by Chuck Rogers
The best undercover is not being undercover at all.
You find a member of the community, get leverage on them, turn the screws and turn them against their own.
That's what the Federal fucking Bureau of Investigation did to me.
That's another story.
Though sometimes? You have to send someone in, and then best undercover operative is someone who already knows the community.
I was infiltrating assholes of the apocalypse that'd seen too many Mad Max movies. I was trailer trash who'd been a full-patch member in a club already and done a nickel in Leavenworth.
Oh, I talked the talk and walked the walk.
Their biggest problem with me as an opponent was that they weren't a typical gang or club or cartel. They were new, and didn't have a specific ethnicity or have their own language or culture. The sign over the door seemed to read STRANGERS OF EQUAL ASSHOLINESS WELCOME. There was no way for them to do a background check or expect me to have a sponsor. If they had an initiation I suspected I could do it blindfolded.
Not to toot my own horn, but I was big, bad, bold and had bear scars on my face. I could ride, shoot straight, speak the truth when I had to, and putting foot-to-ass was not just a skill-set, it was how I made a living.
If Ged didn't want a hundred of me in assorted colors then there was something wrong with his club.
And if our boy Ged had some kind of end of the world, cult of personality thing going on? My people were Pentecostals when we weren't on the rez.
I could do that old time, rock-and-roll religion gig blindfolded, too.
I'd spent the night in an empty cabin and it had taken me an hour to find my way out of the canyons and onto the freeway. I painstakingly made a map and then memorized it so I could find that police station again.
The Ventura was empty. The few vehicles on it were abandoned. To my right the Westlake golf course was beautifully green, slightly overgrown and devoid of duffers. To the left was a big section of burn.
That's when I hit the speed bump.
Abandoned cars had been put to work. They'd been spaced in alternating pairs making a one-lane path on both the north and south sides. They were wide enough to run a truck through but even a motorcycle would have to slow way down and serpentine through it. This went on for about a hundred meters. Any attempt to pull a Mad Max and ram on through would cause a massive logjam.
It was well thought out, and watched over by the guns on the Lindero Bridge overpass.
They'd heard Bobby McGee's pipes long before I hit the slow-down. Two pick-ups mounting machine guns in the beds trained on me. A good twenty men pointed rifles through the chain link. I was pretty sure this was the Northern SOG line. I wove my way through the slow-down like I didn't have a care in the world. Container boxes blocked both sides of the freeway beneath the bridge. Both sides had your standard post-apocalyptic rolling gate consisting of a bus with hillbilly armor welded to the sides with firing ports cut in the windows.
The biggest, fattest black man I had ever seen outside of a professional wrestling ring rolled out wearing SOG colors. He had the biggest, fucked up Afro I had seen maybe ever. He carried an M60 belt-fed machine gun crooked in one elbow like he was going duck hunting. He actually held up a red, crossing guard STOP sign.
I stopped about seven meters away and killed my engine.
We looked at each other.
I said "Howdy."
He said "Hi."
I looked at his vest. It bore the incredulous road name CHUCK.
Chuck took in the sight of me sitting on café racer Sportster.
"I like your bike."
I grinned delightedly. "That's what I told the guy I took it from!"
That got a smile. He took in my muddy, bloody, battered appearance. "Where you headed to?"
I shrugged. "Mostly away from where I was."
Chuck nodded at the sagacity of the statement. "Not so many folks heading south on this stretch of the 101."
"It is a bit empty."
Then Chuck gave me a real hard look. I'd fucked up, and I knew my patter had gone pass/fail. His big, beautiful brown eyes went hard. "So, where'd you come out of?"
I told my big fat lie.
"Bodega Bay."
Chuck blinked. "Where's that?"
"North of San Francisco."
Chuck gave my ride another very dry look. "On that?"
"Naw, on a yacht." I jerked my thumb towards the coast. "I took the bike in some shit hole canyon back that way."
Chuck looked back at the container vessel that served as the checkpoint shack. "We got a live one!"
