The Dead Saga (Book 5): Odium V

by Claire C. Riley

  I shake my head no. “Honestly, that’s not what happened, Amara. Or, it is, but it’s not how Shooter thought. Michael was trying to hide me from your biker buddies in case they were the bad guys. I wanted to do a whole guns-blazing plan, and he thought it would be best if I just hid from sight. I was fighting him because he’s a jerk and I’m a bitch and that’s just our thing. We argue and we fight, but we have each other’s backs.”

  “Is that where you got that bruise on your cheek? Through fighting with Michael?” she says with an arched eyebrow as if she’s caught me out.

  I reach up and touch the tender spot on my cheek where he punched me in our sparring session, and I know that it looks bad. It sure as hell feels bad, and after what these women must have been through, I get why they would be suspect to what I’m saying.

  “Yes, but we were sparring, he wasn’t beating me. In fact, I totally beat his ass.” I laugh, and then stop myself, because I may be a bitch but I’m not an asshole, and what she’s suggesting isn’t funny at all. And it’s been a reality for all of these women. “I’m sorry, that was insensitive of me. I just find this whole thing really strange.”

  “Strange?”

  “Yes. You were all taken by men and had no power, and yet you’ve given these bikers that same power over you now!”

  “It’s not the same thing,” Amara says.

  “But it is. You have no power. No way to defend yourself. And if one or all of these men decided to turn back to his old ways, you’d all be powerless to stop it. So no, I won’t be staying, but thank you. As soon as Michael is fit to leave, that’s just what we’ll be doing. Because there’s no way in hell I’m staying somewhere that looks down on women like we’re some weak and feeble objects that can only cook and clean!” I feel mentally exhausted after this conversation and ready for a sleep. My body is hurting all over from the crash, and my mind is drained after talking to Amara.

  All I want to do is get Michael and leave. Or sleep and then get Michael and leave. And maybe have another slice of cake too. And some coffee. Is that really so much to ask?

  Amara smiles before replying. “Okay, we can talk to Shooter when he finishes with your friend. And maybe we do give the Hell’s Highwaymen too much power and we should learn to defend ourselves. I won’t send these women outside of these walls, but perhaps they should know how to protect themselves regardless.”

  Her gaze goes behind me, and I know she’s looking at Gunner. The way he looks at her is so intense, like she fills him with a hunger that he only just has control over. She said the men went into recovery, whatever that means. But could you ever really trust someone who would kidnap and keep a woman as his hostage for how many years, doing whatever he wanted to her? The thought makes me feel sick…and angry, and I use that anger to spur myself into action.

  “Perhaps you can show a few of us some things?” she says. “You said you can defend yourself, so show us how to do that too.”

  “Okay,” I say, automatically nodding. “I’m definitely down for that. Do you have any spare weapons we can use? Knives, guns? That sort of thing.”

  “You have no idea,” she says, a grin breaking out on her face. “Come on, let me show you.”

  She takes my hand like she’s a kid dragging her mom to the candy store, and she pulls me through their camp, passing small cabins, and women hunched around wells collecting water or cooking meat on an open fire. There are a lot more people here than I originally thought, and I find that comforting somehow, even if I do remain skeptical and wary. This place seems like it’s trapped in its own secure little bubble. The women look happy enough, and though the men by default should be scary, they seem like real carer’s for these women. Most of them, at least.

  We come to a stop by a large circular cabin that looks relatively new compared to most of the others. Two men are standing outside, sharpening long knives and smoking. They look up as we approach, standing as we come closer. Their gaze moves to Gunner behind us, but they see Amara’s smile and relax. And I like that. I like that every man here has seen Gunner as a threat but taken their cue from the woman before acting upon it. That’s something, at least.

  “What can we do for you, Amara?” one of them asks. He takes a cursory glance at me before quickly looking away again.

  “We need weapons, please?” she says breathlessly. “What would you like, Nina?”

