She vaguely recognized the man as one of the bushwhackers. He was older, probably in his seventies. He wore overalls and a wide-brimmed hat. His mouth puckered permanently inward because he had no teeth. He reached an old arthritic hand for her and she tried to scoot backward. She sat upright, awakening the others. Her back pressed firmly against the wall.
He wheezed a breathy laugh. “Everybody says, Old Barnum won’t ever get himself no cunny,’ but look at what we have here. Firm tits on this one. Yes she do.” He coughed a bit and twisted her nipple hard.
“Ow,” she breathed, revolted by the unwanted stimulus.
“There we go,” he said. His rancid hot breath smelled like stale fish and whiskey. Gwen turned away. She wanted to be anywhere but here. Her body knew it. She would rather face legions of the dead than this.
“Let’s see what’s under them panties of yours,” he said. He licked his lips. An old sandpapery hand grabbed for her underwear.
With a loud bang, the flimsy wood door flew all the way open, and Ash stepped in.
“Get away from her Barnum, you old pervert. What did I tell you about touching the pretty one? That is Puck’s ole girl. You get on outta of here,” Ash said. She swatted at the old fiend as if he were a bad dog, and the old man left, muttering to himself. Ash squatted down in front of Gwen. Gwen couldn’t contain her tears. They streamed down her face. She tried to say thank you over and over to the woman who had saved her.
Ash bent down close to Gwen, an ugly smirk settling on her pretty face. She swept dirty snarled hair behind her ears, judging Gwen with her eyes. Gwen was beginning to feel that Ash hadn’t done her a favor at all. Ash gave her a crooked-toothed smile and wiped Gwen’s tears away.
“There, there, pretty birdie. No one’s goin’ hurt you.” Gwen nodded thanks through her gag. Ash laughed loudly with a shrill high-pitched note.
“I mean, no one except Puck. His last girl didn’t make it through the week. He dresses them all pretty, makes them feel safe, and then rips them up real good.” Her eyebrows rose as she saw the fear in Gwen’s eyes. “Then when they wishes they was dead, he puts ’em in the Pit. So don’t think I did you any favors, you uppity bitch, by stopping Old Barnum from having his way with you. His shriveled cock would have been a blessing. The only reason I stopped him was because Puck likes ’em fresh.”
At this moment, Gwen prayed to God that somehow Mark was still alive and coming to rescue her, but she knew her hopes were in vain. Ash gripped Gwen’s cheeks with firm fingers that dug into her skin. Gwen clenched the photograph the same way in her sweating hands and averted her eyes.
“You hear me, bitch? You’ll wish youse was dead.” She shoved Gwen’s head backward and stood. “You’ll wish youse was dead.”
MAUSER
Moonshiner Camp, WV
Ben Mauser ground his teeth and pulled hard on his chains above his head. They rattled, but he gained no advantage. In order to rest his arms, he let them hang. His muscles were stiff and sore throughout his shoulders and down through his back. The metal from the shackles chaffed his hands painfully.
His exhaustion was only aggravated by his mind. These mother fuckers will pay for what they’ve done. Steele and Nelson. Gone. He looked over his shoulder. And I’m chained to a post in the middle of some goddamn hillbilly paradise. They had shackled both his wrists together over his head, in a position that left his face and midsection perpetually exposed.
How do we get out of this mess?
The chains were a problem, but not insurmountable. However, it was unwise to get free without a plan. First, he had to determine who he was up against. He watched two mountain folk laugh as they walked into one of the sheds housing some sort of distilling equipment.
Where did these people come from? It was as if he had been placed smack dab into a scene from a movie. He seriously couldn’t make these people up. If he had, no one would believe him. Over the course of a day, he counted a dozen men and three women who inhabited the camp. A few fire pits smoldered and twice as many small wood cabins filled in the camp. No sign of Gwen, Lucia, or Lindsay. They have to be in one of those sheds. Hopefully, not the one those men went into.