Some assholes up on the bridge whooped.
I didn't know whether this was a positive development or not.
A guy as big as me came out of the shack.
I kept it off my face but it was the carrot-top, hammerhead from the Malibou Lake response force. He was flanked by about four members and half a dozen guys armed but not wearing colors.
Hammerhead looked me up and down.
I said "Howdy."
He didn't say "Hi."
Up close he stank military. Operator quality.
I kept smiling. "You must be that Ged fella I've heard so much about."
He kept not smiling. "The road to Ged is long, hard, fraught with danger, and lies through me."
That was Shakespearean. He looked on me with serviceable Marshal Miles disdain. Except Miles kept his contempt jovial. This fucker was cold.
"What do you want?"
"My piece of what remains."
Some of the troops made pleased noises.
"So you've heard of us." He still wasn't smiling. "How?"
"I was accused of being one of you."
I detected a spark of interest. "Now who would go and do a thing like that?"
I slowly reached into my pocket. Guns trained on me right quick. I ignored them and held up Larry's golden, seven-pointed star of the California Highway Patrol. "One of these assholes."
Chuck was pleased. "Aw, yeah!"
I reached back to my saddlebag.
A pony-tailed asshole that looked like a one size down, smaller, rangier version of me who might be a Human Being pumped his shotgun. "Real slow."
I raised Larry's duty belt by the buckle like I was holding up a snake by the head. The rig included Larry's holstered handcuffs, Taser, (that I'd reloaded), folding baton, pepper spray, Smith & Wesson M & P40 service pistol and four spare magazines. A few eyes widened. I let go of the buckle and the duty belt clattered back into the saddlebag. "Can you believe the asshole was gonna hang me?"
Hammerhead gave me a real hard look. "You got away from the Hangman?"
"Who?"
"Roman Miles, US Deputy Marshal. The past's last judge, jury and executioner in these mountains."
"Naw, it was some asshole named Larry."
The Human Being with the kidney buster lifted his chin at me. "Did you kill him?"
"No, but I peed on him."
Several Gedheads snorted in amusement.
"After I broke his arm, busted his skull and choked him out."
Hammerhead still wasn't smiling. "And you escaped? Just like that?"
I shrugged. I hadn't looked in the mirror lately but I was covered in mud and blood and the left side of my face was painfully swollen. "It's been a rough couple of days."
Ponytail smiled. "Aw, c'mon Marrs. He's got potential, and even if he doesn't pass inspection, I say Ged will want to meet him."
"Dunno, Horse," Marrs shook his head. "I don't think I like him."
Thanks, Horse. Human Beings represent.
And you? Marrs? Fuck you, too, ginger.
Then again, Marrs had law enforcement in the hills rolling Mad Max patrol cars, and he'd just lost six full-patch members and six minions by my hand. Not liking people was probably part of his job description, and if you were born with a nose or had earned one the hard way?
I gave off interesting smells.
Horse casually made
the Native hand sign for Human Being and he did it in question. I signed back my tribe and friend. He signed Cherokee and I was relieved when he friended me back.
Some of my people have had problems with them, but me?
I always liked Cherokee.
Very good fry-bread.
"What the fuck, Horse!" A big, bald, raw-boned, mutton-chopped guy threw up his hands. "He ain't deaf!"
Horse and I amused each other by simultaneously giving the hand sign for white man with the non-complimentary flourish.
Marrs still wasn't amused. "You two done?"
I shrugged. "Listen, I can't go back. I got the heat behind me and there's nothing on the coast. I don't want trouble. Can I just pass? You can give the star to Ged with my compliments."
"No one just passes. You find yourself before True Sons. You either stand as a prospect, kneel as a slave or lay in the past with the dead."
Jesus-fucking-Christ.
This guy.
"Fuck it, I sponsor him." Horse raised his hand. "Provisional."
Thank you, Horse.
Horse kept his hand raised and looked around. "Can I get a second?"