  “I like machetes,” I say with a shrug, my thoughts slipping to Mikey briefly before I push them away.

  “Two machetes, please, Backtrack.” Amara smiles like she didn’t just ask for a deadly weapon, but maybe a cup of coffee or something equally harmless. I expect him to say no and to laugh in our faces, and for the mirage of this place to finally come crumbling down, but he surprises me.

  Though the man named Backtrack looks uncertain, he exchanges a look with the other man before shrugging. “Sure, okay.”

  He pulls out a set of keys, unlocks the cabin door, and goes inside. We wait for several minutes in silence before he comes back out and locks the door once again. He holds out two large machetes to us.

  “Gave them a quick sharpen for you too.” He smiles as Amara takes them.

  “Thank you, that was kind of you,” she replies. Her cheeks redden, and when I look at Backtrack, so have his. A big burly guy like him with a thick beard, scraggly long hair, and arms as big as legs…and he’s blushing.

  This is definitely a first.

  “Come on,” Amara says and starts to walk away.

  “You mind me asking what you need them for?” Backtrack calls after us.

  Amara looks at me, and I realize she wants me to reply, so I do.

  “I want to show her how strong women really are,” I say with a grin. “And how we don’t need men to defend ourselves. No offense.”

  “None taken,” Backtrack replies. But I can tell he’s not entirely happy about my comment. Not that it bothers me at all, though of course I’d like him to be on board with this and not opposing it.

  Amara leads me off down a path and through some trees until we come out onto a small beach-type area. The perimeter of this place leads right up to the shore of a small lake, and I can see a fence further around and a couple of bikers stationed on watch. If I’m honest, it’s all very reassuring. There are a couple of rowboats tied to posts and bobbing around, and a group of three women sitting in a circle making something, though I can’t see what.

  We head over to a small clearing and Amara stops and looks at me. “So show me.”

  “You really think you’re up to this?” I say with doubt.

  This is all going so fast. It was only an hour or so ago that I thought these people were going to kill me, and yet now here I am armed with a machete and ready to show someone how to fight.

  “Probably not, but I’m a quick learner. Do you think you’re up to it?” she asks, her gaze straying to the injury on my face.

  “This is nothing,” I reply. “Barely a scratch to what I normally look like.”

  Amara smiles back, her stance mimicking mine, with her legs spread apart a little and her body angled. I hold up my machete and she does the same.

  “So, step to me, and lift the machete. It doesn’t have to go all the way up above your head, because then there’s the chance that you could drop it on your own head. But shoulder height should do it, and then you need to throw all of your weight into slamming it down. And keep a good grip on the machete too.”

  Amara does exactly as I tell her, though her grip isn’t strong enough and the machete slips through her fingers and slams into the ground at my feet. I jump back just in time and stare up at her.

  “Hold tightly!”

  Her cheeks flush red again and she reaches down to retrieve it. I show Amara how to properly hold the machete so she doesn’t chop herself in half, and how to get enough power behind her stab to get through a deader’s skull. After five or ten minutes, Amara’s forehead is glistening with sweat and she complains that her arms are aching, but s
he’s still smiling. I laugh and so do the women behind me, almost scaring the life out of me because I hadn’t noticed them coming closer to watch.

  When I turn to look they all smile at me, their eyes glistening with excitement. Gunner is sitting on the periphery of all of this, his head down, his shoulders slumped forward, but he continues to watch us intently all the same.

  Amara bends over and puts her hands on her knees. “I thought you were weak,” she says. “I mean, you’re skinny, but you’re really strong.”

  “Food isn’t as easy to come by when you’re on the road all the time. You eat what you can and you be grateful for it. But I’m fighting daily, so yes, I’m strong. And you can be too,” I say, looking at Amara and the other women. I try not to be offended by the “skinny” comments. In another life, in another time, I would have been excited to hear those words, but not now. Now they’re worrying and offensive to me, because they make me seem like less of a threat. They make me seem weak, and that’s never a good thing.

