The man moved out of the doorway, and two others came in, each with a semi-automatic rifle strapped over their shoulders. They stood on either side of Jon, and one of the men took the hatchet and bat off of his back. He checked Jon for other weapons, found the gun and the knife on his waist, and took those. Then, Jon grimaced as the men grabbed him under the arms while the man in the door kept his gun fixed on him. One of the men accidentally brushed against his bite wound, and Jon gritted his teeth. He couldn’t let them know he’d been bitten because they’d waste no time killing him.
His prediction about how many people there were had been accurate. There were half-a-dozen, only one of them being a woman. They all wore leather jackets or vests, and Jon noticed patches on their chests, though he couldn’t make out what they said.
As they dragged Jon out into the kitchen, he saw the devastation the people had caused. Fresh blood had sprayed all over the room, and zombie corpses covered the floor. He almost tripped over a couple of them as the two men dragged him through the kitchen. The others continued talking in Spanish, but the men led Jon on out of the kitchen.
They took him down the familiar path by which he and his friends had gotten back to the kitchen, heading through the recreational area and out into Block A. More fresh zombie corpses lay on the ground, and he passed another couple of Hispanics wearing leather vests similar to the others he’d seen. He caught a closer glimpse of one of them, seeing a large skull patch covering the back. The skull had wings on either side of it and two wrenches forming an X in the background. Across the top read the words: Los Muertos. It definitely looked like the sort of patch you’d see for a motorcycle gang.
They arrived at the front door of the prison and pushed it open. The afternoon sun shined right down onto them, and Jon closed his eyes and turned his head, unable to use his hands to shield them. It only took a few moments for his eyes to adjust, and then he looked around with only a few blotches in his vision.
All of the zombies were gone. Jon wasn’t sure if his friends had taken care of the rest of them after exiting the prison or if these bikers had done it before coming in. But he definitely noticed more corpses lying on the ground than when he’d first gone into the prison.
The two men led him through the front gate. More than half-a-dozen motorcycles sat parked next to a black van. Two bikers stood next to a familiar one.
It was Jon’s.
“That’s my bike,” he said.
The men ignored him. One of them let go of him and opened the van. He went inside, appearing again several moments later with some rope. The biker still holding Jon pushed him up against the van, and Jon barely got his arm up to keep himself from slamming his teeth into the metal siding.
He didn’t fight as the men bound his arms together by the wrists. He’d seen how many of these bikers were in the prison and how well they were armed. If they’d wanted to kill him by now, they could have. And he wasn’t going to do anything stupid like fighting them.
One of the men spun him around, and Jon glanced at his bike again. A scrawny biker sat on it now, pissing him off. But as the man started the cruiser, the two bikers holding Jon took him by his clothes and launched him into the van. He landed on his bad arm, grimacing and trying not to yell out. He gritted his teeth and turned himself over to take the pressure off.
As he looked outside, he saw that one of the men stood in the doorway.
“Keep your mouth shut,” he said, confirming that at least some of these assholes spoke more than Spanish. “We’ll head out soon. Don’t try anything.” Then, he slid the door shut.
Jon worked his hands to see how well they’d tied the knots. Still, he planned on heeding the biker’s advice and not doing anything that might make them shoot him.
4
Malcolm sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor, wearing only his underwear and staring at the wall in front of him. The stark-white wall had once been covered with religious paraphernalia, but he’d taken it down when he’d moved into the church. Malcolm had left the wall blank and dubbed it his meditation wall. For years, he had seen the value in meditation and had made it a daily practice, but he did not like to close his eyes. He found that meditation worked best for him with his eyes open, focusing on a blank space. It better allowed for his busy mind not to wander.
That mind had immense trouble not wandering now. Even while he only stared at the blank wall without closing his eyes, Malcolm saw Judah’s face. And it wasn’t the handsome face of the man he’d once loved. Instead, it was the charred remains of something he still refused to believe had been Judah.