"I second it!" An Italian looking guy who might have been 5'5" if he stood tiptoe but looked to be two hundred pounds of freaky gym-muscle raised his hand. "Provisional!"
"Horse and Franco sponsor, provisional!"
Thank you, Franco.
Franco grinned at me. "I wanna hear what happened to his face!"
Marrs raised both hands. "Do true sons or daughters gainsay?"
Gainsay?
The Sons of Ged were serious about their verbiage.
Said it before. Not tooting my own horn, but I was walking with some pretty big wampum.
I was mostly getting approving nods and looks all around.
"Provisional. Franco, Horse, your responsibility."
Franco and Horse spoke in unison.
"Ged shall judge us by our choices. We have chosen."
Jesus.
"Hood him. Put him in the truck. Take him with the other newbies to A-camp."
* * *
"TURN YOUR HEAD AND COUGH."
I stood naked in a military general purpose tent in what appeared to be a park with seven other provisionals. All the tent walls were rolled up so members and prospects hooted and catcalled in passing or hung around to make disparaging remarks. There was one girl among us newbies and she was getting all kinds of attention.
I coughed for the doctor.
The doctor was Indian from India, pretty, and had a black eye and split lip. She wore a white lab coat and a kitchen apron with a lot of bloodstains on it. "What happened to your face?"
"I got in a fight with a bear."
This got everyone's attention.
The doctor let go of my balls. "You fought a bear."
"It was trying to fuck me."
The good doctor blinked.
I shrugged. "He burned, turned, and came into my house. It went hand-to-hand."
This got a few "Jesus!" and "Holy shits!"
The good doctor turned to the tent's reigning overlord. You couldn't have asked for more stereotypical hatchet-faced, wiry, greasy, red-necked shitbag.
The road name on his vest read DICKIE
Of course it did.
"He's not ruptured. He's not diseased. He's not burned. He's been beaten rather badly but he's fit."
"So did it?"
"Did it what?"
"Did the bear fuck him?"
The doctor made a face.
I grinned. "Want to come over and have a look?"
Smooth move, Frame-o.
Dickie got all red in the face.
The good doctor got scared.
"Permission to issue OTC's."
"Fuck him."
"Permission to issue ice?"
"Fuck him."
God damn little-man disease.
Horse and Franco rolled their eyes and shook their heads, but I wasn't getting any meds.
Dickie leered. "And I want the necklace."
"Oh fuck you, Dickie." Horse scowled. "That's a personal and a non-value."
"I don't give a shit if it's a personal. It's mine." Dickie pointed his dirty little inbred-Jed finger at me. "He's provisional. I can take anything I want. I can take his ass if I want."
We had everyone's attention.
I just wasn't backing down from Dickie today.
"Dickie?"
"You don't get to call me that! You ain't fuckin' earned it!"
"You want a necklace?" I tapped the bear scars on my face. "You gotta earn it."
Dickie glared.
"You want my ass?" I turned and tapped those scars. "You gotta earn that, too."
Horse whooped. "Fuckin-ay, Frame!"
Dickie scowled at me. "Fuck you, asshole."
Franco shot Dickie a pure, muscle-bound Italian look of disgust. "Fuck's sake, Dickie. Guy fought a fucking bear. You want his trophy? Go ahead. Take it. Wear it around camp. See what that gets you. And him, you think this ginormous fuckface ain't gonna make member? You think he won't want it back when he does? You think he's going to fucking ask you nice?"
Bless your heart, Franco.
Though, really? Fuckface? You too?
"Dickie?" Horse smiled unpleasantly. "He's going to tell you to bring his trophy and your scrawny ass to Fight Night, and every last true son and daughter will pay good spoils to see that."
The assembled murmured in agreement.
I decided to throw Dickie a bone. He was a made man after all. Though God only knew why. "The claws I earned. The medal is all I have left of my girl. With your permission I'd like to keep them."
"I don't give a shit about your old lady." Dickie suddenly spoke with conviction. "I am a true son of Ged. We don't look to the past. We go forward. What remains is ours."