Another issue hindered any sort of escape plan. Where the hell are we? Thick forest surrounded the camp, a naturally secluded hideaway for people avoiding the law. Someone looking in from thirty yards out would never know there were people there between the trees and the camouflage tarps. A tall peak rose high behind Mauser, a mountain staring down at the camp. He couldn’t get a good view of it because of the way he was chained, but it would be the only point of reference when he escaped. If he could break free, he would make for the top and look for any depressions, or other landmarks, to help navigate the foreign land.
A deep moan came from the forest. He recognized the depressive sound anywhere. Infected. Mauser struggled against his chains. These chains are like a fucking dinner bell.
“Ahmed, you hear that?” Mauser called behind him. The Arab-American man, in his late twenties, had been worked over pretty good by the mountain folk when they first brought them into the camp.
“Yeah,” Ahmed rasped. The man had been in and out of consciousness over a day. It seemed that just when Ahmed would start coming around some hillbilly would punch his face in again. As much as Mauser didn’t like Ahmed, he felt for the man. Ahmed was still part of their group. Just like Nelson. Poor kid.
The moans grew louder and Mauser didn’t appreciate being sacrificed to the monsters. All that stood between the camp and the outside was a thin line of barbwire draped around the trees. Haphazard wire ran from tree trunk to tree trunk as if the person putting it up had been intoxicated. A couple of his captors stood nearby, shooting the breeze.
“Hey you,” Mauser shouted at the nearest captor. The only thing worse than being a prisoner was being eaten alive while being a prisoner. He felt like a goat tied to a post left out for the lions.
A skinny hillbilly in a cut-off glared at him. “Shut the fuck up,” he shouted at Mauser.
“There are infected coming,” Mauser screamed at him. “Over there.” He nodded in the direction of the trees.
The skinny man with the light beer hat approached Mauser. He pushed his hat up high onto his forehead as if he wanted to wear it, but didn’t want it to block any sunlight. He was taller than the average joe, and he had the look of someone who had a very linear family tree.
“What of it, city boy?” the man said.
“Aren’t you going to do something?” Mauser asked worriedly. “It sounds like infected in the woods.”
The man peered into the forest.
“Nah,” he said. As if remembering he was mad at Mauser, he gave him a sidelong glance from the corner of a beady eye.
“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” He turned his head as he tried to recall. “I believe I did.”
He walked for Mauser, wound his fist back, and punched Mauser in the gut. The pain in his stomach made him want to piss himself. The hillbilly shook his hand out.
“Shut up and watch.”
Mauser coughed and regained his breath. The infected emerged from the trees and stumbled down the hill, disappearing into the earth. Where did he go?
“Now, don’t make me come back over here,” the man said. “Chuck, go grab the black guy and clean that up,” he yelled with a vengeful look at Mauser.
“Sure thing, Casey,” Chuck said.
So Light Beer Hat was Casey. Fat T-shirt was Chuck. They were his two main keepers. He had heard about another character, Puck, but hadn’t seen him. Most others in the camp, when they weren’t spitting on them, let them be.
He watched Chuck march Eddie out through a removable gap in the barbwire. Chuck poked Eddie with a stick as they walked, furthering the man’s humiliation. Mauser watched them go into the woods. Must be some sort of trap. Great. If we get out of here we’ll need to be careful of traps in the woods. He regained his breath, not comforted by the camp defenses. Fifteen minutes later Chuck an
d Eddie came back, blood dripping from the shovel. Eddie slinked along, head down.
“Chuck, we need the outhouses cleaned. Get our black friend on it.” Chuck grinned like an idiot, a basic man at best, and shoved Eddie in the direction of the little brown single-person shacks near the cabins.
“You got it, Casey. Come on, Fudgie. We got lots of work for you. I messed up one real good last night.”
Eddie was literally their slave worker. Any manual labor the hillbillies needed done, they sat by and watched Eddie do it. They all would mock and spit at him as he did their basic chores. It left a sour taste in Mauser’s mouth. It was one thing to put Eddie to work. It was another to mock and beat the man while he did it.
Chuck led Eddie away, tugging his chains like a dog. Eddie’s leg shackles clanked along, hindering his ability to move. Eddie might make it exactly a hundred yards before he was killed by an infected outside the camp. We either need a vehicle or we are going to have to break Eddie’s shackles when we flee. We need a key. Or we need the keys to a car.