Malcolm thought about the last time they’d been together. As they’d lain together in the bed near where Malcolm currently sat meditating, he’d encouraged Judah to abandon the Vultures’ camp and come live with him at the church. Judah had at first laughed off the idea.
“No one can know we’re together,” Judah had said.
“But I’m tired of hiding.”
“Me, too. But the Vultures aren’t going to follow a faggot.”
“Don’t use that word,” Malcolm had said, growing frustrated. “And they will follow you if I tell them to. Anyone who doesn’t, we’ll make an example of them. We’ll burn them at the stake in front of the Vultures and all the people of Black Hill.”
Judah had rubbed Malcolm’s face then. “You know it’s not that simple.”
Taking the man’s hand, he’d kissed it. “It could be that simple.”
“All we need is time,” Judah had said. “Let me use the Vultures to gather enough resources to last us a while. Then, I’ll leave them and come live here with you.”
But time was something Judah had not had. And it had all been because of one man.
Bringing his mind back to the present, Malcolm drew several deep breaths. Nothing calmed him down. Reaching under his shirt, he took hold of the pendulum and squeezed it tight. Even that did nothing. He looked down at his hand and saw the gold and silver rings that had been taken off Judah’s corpse. Closing his eyes, he tried to breathe more deeply, but he felt hot. He pushed the table sitting beside him, knocking it over and dumping a cup of water and an unlit candle onto the floor. A knock then came at the door.
“What?” Malcolm spat.
“I’m sorry,” Bryce said from the other side of the door. “But it’s important.”
Malcolm stood, grabbing his silk robe off the bed and slipping into it. He tied it up, covering his near-naked body as he paced over to the door. He swung it open with his nostrils flaring as he looked at Bryce. He said nothing.
Bryce stood in the doorway, sweat on his brow. “I’m sorry, but this couldn’t wait.”
“You already apologized. Quit wasting my time and come in.”
Malcolm turned away from Bryce and stepped all the way back into the room. He walked over to a table on the far wall where he kept his liquor. The stuff was like gold now, so he didn’t go into it often, but he needed a drink. He poured himself a glass of scotch, not offering any to Bryce. Taking the first sip, he felt the liquid burn in his chest. It calmed him some, but he still felt a sense of anxiety boiling in him.
He faced Bryce again. The man had entered, and was looking to his right. Malcolm followed his gaze to the flipped-over table and things lying on the ground.
Bryce cleared his throat and fumbled before finally speaking. “We just got done talking to the prisoners.”
“And?”
“The Mexican and the black guy seemed to know something, but wouldn’t budge. Not even with Bennett beating them both pretty hard. But the woman, we did get something out of her about the Savage.”
Malcolm raised an eyebrow, taking another sip from his scotch. He waited for Bryce to expand, but the man hesitated; he was fidgeting with his hands, unable to stay still.
“What did she say?” the Freedom Ridge leader finally prompted.
Bryce swallowed. “She says he’s dead.”
Malcolm gripped his glass harder. “Did she say how
?”
“She said he got attacked by zombies.”
Malcolm scoffed, taking a big sip of the scotch. “It’s a lie. That man wouldn’t die that easily.”
“That’s what Bennett said to her.” Bryce took a couple of steps forward. “But I don’t know, Malcolm. She seemed pretty sincere.”
Turning his attention toward the blank wall, Malcolm considered the idea that the Savage could be dead. It would be a shame if he was. It was the fate he’d wanted for the man who’d killed Judah, but a zombie attack was too easy a death for him. Malcolm had wanted to watch the man die himself. He hoped there’d still be a chance for that.
“Where is the girl now?” Malcolm asked.
“We’ve got her in a room over at the old rec center.”
Tipping the glass to his mouth, Malcolm downed the rest of the scotch. He then turned and set the glass down on the table. “I’ll go talk to her myself,” Malcolm said.
“She seems pretty shaken up,” Bryce said. “I’m not sure Bennett’s approach is the best to deal with these people. You might want to give her—“
“Let the guards know I’ll be on my way soon,” Malcolm said, cutting off his second-in-command.