  “I was wrong about you, and so was Mary,” Amara says with a frown.

  I nod in agreement, happy that I’ve gotten through to at least her.

  “You clearly can defend yourself, but that’s not to say you’re safe out there.”

  “What’s to say that you’re any safer in here?” I ask.

  Amara smirks and looks around almost arrogantly.

  “Look, I think it’s great that you all have this protection, I really do. And what Shooter is doing is actually very admirable. But you should still be able to defend yourself too. This isn’t really surviving, this is relying on someone else to have your back. Without these men, you’d be in serious trouble. Honestly, I don’t understand how you’ve made it this long without being able to do so.” I feel like a bitch for saying that, but it’s the truth and there’s no point in denying it.

  Amara stands up straight. “I told you, most of us were kept. We didn’t need to defend ourselves. At least, not from the biters.”

  The thought makes me feel sick. But then it’s really not that much different from life behind the walls, and I know all about that type of life. I look at these women and I see happy, protected women. They’re content with their lives now, grateful to be away from their previous ones. But they’re not strong. They’re not adaptable. And if these bikers were ever taken out, they would have no way to defend themselves. And that thought is thoroughly unacceptable.

  “Amara, how would Shooter feel about me teaching you all how to protect yourselves?” I ask. Because if Michael is going to be laid up for a couple of days here, I might as well do something useful.

  I glance over at Gunner, knowing that he’s been listening to every word spoken. In one sense, he seems like a ticking time bomb, but in another he seems harmless. Shooter apparently does this a lot—changes men like him from monsters into men—but could they ever be really trusted? What if one of them reverted back to their old ways? They could rape and kill some of these women before they could be stopped. Those are odds I don’t like.

  Her forehead creases as she thinks about it. “I honestly don’t know. I don’t see why he would say no. After all, he wants us to be safe, and us knowing how to protect ourselves can only add to our safety. But he’s very…I don’t know how to say this without it coming our wrong.”

  “Just say it,” I say.

  “Traditional?” She cocks her head to one side.

  “As in, the man is the caveman and the females are the little women that stay at home and cook?” I scoff.

  She nods. “Yeah. And most of these women like it like that. All they’ve ever known is being under a man’s protection, whether it’s because they wanted it or not. It’s still kept them safe, and that’s all any of us can hope for.”

  I look at the other women. They have all backed off and gone to sit back down, but they keep looking up at me and Amara. And that gives me hope. If Shooter agrees to it, I can really help here. I can teach these women to protect themselves, and this group of bikers and fragile women will become a real force to be reckoned with.

  Wherever I go I seem to bring doom and gloom upon my friends and loved ones, but for the first time in a long time it seems like I might be able to do the opposite. I might be able to actually help people, without actually hurting someone I care about. My thoughts drift to Mikey up at Ben’s parents’ cabin, safely tucked away with Joan and Alex, and I feel guilty. He still thinks I’m dead, and I can’t imagine what that must be doing to him, but I know in time he’ll get over it. Get over me. Maybe it’s better that way.

  Since this all began, all I have wanted to do was get to that cabin and hide away from the world, protected by memories of Ben and a life I once had, but now…maybe I can have more than that. Maybe there is a place for me after all. Because for the first time since I saved Emily-Rose I might actually have a purpose, even if only for a little while, and that’s the most fulfilling thing about all of this.

  Chapter Eight

  Amara tires after another ten minutes or so and says that she needs to rest.

  Though I’m shocked by her attitude toward safety, I’m quickly coming to respect her, if nothing more than for the reason that she actually wants to learn.

  She breathlessly wipes the sweat from her forehead. “You really do know how to fight.”

  I smirk but don’t reply. Because yeah, I was proud of how far I had come. I had once been a weak woman who couldn’t defend herself, but not now, not after everything I had been through. There was still so much to learn, I knew that, but I wasn’t afraid of learning anymore, and I wasn’t afraid of fighting either. Something that I had once. I had come so far, and yeah, I got that I still had far to go, but I was well on my way.