***
After midday Casey returned, his beady eyes looking over Mauser and Ahmed. Mauser could see the evil gears grinding away inside his mind.
Casey, in Mauser’s eyes, was the lowest scum America had to offer. Casey was ignorant, uneducated, mean-spirited, and racist. Mauser was pretty sure that this man would shove his grandmother under a bus for a couple of bucks and a laugh.
“Hey Chuck, that rag-head is wakin’ up agin. Go holler at Henry, tell him to get ta’ sticks. I gotta an idea.”
Henry arrived with the sticks. He was the spitting image of Casey, and Mauser assumed they were brothers or cousins.
He handed out the “sticks.” They were oaken branches three feet long and one inch thick, which had been smoothed down, giving them the appearance of a riot police baton. Casey held his stick in his armpit and unchained Ahmed. Chuck and Casey forced Ahmed to stand up. He wobbled, putting a hand on the post to steady himself.
“There you go, fella. Stand up now,” Casey said. He leaned in close to Ahmed’s face. “Now go ahead and tell me how long you been a terrorist?”
Ahmed knew that these people had no interest in showing him any sort of kindness. He rose his hands up in front of his body. Casey raised his stick behind his head. Ahmed flinched and covered his face with his arm.
“How long you been a terrorist?” Casey bellowed.
“I’m not a terrorist,” Ahmed growled. He coughed a bit, his eyes never leaving Casey’s.
“He lyin’ Casey. He’s lyin’. Look at his eyes,” Chuck squealed, his fat cheeks jiggling like a human pig.
“Please, I swear to you. I am an American,” Ahmed pled, a hand extended to his captors.
“I said how long?” Casey cried out. He struck Ahmed’s upper arm. A crack cut through the air as it impacted the meat of his tricep.
“Ow, please,” Ahmed cried. He grabbed his arm with his hand. Casey circled him. Ahmed turned with the man keeping him in front.
“We are just going to have to beat it out of you until you fess up.”
“I was born in Virginia.”
“Homegrown extremist, huh?” Henry laughed, pacing with his stick. He took a swing at Ahmed, catching him on the back of the knees, knocking him to the ground. Fat Chuck stepped in and swatted Ahmed repeatedly. Ahmed shrunk low and covered his face with his arms. Then it was Casey’s turn again.
“Stop. Please,” Ahmed said. He held his hands out palms first at them.
“Not until you tell us the truth,” Casey said. He baseball-swung into Ahmed’s side. Ahmed toppled over into the mud.
Casey and his cronies took turns hitting Ahmed, in the stomach, arms, legs, ass, shoulders, head. Each time Ahmed would try and stand. Each time he would end up on the ground.
“How does that feel, Hajji?” Casey sneered.
“That one’s for 9/11, ’Merica,” Henry shouted out, as he landed a crushing blow across Ahmed’s stomach. Ahmed collapsed doubled over in pain.
“I’m not a terrorist. My family has lived here for thirty years,” Ahmed mumbled.
“What was that, boy? Your family’s been terrorists for generations?” Casey said, raising the back of his hand to his ear. Whack. He brought his stick down across Ahmed’s shoulders as he crawled in the mud. Mauser couldn’t handle it. He wanted in the fight. He was ready to rage on these ignorant fuckers.
Casey helped Ahmed back up. “Here, here. Lay off of him, you two. I think he’s had enough. He is repentin’ of his evil ways. You want some water, little buddy?” he said. Ahmed’s head barely bobbed up and down, blood running down his swollen, split lip.
“What do you say, boy?”
“Please, sir,” Ahmed said timidly.
“Chuck, bring us a ladle from the pot over there,” Casey called back over his shoulder. Chuck did as he was told and quickly returned to Casey’s side, giggling.
“There ya’ go, boss,” he said, lips quivering with excitement.
“Now, here ya go, Mister Towel Head. Drink up,” Casey said. He forced the ladle near Ahmed’s mouth, and Ahmed took the ladle in his hands. He drank it greedily. A second later, Ahmed spit out the substance. The liquid sprayed all over Casey.
Casey closed his eyes and wiped his face off with the back of his hand.