After a brief moment of silence, Bryce said, “Yes, sir.” He then exited the room, shutting the door behind him.
Malcolm leaned on the table and closed his eyes.
He would get the truth out of the woman.
5
Since the panel van had no windows, Jon couldn’t see where the bikers were taking him. A man occupied the passenger seat, occasionally glancing back to check on Jon. The man held his gun where Jon could see it, reminding him that he had it. When he wasn’t checking on Jon, he spoke in Spanish with the driver, laughing and carrying on a casual conversation. Jon didn’t bother to try to make out what they were saying other than catching a word here and there.
Outside, Jon could hear the roars of the motorcycles he’d seen parked outside. He assumed one of them was his bike. As much as it had pissed him off to see someone sitting on it, Jon wasn’t going to do anything. Jon had expected to be dead by now. If the bikers decided to kill Jon, then so be it. They’d be doing him a favor. Maybe once they got to where they were going, he’d even do something to try to encourage it. But for now, he was more curious as to why they’d bothered taking him away from the prison. They could have either left him there to rot or put a bullet in him just as easily.
After about twenty minutes, the van slowed. The bikers revved their engines, startling him and making him wish he could cover his ears. Soon, the van came to a complete stop. And, one by one, the engines outside shut off. The two men up front unloaded from the van, and another gang member slid the panel door open.
“Out,” the man who’d opened the door said.
Jon shifted onto his back to squirm his way out. But after only a couple of seconds, the large Hispanic man in the doorway grabbed Jon by his ankles and pulled. Jon’s hands dragged against the floor of the van, and more than that, the zombie bite on his arm did. He couldn’t hold back from crying out from the pain this time.
When he was at the edge, his feet hanging over the side of the van, the large man grabbed him by his shirt and pulled Jon up to standing.
Jon tried to shake off the pain from his bite wound with his eyes closed and head bowed. The bite throbbed, almost like it had its own heartbeat. He bit his lip, forcing himself to finally look up.
He found himself surrounded by the bikers. Most of them were men, though there were a couple of women. All of them were Hispanic, displaying the skull patch of Los Muertos, their club’s apparent name.
A nearby sign read Hickory Campgrounds. There were signs for mountain trails scattered around, and some trees shaded the area. A wide-open space in front of him had several tents set up on it. All of the motorcycles sat parked in a line.
The two men who’d taken Jon out of the prison took hold of his arms again and led him forward. The rest of the bikers cleared a path, but didn’t take their eyes off Jon as he passed by. There were at least fifteen people in the gang. They took him to one of the tents and stopped several feet from it.
One of the men holding Jon whistled, and within moments, a man stepped out of the tent.
He wore a faded leather vest over a blue plaid shirt. His black hair was slicked back into a ponytail, and he had a thin mustache on top of his lip and a goatee that came down to a point, giving the man a demonic appearance. Jon also noticed the two patches on either side of his chest. On the right side, the patch read: President. On the left: Enzo.
Enzo looked Jon up and down. He came within only a few feet of him, but said nothing. Then, he looked over at one of the men holding him.
“¿De donde vino el?” Enzo asked.
“La prisión,” the man replied.
Enzo groaned and looked past Jon. Jon could hear someone walking up from behind him, and then out of the corner of his eye, he saw a motorcycle. He glanced over and saw his own bike, the man who’d ridden it there standing with it.
Approaching the bike, Enzo stroked its body with his hand before sitting down on it. Jon swallowed. Enzo bounced up and down for a moment, getting a feel for the motorcycle before stepping off the bike. Then, he made his way back over to Jon.
“This yours?” he asked, speaking clear English, though with a strong Latino accent.
“Yeah,” Jon said, “it’s mine.”
“It’s a nice ride. Where’d you get it?”
“You wanna cut the shit and tell me what the hell I’m doing here?”