  I bend over and start to gather up both of our machetes that we’d dropped into the sand. After using them for barely five minutes, we’d gone on to some hand-to-hand combat because Amara’s arms were aching from holding it. She did much better at fighting though, and she’d actually gotten in a couple of easy shots where I’d left my guard down, but of course I’d still managed to pin her to the ground every single time.

  “I need a break,” Amara laughs. “It’s after lunch, so get yourself something to eat and I’ll see if Shooter is free yet.”

  I have no idea where to get any food from, or if we have to earn it like back behind the walls, so my expression falls. Amara pats me on the shoulder and then takes the machetes from me.

  “Gunner here will take you over to the food hall,” she starts, but I interrupt her by taking one of the machetes back. She laughs and carries on. “Take whatever you need. There’s rationing, of course, but we need to fatten you up.” She pinches my side and then wanders away from the beach before I can say anything to her.

  Gunner stands up and comes forward. “Hungry?” he asks, his voice deep yet soft.

  “Yeah,” I reply. “But first I want you to show me around.”

  His expression doesn’t change and instead he nods, even though I expected him to be put out by my request. “Okay, this way.”

  I follow Gunner, getting to know the layout of this place. It’s one of the things that I’ve learned over time: whenever you get somewhere new, no matter how safe you feel, find your exits, secure yourself a hideout, and make sure to keep a weapon hidden at all times. Because if there is one thing that I’ve learned the hard way, it’s that you never know when these fragile walls will come crumbling down around you.

  I walk the place, starting from the main entrance where all the bikes are kept, and I head all the way around to the lake and up the other side back toward the entrance. Gunner does a little explaining as we walk of which hut houses what, but he doesn’t go into any great depth. He’s not a big talker at all, in fact.

  But the place is self-contained and not too big, which is good. It was previously a Girl Scout camp, so everything was kind of already set up for surviving out in the wild, I guess, which is lucky. Somewhere along the lines, someone had thought to build
fences to surround the place, and atop those, platforms to stand guards on. I’m guessing it was Shooter. Every couple of hundred feet there’s another platform with another biker standing on top. They all look surprised to see me walking around armed with a machete whenever I pass one of them, and I hope that I’m giving off the impression of a total badass, and not a weak woman like they had all initially assumed.

  I’m getting hungry, and judging by the sun in the sky and the way my stomach is growling, it’s way past lunch now. I’m about to ask Gunner to show me the food hall when we come upon it. It’s like an army mess hall, only messy and unhygienic, but the smell of food cooking from within sinks its claws into me. There’s a small line of people waiting, and I grab a tray from the stand on my right like I’m at a hospital cafeteria, and then I go and stand at the back of the line, hoping that everyone hurries up.

  I turn and look at Gunner as he falls in line behind me. This is the closest that he has gotten all day, and he looks mighty uncomfortable with it.

  “Do you want me to get you some food and bring it over to you?” I ask.

  He ignores me, his eyes staying on his feet.

  “Gunner, I’ll get you some food and bring it over. Go sit somewhere.” I grab the tray he’s picked up and he finally looks up, his eyes meeting mine for a split second, and a small frown crosses his face.

  “Thanks,” he mumbles from beneath his beard and stalks away. Despite his lack of enthusiasm, I saw his gratefulness in his eyes.

  Everyone has white plastic trays and seems to be getting a little pissy at having to wait to get their food. I’m standing behind a quiet woman with long red hair that trails all the way down her back. She glances over at me, her eyes darting to Gunner, who’s still walking away, and then back to me before she turns around again. I’ve seen that look way too many times today, and I can’t help that I’m starting to feel sorry for him.

  Quite obviously the women here are afraid of him, which means that he’s still a threat, but he’s clearly trying to atone for whatever fucked-upness he did previously. You can’t knock the man for that. Plus, I have to have a little faith that Shooter wouldn’t assign someone to watch me if he thought they were dangerous.