‘The Tasmanian Patriots,’ finished his father, a wolf like grin covering his face.
Chapter Seven
Dust plumed from around the wheels of the battered Hilux ute as it skidded to a stop. Mac gave a cursory look at the surrounds before kicking open his door and climbing down. The access lane he’d used to approach the back of the store was empty of movement. It was the second last shop operating in town and the ones to either side lay derelict, windows smashed and interiors silent. Mac smiled, safe in the knowledge there’d be no-one to hear any noise made by the shopkeeper. In truth, he knew the small town of Cob Hill was nearly always empty these days, the survivors preferring the safety of their farms in the advent of another Carrier outbreak.
Mac leaned back in the cab and grabbed his leather jacket. A glistening of sweat prickled across the blond stubble of his shaved scalp in the morning sun, but he wasn’t wearing the jacket for warmth. This was his territory, and he’d be damned if he’d be seen without his club colours. As Mac shrugged on the weathered jacket, an image of a skull wearing a Greek helmet drew tight between his shoulders. The Spartans outlaw motorcycle gang had maintained territory throughout this region of Victoria for over a decade. As President of the local chapter, he’d coordinated a lucrative trade in amphetamines throughout the surrounding towns until the plague had come along and killed most of his customers.
And it had been the best day of Mac’s life.
All order had crumbled. He’d finally been allowed to inflict violence upon the world as he’d craved to do his whole adult life. Mac had slaughtered any creature that threatened him without a second thought. No more struggling for impulse control. He’d taken anything he wanted, whether it was property, weapons or women. And there had been no repercussions. Because he was the strong, and in this new world – the strong ruled. Yes, the plague had changed everything, and in his deepest heart, he prayed it would go on forever. The only thing he truly missed from the old world was riding. The unpredictable nature of Carriers in the open made a motorcycle impractical, and he’d made the difficult decision to park the machine that he loved more than his mates. But he knew it had been the right move, because what mattered more than anything else was maintaining his position as top dog.
Cob Hill belonged to him and his men. They controlled access to stockpiled food and weapons, and ensured that none of the farms could fortify themselves to a point where they could be a threat to his men, or worse – independent.
Mac’s Sergeant at Arms and two other club members had preceded his arrival, with their car parked at the front entrance to the store. With any luck they’d have his quarry prepped and ready for him to begin work. Mac checked the handgun at his waist, ensuring there was a round in the chamber and then headed for the ute’s tray. In the back was a small wooden chest, its surface burnished from years of use. After a quick check of the padlock fastening the chest, he hauled it out and headed for the shop’s back door. The box shivered within his grasp, small taps against the interior of the wood like a fish snapping at bait. Mac smiled, one corner of his mouth pulled down by a scar on his cheek. Today’s visit was due to the shopkeeper ignoring Spartan rules, and he was going to learn the hard way that Mac wasn’t keen on getting played for a fool.
On crossing the threshold, he paused a moment, his head cocked to one side as he listened. A heavy smack of fist hitting flesh, followed by a pained grunt came from a closed room to the right. Mac smiled at the sound – the boys had evidently decided to soften him up in preparation. He paced through to the shop front, picking up an apple from the bench to munch on before turning the sign on the front door to ‘closed’. A Harley Davidson motorcycle was parked beside a Toyota Landcruiser. His Sergeant at Arms was one of the few in the club who’d refused to leave his bike behind, preferring to risk a bite.
Another scream came from the back room, this time from a woman. Mac sighed and headed toward the noise. Time to start work.
Mac shouldered open the door and entered. The room was almost as large as the front shop area, and apparently had served as the couple’s living quarters over the past year. A double bed was rammed into one corner, a basic kitchenette in the other while a circular table dominated the middle of the room. To either side of this, a husband and wife were tied to dining chairs. At Mac’s entrance, both their eyes flicked to his, pupils dilated with terror. Claret dripped from the man’s nose, one eye was bruised and almost closed. The woman hadn’t fared any better, a front tooth snapped off at the gum and lips bloodied. His Sergeant at Arms dropped a clenched fist that he’d been readying for another blow. A bull of a man, standing at six foot two with a steroid bulked frame, he had every free bit of skin up to his chin inked with tattoos. He stood back next to the other two club members in deference at Mac’s arrival.
‘They’re all yours, Prez. Thought I’d break the ice, let them know what they’re in for,’ he said with a half-smile while he wiped blood off his knuckles with a hand towel.
‘Mac, I’m sorry. This has been a whole misunderstanding, I swear I’d never do anything to betray you guys!’ blurted the man.
The Spartan’s president pulled one of the remaining chairs back, took a seat and placed the wooden chest on the table. Every few seconds the box shuddered lightly of its own accord.
‘Now Bill, we both know you’re full of shit,’ said Mac. ‘You knew the rules, and yet I’ve found you’ve neglected to charge my fifty percent tax on all goods sold.’
‘But that was only a few times! Judy’s family has no money left – do you expect me to let them starve?’
