at
the ready. They'd just latched the steel door when a shaven-headed
man, clothed in what amounted to the Aryan Formal Dress Uniform,
strolled over from the office building next to the hydro-electric
plant. As the newcomer drew closer, Jake realized this had to be
Milo Tompkins. The skinhead wore a white t-shirt, fatigue pants
with suspenders (of course), along with Doc Martin jackboots like
the gate guards and the quartet watching him. Tompkins came to a
halt five yards away and crossed his arms.

“Name?”

“Jake O'Connor,” he replied, giving the guy a
closer look.

He was an ugly, harsh-featured man, who
looked like he'd been carved out of basalt. His cheekbones and brow
jutted sharply under his skin, as if it had somehow been pulled
tight over his features. A mask to hide what was contained beneath
the surface. At some point past, someone had taken a beer bottle to
Milo's head, leaving a long-healed crease of scar tissue. It began
just shy of his hairline and ran back over the top of his left ear.
He had a pair of swastika—one per arm—tattooed on each shoulder,
too. As if the wardrobe wasn't enough of a hint. Tompkins was the
same height as Jake, maybe a bit heavier around the waist (but not
by much), and he moved with the dangerous fluidity of someone used
to mixing it up on a regular basis. He also wore a belt with a
Walther P-38 in a polished leather holster, and a wicked looking
RAD dagger.

“You the one who set the fire?” Tompkins
demanded, motioning vaguely at the column of smoke rising from the
southwest.

“I needed a way in and didn't have time to
build a giant wooden horse.”

“Why didn't you just keep honking the horn on
that piece of shit you drove in and draw them off that way?”

“I wanted something visible. Zombies are
stupid.
That was sure to get their attention,” O'Connor
answered. “What? You think it’s going to bring down the property
value in the area or something?”

Tompkins' frown deepened. “How many people
did you have w—”

“Look, Milo. That is your name right?
Milo?”
The tattooed skinhead gazed at him levelly as Jake
interrupted and pointed at him with the end of his cigarette. “No
offense, but it's none of your damn business. Poole, you know, your
boss? He and I have an arrangement. My people aren't part of it,
and neither are you. So. Where is he?”

The skinhead's lip curled up in a cruel
sneer. “Heard you were a smart-ass. I think you and I need to have
a conversation,
real
soon, about your mouth. Like say, when
you should keep it closed. And like when someone who's got a whole
lot of armed men nearby asks you a question, maybe you should
answer it. Politely. If you don't want to get your ass kicked, that
is.”

“Why wait? I think that's a conversation I'd
like to have.” Jake dropped into a loose fighting stance.

Tompkins smiled, but didn't move forward and
merely waved at the guards. The quartet all chambered rounds and
pointed their various weapons unwaveringly at the writer.

“Oh, we'll have the opportunity to dance,”
Milo said, eyes seemingly sucking all the warmth from the hot July
morning around him. “But for now, I'll grant you your wish. Let's
get you in a room with Poole.”

* * *

Jake couldn't understand why they let him
keep his crowbar.

Granted, it wasn't much good against
semi-automatic firearms, but it was still a weapon. As Tompkins led
him through the main structure with the quartet of guards, he saw a
few men working on one of the smaller turbines, presumably trying
to get it up and working again. There were another three dozen in
what looked like the building's cafeteria eating, but that was
pretty much it.

They filed up to the fifth floor, entering a
row of executive offices after trooping up the stairs. Passing one
that stood open, the writer looked inside to see the only furniture
within was a fairly nice, queen size, pillow-top mattress set which
rested on the floor. There were a total of five more such offices
with nothing but beds inside, and he could easily imagine what they
were used for. Looking at the impromptu red light district
confirmed
exactly
what kind of lowlife Poole was, no matter
how placating his line of patter might have been on the radio.