One of the bikers lifted his hand to backslap Jon, but Enzo put his own hand up to stop him. The disgruntled biker exhaled and put his hand back down. Enzo smiled.
“My boys say they found you in the prison, just sitting in the pantry near the kitchen. That true?”
Jon didn’t say anything, but Enzo continued anyway.
“You couldn’t have been there long because they also said they saw some freshly slain infected in there. Not just inside the prison, but outside of it. No way you could’ve done all that yourself, ese. Am I right?”
Again, Jon said nothing.
The man who’d almost slapped Jon said, “You speak when spoken to.” He punched Jon in the left arm, right where his bite wound was.
Caught unprepared, Jon yelled out and grabbed the wound out of instinct. Enzo’s brow furrowed.
“You hurt?”
“No,” Jon said, spitting through the pain. “He just hit me in a weird spot.”
Enzo raised an eyebrow, and then looked at his men surrounding Jon. “Quitale la camisa.”
Men on either side of Jon took him by his arms, and he tried to fight it. Another biker came around and started unbuttoning Jon’s shirt.
“Fucking let go of me!” Jon demanded.
He kicked at the man in front of him, catching him in the knee. The man grimaced, and then punched Jon in the mouth.
The impact rocked Jon, dazing him. It was enough for the man to grab the top of Jon’s shirt and rip it down the middle, undoing all of the buttons at once.
Jon tasted blood in his mouth, and he didn’t fight as the men holding him pulled his shirt off. When they let go of him, he fell to his knees.
As he was spitting blood, he heard the gasps followed by the clicks.
When Jon looked up, nearly a dozen bikers surrounded him, each with a gun pointed at him. He looked down at his arm, noticing the bandage had come off during the struggle to take his shirt off. His bite was exposed, black and purple, with a couple of puss pockets on the surface. Jon bit his lip and clenched his eyes shut.
“Shit.”
6
Jon scanned the faces of the bikers, noting their guns fixed on him. None of them appeared threatened by him. And considering by how much they outnumbered him, there was no reason for them to be. Especially since he’d raised his hands and signaled to them that he wasn’t a threat. Their faces only showed anger. Jon had seen what they’d done to the zom
bies inside the prison. These people knew how to handle the infected, and they wouldn’t hesitate to put down a human on the verge of turning.
But none of them had pulled their trigger.
He remained on his knees, careful not to make any sudden movements. He said nothing. Jon knew that, at any moment, one of these people could decide to end his life. They didn’t know him, and they owed him nothing.
That moment didn’t come. Instead, Enzo stepped forward.
“Get on your feet.”
Keeping his eyes fixed on the man standing before him and trying to forget about the dozen guns aimed at him, Jon stood. As was his instinct, he kept his arms in the air to signal he wouldn’t try anything. The bikers had taken his weapons away from him anyway.
Enzo stepped slightly to his right, to where he could get a better view of the wound on Jon’s arm. He took Jon by the wrist and flipped his arm over so that he could better see the bite. The Los Muertos leader took a moment to study it, moving his head within only a few inches of it.
“When did this happen?” he asked without taking his eyes off the bite mark.
When Jon didn’t answer, Enzo looked up at him. He let go of Jon’s arm and stood up straight, staring right into Jon’s face.
“If I wanted you to be dead, you already would be. Understand, ese? So, I suggest you cut the tough guy bullshit and answer my goddamn question.”
Jon hesitated before finally giving in. “A couple days ago.”
A few of the men started speaking in Spanish, but Enzo held up his hand to silence them. “And how are you feeling now?”
“Right now, in this moment?” Jon glanced around at the guns still fixed at him. “Not too fucking good if I’m completely honest.”
Enzo sighed. “This is the last time I’m gonna ask you to quit bullshitting and give me straight answers to my questions.”
“I’m feeling fine,” Jon spat through his teeth. “Other than being thirsty and hungry. This thing on my arm hurts, but I feel alright, otherwise.”
Dead South | Book 3 | Dead Hope Page 2