“That wasn’t smart.” He lunged for Ahmed with his stick in hand. “What? Our piss ain’t good enough for you?” In seconds, he had hit Ahmed a dozen times. Ahmed rolled in the mud, unable to get away from Casey’s fury.
Mauser couldn’t take it anymore. This is going to hurt.
“Hey Case,” he shouted. Casey stopped and looked at him, rage still scrawled over his face.
“What in the hell do you want?” He kicked at Ahmed with his foot. Mauser was silent for a moment as he gathered his courage. Casey wound up to give Ahmed another swing.
Mauser licked his cracked lips and took a deep breath. “I thought I saw your sister the other day.”
Casey stopped mid-swing, stick wavering in the air. He hastily turned toward Mauser, his eyes narrowing. Must have struck a chord.
His stick dropped to his side. “Where? Where was that?” Casey said, anger turning to confusion. He strode over to where Mauser was chained. He slapped the stick in the palm of his hand as he walked, squatting down in front of Mauser.
“Where was that?”
Mauser outfaced him, never letting his eyes leave Casey’s chinless face.
“Funny thing about that, Case. Not only was she dead, but everyone was still having their way with her. I thought I might get—,” Mauser didn’t even finish his insult before the man came upon him. Mauser couldn’t block, only turn his head away as Casey’s stick connected with his ribs over and over. Casey struck him as if he were a tree he was trying to cut down.
“Say it again,” Casey screamed. He swung the stick like a major league hitter whipping his hips into each strike.
“On her back,” Mauser managed. The stick crushed into his abs.
“Give it to him,” Chuck yelled.
Crack. The stick whipped through the air. Crack.
“Whoa. Nice one,” Henry yelled with a smile.
Casey wound up again. Crack. And again.
Mauser felt a rib snap as Casey’s stick snapped against his midsection. Casey dropped the pieces and went with his fists. The last thing Mauser remembered was a fist crashing into his eye socket.
Unconscious, he entered a whole new nightmare. His best friend’s blood spraying all over the doctor’s face as Steele took a sniper round to the head. Stopping had been a huge mistake. Mauser only had an instant to comprehend what happened as Steele’s head rocketed backward. Steele collapsed like a sack of rocks. Seconds later, bullets whizzed through the Lunchbox, turning it into a piece of Swiss cheese.
He’d seen the warning signs and they’d ignored it. All the indicators of an ambush were there. The cars in a funneled shape allowing them in, but hindering their retreat. The damsel in distress. The
nicely sloped land for elevated shooting.
He wanted to play savior to the public just as much as Steele did, but they had guessed wrong. Now they were paying the price. Steele had paid the ultimate price for his bleeding heart. The world was a mean place. Now, even more so. Mauser would never again be caught on the wrong side of that dilemma.
Mauser slowly came back to, vision blurred, still alive, in a living hell. Still chained to a fucking pole. To breathe was painful, thanks to his freshly broken ribs. The hillbillies laughed as they drank, pleased with their current round of torture.
Ahmed whispered on the other side. “Are you okay?”
Mauser moaned that he still continued to live. Pain covered his body.
“Thank you.”
Mauser gave him another moan to say “you’re welcome.”
“I’d rather be outside with the crazies than in here with these animals.”
Mauser spit out some copper-tasting phlegm from his mouth. The red glob settled on the ground in front of him.
“Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.” Mauser spat again. His chest throbbed, as if his rib jabbed his lung on every breath. “At least the infected kill you and get it over with.” He grimaced in pain.
Ahmed sighed heavily; chains rattling above him.
“Why do they hate me? I never did anything to them,” Ahmed whimpered in self-pity. The toll of being the most hated prisoner weighed on him. Mauser slowly twisted his head. It felt like he had been in a car accident, like all the muscles in his neck had been torn in half by whiplash.
“You’re just different, and they hate themselves. Fuck. I hate you, but not because you’re an Arab.”
“Why do you hate me?”
“Cause you’re a cocky asshole.”
It was Ahmed’s turn to laugh. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts so bad.” Ahmed sounded off in a coughing fit.
The End Time Saga Box Set [Books 1-3] Page 38