When they reached the plant manager’s office,
Tompkins dismissed two of the guards and, opening the door,
directed O'Connor inside. Upon entering, the pair of sentries moved
to take position at each end of a large, industrial desk at the far
end of the room. Behind them stood a row of eight by ten windows
providing a view of the distant Cincinnati skyline. Dead center in
the windows, hanging from a copper wire and lag bolts that had been
screwed into the cinder blocks, was a large Nazi flag.

Jake discounted the view entirely. The flag,
the windows, the “I'm So Important” desk, they were all meant to
put someone in a defensive mindset. Unfortunately, for the
Purifier's leader, Jake had spent some time being shot at in
war-zones, interviewing people who—if given half a chance—would cut
his head off, and then ship it to the nearest American embassy
FedEx. He could care less about the man's intimidation tactics and
mind games.

William Poole was a rail-thin man, with shock
salt-dusted hair and a politician’s smile. He looked like he'd
spent a lot of time either in tanning beds or the Caribbean before
the dead rose in an attempt to consume the world, because he was
extremely
tan. Jake wondered how a man who looked like the
love child of Robert Plant and Howdy Doody had ended up in charge
of a racist, para-military organization.

“Ah, Jacob,” Poole said with a smile, his
teeth in sharp contrast with his sun-bronzed skin. “I wondered when
you'd arrive. I must say, you look exactly as she described
you.”

“That's nice.”

“Did you have any difficulty finding our
installation?” Poole asked.

The writer shook his head.

Poole sighed. “Jacob, I don't believe there's
any need for the two of us to be hostile to one another. I
understand your feelings about us holding your friends at the
sewage plant before. I even understand your reaction. But neither
of us have the ability to change our current situation, so we are
forced to make the best of it.”

Jake pulled a cigarette out of the pack in
his hip pocket and lit up, as the Purifier's leader rattled on and
on about '
cooperation'
and '
beneficial working
relationships'
. It wasn't until O'Connor began blowing smoke
rings, that the pale-haired man noticed he was gazing out the
window at the city's distant skyline.

Poole raised an eyebrow and asked, “Is there
something wrong?”

“Just wondering when you're going to realize
I'm not
working with you,
or
adding to the overall
survival
of your group,
or telling you one damn thing
for that matter,” he said, causing Tompkins to frown darkly. “At
least, not until I watch Karen drive my Hummer out of this fucking
rape camp
you've got going here.”

The Purifier's leader tilted his head
slightly. “Your opinion of our stronghold is a bit inaccurate.
We're—”

“Cut the shit, Poole. I spent more time in
second and third world countries than I'll ever be comfortable
thinking about before all this happened. I've seen brothels
before.” The writer came forward to lean his hands on the hardwood
surface of the desk. The sentries began to raise their weapons, but
Poole waved them off.

“We made a deal. I turn myself over, you let
Karen go. Don't think for a hot
second
I’m going to take
your word for it, either. I'm going to
talk
to her, I'm
going to
walk
her to the Hummer, and I'm going to
watch
her drive out through your gate. Right now. In chains,
if that will make you feel better.” Jake stood upright once more,
stuck the American Spirit between his lips, and tried to give Poole
a fair imitation of Foster's, squinty-eyed,
Stop-Me-Before-I-Kill-Again maniacal glare. “One more thing. If any
of your men have
taken liberties
with her, shall we say? If
I find out they couldn't keep their dicks in their pants, or
they've so much as pinched he ass... You and I are
going
to
have a serious problem.”

That didn't make Tompkins very happy. He
broke off scowling at Jake and glanced at his boss.

“Milo? If you would take Jacob to one of the
offices and bring our guest. I'm sure he'll be overjoyed to see
her. Afterwards, gather the men. I'll address them in two hours,
right before we release Miss Parker.” He smiled at the writer.
“Would that be acceptable? Just so no one gets rambunctious and
starts something?”