Mac raised an eyebrow in silent question. ‘You really have no idea, do you? I couldn’t give a damn if her whole family starves you idiot – just as long as I get my fucking cut!’
The shopkeeper shrank back in his chair, mouth opening and closing like a fish on land, unable to find the right words of appeasement.
‘And then to top it off, I’ve gained word that you have created your own stockpile of weapons.’ Mac stood, his chair smashing backward onto the ground. He placed both hands on the table and leaned forward to the shopkeeper, barely keeping his rage under control.
‘Of all my rules, you were stupid enough to break this one. No one is allowed more than twenty rounds of ammunition and one rifle per person at a time! If I let you do it, one of those idiot farmers might think they can do the same, and before I know it I’ll have some bastard wanting to take on the Spartans! If you need protection – you call my men for it. Now, where are the guns?!’ he shouted, slamming a fist into the table. The chest shuddered of its own accord, a faint clicking sound emanating from within.
The man’s eyes flicked toward his wife and then back to Mac as he nervously swallowed. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, I swear.’
Mac looked the man in his remaining eye for a moment and shrugged. ‘Your call then,’ he said, pulling a key from his pocket to unlock the chest. The other Spartans moved closer to see, their pupils dilating with excitement at what was to come.
Mac grabbed hold of a loop of iron standing proud from the middle of the chest and lifted free the object kept within. The shopkeeper’s wife screamed, her chair tipping over backwards as she tried to move away. A hot tang rose in the air, wafting from the man as his bladder loosed in terror, urine soaking his jeans dark and dripping to the floor.
Mac grinned at their reactions to his toy. With the help of his Sergeant at Arms, he had screwed a holding apparatus of metal onto the decapitated head of a Carrier the week before. Two bands of steel were screwed into the bone, one around the forehead to the back of the skull, the other underneath the nose, leaving the mouth free to move. To these circlets of metal at the back of the head, Mac had attached a handle of iron, allowing him to wield the skull as a weapon.
The Spartan President walked around the table calmly with the decapitated head like it was nothing more dangerous than a book in hand until he was at the side of the shopkeeper’s wife. He leant down, bringing the sk
ull within a hand’s breadth of her face. The eyes of the decapitated head locked onto the woman, lips pulled back in silent snarl as the jaw snapped repeatedly. The shopkeeper’s wife screamed in terror, tears and snot running freely as she panicked.
Mac looked over at the husband. ‘Do you recognise my little friend here?’ he said indicating the skull in hand.
‘Please don’t hurt her,’ begged the shopkeeper. ‘She’s done nothing wrong.’
‘Answer the question, Bill. Do you recognise him?’ asked Mac.
The shopkeeper nodded hesitantly. ‘It’s Reg. I thought he and his family gambled a trip to Geelong the other week.’
‘Nope. He was the last idiot to cross my boys. Ended up getting himself and his kids fed to my pet Carriers at the clubhouse. But I thought this time around, I’d make use of his body in a different way and turn him into a tool of persuasion,’ said Mac, pausing as he looked at the contraption with pride in his own workmanship.
‘I call it my ‘Biter’.’ He moved the skull back to the woman’s face again, the teeth mere centimetres away from her cheek.
‘Enough of the niceties, Bill. Where’s the stash of guns and ammo? If you don’t answer me in the next few seconds, your wife’s going to lose half her face, and between you and me, I think she’d look better with her skin intact.’
The shopkeeper’s shoulders sagged. ‘There’s access to a cellar beneath the bed. Everything’s in there, please, just don’t hurt her.’
Mac stood up and waved his men over to the bed in the corner. The Sergeant at Arms upended the frame roughly, exposing a trapdoor. One of the others grabbed hold of the handle and tugged the door upwards while he shone a torch into the gloom below, his eyes opening wide in surprise at the contents exposed below.
‘Prez, this isn’t just a couple of rifles. He’s got a fucking arsenal down here. Something’s up I reckon. There’s no way he could have got this shit together on his own.’
Mac walked over and peered down. The cellar was a small room, only a few paces in length and width. Approximately twenty rifles along with crates of ammunition were piled neatly in one corner. Rage started to build in Mac’s head at the sight. He stormed back over to the woman and brought the Biter near her neck.
‘Where the fuck did you get that many guns from? No-one gets that many rifles without help. Who are you bloody working with?’
‘I’m holding them for Joel Tipper. It wasn’t my plan, I swear,’ said the shopkeeper between sobbing breaths. Any resolve he’d owned earlier had crumbled.
Mac bunched his free hand into a fist at his words. ‘Tipper? That fucking bastard who used to be mayor?’
The shopkeeper nodded. ‘He wants to convince some of the other farmers in the area to help clear you out of town. Thought if he had the weapons first, they might be more likely to join him. I’m just a holding point but he doesn’t even know they’re here. Tipper thinks I’ve put them in one of the empty houses in town.’
‘Well they’re mine now and I’ll be paying him a visit later,’ said Mac, expression furious. He shoved the Biter even closer to the wife’s throat, teeth snapping a hairs width above her skin. ‘Are you telling the truth that he doesn’t know the guns are here?’
