CLAN

by Harry Shannon

  "Where?" the second prisoner, Needles, asked. He was a tall, wiry, foul smelling man with a tattooed head and surprisingly delicate hands. He approached the door of his cell. If it weren't for his weirdly tattooed head, Needles could have passed for an accountant rather than a Blood Rider. How he wound up in a motorcycle gang, Miller didn't care to know.

  "Sheriff, where we going?" he asked again.

  Miller paused. She hadn't yet considered that part of it. "We're moving you to another facility," she said. The lie didn't come easy. She usually preferred to play it straight, even with the prisoners. "Come on, I don't have all day."

  Scratch smelled trouble. "What's the rush?"

  Before the Sheriff could answer, Wells burst through the door. "They're everywhere, Sheriff!" The former high school athlete was out of breath, uniform dark with sweat; clearly sorry he had let his gut get the better of him. "I saw more coming out of the woods as I was pulling up. We ain't got much time."

  "Who's coming, a lynch mob? Are they coming for me?" demanded Needles. He gripped the bars of the cell door, a sudden nervous tic making his face twitch. Sheriff Miller could smell his guilty sweat from two yards off. Needles was accused of drugging and sodomizing a minor. His wide eyes gave him away.

  "Never mind. Put your hands through the slot," Miller commanded again. She was surprised by the strength in her voice. She didn't feel very strong. Zombies? The hell?

  "What's going on, Sheriff?" Scratch spoke calmly. He stepped away from the door and crossed his arms. Needles stepped back, a reluctant imitation of his leader. "We ain't going nowhere 'less you tell us the truth."

  Wells huffed with frustration and fear. "Sheriff, leave them. They'll be safe in there."

  Miller stared at him.

  "Probably," he shrugged.

  "I'm not leaving my prisoners," Miller said bluntly. "We have our duty."

  "We don't have time for this." Wells turned his attention to the big motorcyclist and drew his club. "Okay, do what the Sheriff says, asshole, or I'll come in there and crack your skull again. Then the zombies won't have a problem getting at your shit-for-brains."

  "Zombies?" Scratch released a sharp laugh. "Oh, bullshit! What's really going on? Some family members coming for my friend here?"

  In his cell, Needles wilted.

  "What is going on," Sheriff Miller said, "is that we need to get you two to safety. We don't have time for any macho posturing. Now, present your hands."

  "Holy bat shit, Scratch." Needles muttered, peering out his small, high cell window. "You really got to check this out."

  Wells and Miller exchanged glances. "Get the shotguns ready," she barked. Wells ran for the gun cabinet.

  Meanwhile, Scratch stood on his own cot and looked through the barred window. "Whoa, what the fuck is that?"

  "I told you," said Wells, from across the room. He was loading two shotguns as fast as possible. "Zombies."

  "Damn." Scratch hopped down from his cot immediately and slid his hands through the slot. "Move," he ordered Needles. "We gotta go." Miller snapped the cuffs around each of their wrists. She opened the cell doors, ushering the two prisoners out. As they headed down the hallway, Wells jabbed Scratch with his stick. Scratch stumbled a bit.

  "Watch it, dickhead, or I'll turn around and break you in two," snapped Scratch.

  Wells raised his stick, ready to strike. The biker glared back like a pit bull.

  "Wells!" The deputy turned to see Miller with genuine rage in her eyes. "They are our prisoners. Knock it off."

  Wells opened the door to the parking lot and stopped short. The last sunlight was fading out, a yellow ball dipping down into a huge pond of black ink.

  "My God," Wells gasped.

  Miller swallowed. "We ain't gonna make it to the cars."