“Fine.” Jake was a little surprised. It was
seldom an utter scumbag like Poole would actually keep his word,
but he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Enjoy your reunion then. One more thing,
though. I hope you understand we'll have to secure you until
later?” The guard to the right of the desk produced a pair of
handcuffs at Poole's nod. “Milo will take you into the room
outside, and we'll provide the two of you some privacy until our
men have gathered.”

Jake shrugged and followed the other
Purifiers into the hallway with Tompkins. They led him into the
last office on the right, cuffed his hands behind his back, and
left him sitting on the queen-sized bed with his thoughts. He'd
expected Poole's skinhead subordinate to take a couple of shots at
him, but Tompkins just smirked when they'd shut him inside.

“Well. This worked out just
great
,”
Jake grumbled to himself.

One of the other guards
had
been nice
enough to rest his crowbar, still in the sheath, against the wall
next to the door before they locked him in though. At least he
wouldn't have to try to lie down while wearing the thing.

Minutes later, the door unlatched again and a
Purifier stepped to one side as it swung open. “We'll be just next
door,” he called over his shoulder into the hallway.

Relief washed over O'Connor and he began
getting to his feet from where he sat on the mattress. “Karen?
Don't worry. They're going to let you go. I made a deal so—”

“Well, you know what they say about
deals.”

Nichole strolled in and pulled the door
shut.

Jake's stomach dropped, heading for China by
was of the center of the earth.

The blonde woman's smile was touched with
madness as it bloomed across her face. “Always read the fine
print.”

“Nichole,” Jake said coldly, testing the
cuffs that secured his hands behind his back. Nope, still solid and
still locked. “You know, I'd like to say I'm surprised to find you
here, getting friendly with the slime of humanity, but I'm really
not.”

“You always did have a way with words,” his
ex-girlfriend laughed and flipped her hair away from her face.
She'd taken to wearing it longer—almost down to her waist—as Laurel
used to.

She was dressed in the Purifier uniform of
the day. White (and
extremely
tight) t-shirt, camouflaged
pants, the works. The difference was, Nichole actually made
suspenders look erotic. Her breasts pushed them to the side so they
ran over her ribs, as opposed to down the front of her flat
stomach. The outfit left an inch or two of her waist exposed and he
could tell she'd been emulating Poole in his worship of the sun.
Also, instead of Doc Martins, she'd picked up a pair of Gucci
equestrian, riding boots from somewhere. She looked healthy and
sexy, like a post-apocalyptic, pole dancer. Which, when he thought
about it, was
exactly
what she was. But she still repulsed
him beyond words.

Jake looked at her in disgust. “I see you
finally found your niche. Helping an asshole like Poole. That's
revolting. You know that right?”

The blonde-haired woman laughed delightedly,
putting her hands on her hips and sauntering closer. “Please! Who
said I was with
Poole
? He's a fossil.”

“Oh. Tompkins huh?” Jake rolled his eyes.
“Yeah,
that's
a step up on the social ladder. The guy who
does the boss-man's dirty work. Let me guess: you hooked up with
him at the airport, in Columbus.”

She looked amused as she walked to the bed
and sat down caddy-corner to his position. “
Very
good, Jake.
Now let's see if you can figure out the rest.”

He considered it for a minute. “After we
booted your nasty ass out along with Mike Barron for attempting to
pull that twisted shit with Karen, the two of you—being a pair of
morons—went north on the 270 interchange. You made it all of what,
four miles? Before figuring out the freeway was a shitty idea and
turned off at the airport.”

Nichole's head bobbed up and down. “I knew
there was
someone
in there, from the story you told
everybody about you being shot at during your little motorcycle
trip. It wasn't that hard to figure out which building they'd taken
over, either. All we had to do is drive by once, while I flashed my
boobs.”

“Classy,” Jake told her, “and exactly what
I'd expect from you.”

“Milo and some of the others came out and
took us inside. I realized pretty quickly where the power
really
was in the group, but Poole's into meat-pipe, so I
hooked up with Milo.”