Every Ged within hearing distance turned and spoke at the same.
"We go forward. What remains is ours."
That was creepy.
"Keep your fucking claws." Dickie stomped away. "I was just fucking with you."
Did I mention I fuck everything up?
"What's his claim to fame again?"
Next thing I know Franco is all up in my face, shoulders and lats spread like a cobra in full Animal Planet threat gesture. He had to tilt his head all the way up to do it but he mad-dogged me hard. "He's a fucking member and your not, provo. That's all you need to know."
"Sorry, I didn't--"
"Horse? You wanna explain some ground rules to this fuckface?"
Franco stomped away.
The doctor turned her attention to the big naked girl with blonde hair in cornrows, a broken nose and an impressive physique. I think I might have seen her on a local MMA card.
Horse clapped me on the shoulder. "Listen, Frame. Me and Franco sponsored you, but you are on your own. This is sink or swim shit for you, and if you sink it reflects on us. You gotta—what the fuck? Oh shit, eyes front, asshole! You've been assigned."
My jaw dropped as Del walked into the tent.
Del, most likely Delilah. Same fringed leather jacket. Same .45 and same gigantic Bowie knife. Same face and hair and everything.
Del as in I'd killed this woman, Del.
I had blown off everything above her tonsils with a 40mm anti-personnel round.
I admit it. I was shocked, and the naked, bruised and beaten provo Frame eye-balled her.
Her eyes flared in rage.
"What is your problem, fuckface?"
Same potty mouth.
And why does everyone in the new world keep calling me fuckface?
She stormed up to me in full biker Valkyrie bitch of the apocalypse mode.
"Are you eye-balling me?"
I eyeballed her and read her road name patch.
DEZ
Desiree? Penny had mentioned sisters. They were twins? I snapped to Marine Corps attention. "I--"
Dez snap-kicked me in the nuts.
Snake strike fast. Fast
as her sister. Fast like in Chinese Kung Fu they call it a 'no shadow kick.'
I tasted tinfoil behind my teeth and the world went white. I dropped and lost my last meal all over her boots as the world went kaleidoscope around the edges darkness.
Everyone in the tent except the doctor and the other provisionals roared.
Apparently your humble narrator taking it in the nuts and upchucking was the height of Gedhead humor.
These member bitches were fast.
Fuck that.
They were sudden.
I hoped to God they weren't sextuplets.
The tent went quiet as I summoned every last ounce of will and reeled up to my feet.
I swayed at attention with puke on my chin.
Dez nodded. She was impressed. "You got anything to say to me, fuckface?"
"Thank you, ma'am. May I have another one?"
Every member and prospect roared.
Dez snap-kicked me again.
Bitch!
I dropped fetal and dry-heaved at her feet.
"I fucking own you."
God . . . damn it . . .
No, fuck you, Dez.
I blew your sister's head off and girls only pick on boys they like.
And I can tell.
You like me.
* * *
I WAS PRONOUNCED NON-RUPTURED for the second time that day, issued Tylenol and ice for my balls and allowed to go to bed early. My rack was a couple of blankets and the ground. I missed dinner and I was walking with a limp the next morning. Good news was I wasn't peeing blood. I was allowed to keep my boots and necklace, but like the other provisionals I was issued a Barney the Dinosaur purple sweatshirt and pants. The shirt was XXL and that was nice but it had a hole no one had bothered to patch with a big, suspicious stain over the heart and a matching exit hole and stain in the back.
There were a lot of people in A-Camp wearing purple sweats.
Not surprisingly we were all referred to as Barneys. Rumor was the SOG had thankfully run out of pink. That class had been universally referred to as Pussies. The Sons of Ged had sumptuary laws in full effect. Members could wear anything they wanted but nearly all gravitated towards biker styles. Prospects dressed the same but without a vest. Provisional mooks like me were issued sweats until it was decided whether we rose to prospects or fell to slave status.