‘Yes! I promise!’ pleaded the shopkeeper.
Mac nodded, satisfied he was getting the truth finally. ‘Good.’ Suddenly he punched the Biter against the woman’s neck. The Carrier ripped out a mouthful of tissue, severing her carotid artery. Her eyes bugged open in agony as she screamed, a pulsing jet of arterial blood spraying to the ceiling. Mac allowed the decapitated head to tear further into her face and neck before pulling away and standing upright.
The shopkeeper was screaming, wrenching at his ties in an attempt to free himself of his chair. The Sergeant at Arms paced forward and punched him violently, knocking him unconscious to slump backward.
Mac stared down at the woman dispassionately. Her mouth moved in slight gasps as her eyes stared blindly above, and then she was still. Mac stepped out of the pool of blood surrounding her and placed the Biter back in its chest.
‘Do you want us to get the rifles out, Prez?’ asked the Sergeant at Arms.
Mac took a breath and made his decision. ‘No. Leave them here. If we are up against a turf war, it might be a good insurance policy to have a store of weapons in a different place. We’ll leave these two locked in here as guards,’ he said, pointing at the shopkeepers. ‘Untie her hands and ankles from the chair so she can move once she comes back. We’ll let Bill wake to a nice love bite from his wife.’
Mac flipped the chest lid over the Biter and locked it as his men closed the trapdoor. ‘Right, let’s get out of here,’ said Mac, keen to get moving before the woman reanimated.
The men piled out after him. Each of the rooms at the back of the store were lockable, designed primarily for use as storage areas when built. Mac pocketed the key after locking the door.
‘Do you hear that, Prez?’ asked one of his men, his head cocked to the side. ‘Sounds like trucks coming our way or something?’
Mac walked to the front of the shop. He peered towards the noise through the window and saw with surprise an envoy of armoured vehicles heading slowly down the street. What the hell is the army doing in town?
‘Right, you guys – get the fuck out of here before those army boys get any closer. We’ll find out what those bastards are doing in our town later when we’re in a stronger position,’ he said, waving them through the shop’s door.
Moments later, the Sergeant at Arms roared away on his Harley, the Landcruiser tailing him closely. Mac watched for a moment longer, confirming that the army trucks had decided not to take chase, then headed for his own ute, wooden chest in hand.
Chapter Eight
Mark sat in the back of an armoured truck, studying a map of Cob Hill on his lap. He glanced at his watch, checking how long his convoy had been on the road – they should be nearing the town shortly. The town itself was relatively small, no more than eight blocks in all, however it serviced a large farming community in the surrounding area. When active, the farms had produced a mix of grains and livestock – stuff that the army was in desperate need of back in Geelong. He planned on heading for the town, undertake a clearance of any Infected in the town limits, and then work to recruit farmers to his plans once he’d shown of what they were capable.
The truck swerved slightly on the road, causing Mark to rock in his seat. As he looked up at the distraction, a loud thud sounded from the left corner of the truck, followed by a spray of brown sludge across the windscreen.
‘Jesus, Vinh,’ muttered Steph from the passenger seat. ‘Can’t you just drive around one occasionally?’
Vinh smirked as he looked in the side mirror. ‘Come on, Steph. It’s what these bloody things were designed for.’
‘Yeah, until it breaks down again,’ she said.
Vinh grimaced slightly, concentrating on the road ahead once more. After leaving the army-controlled area around Geelong and nearby towns that had already been cleared, the convoy had encountered moderate numbers of the Infected. But as they’d neared Cob Hill, the number of Carriers seen had significantly decreased. Now it was just the occasional lurching figure across the highway providing target practice for Vinh behind the wheel.
As Vinh cleared a rise, a sign by the highway notified they had arrived at their destination, “Cob Hill: Population 1,200.”
Vinh started to gear down. ‘Hey, Boss,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘We’re here, and it looks like there’s been some type of organized defence in town.’
Mark moved up behind Vinh to look through the front windscreen as the truck eased to a standstill. A makeshift barricade of wood and barbed wire blocked the highway. To either side of the tarmac, the crude perimeter wall continued around the town, enclosing the few urban blocks of houses and shops in a loop of barbed wire. Enough to entangle the occasional wandering Carrier, but useless to prevent the attack of a swarm. The section blocking the two-
lane highway had been mounted on a moveable base to allow access of vehicles when required.
Mark scanned the street behind the barricade – it was empty of movement, as was the dead ground outside. Whoever had made the structure either didn’t have the numbers to guard it, or saw no need to.
Mark pointed a finger at a pair of his soldiers in the back of the truck. ‘You two, I need that obstruction moved. Keep your eyes peeled for any danger, human or Carrier.’
The Privates nodded and climbed out the back doors, weapons at the ready. Mark shut the doors behind them and returned to observe through the windscreen. A set of wide farm gates had been hung from a post to either side of the tarmac. One of the soldiers slid under the gate on his belly to access the locking mechanism on the other side. Within moments, the gates swung wide, allowing Vinh to drive through and pick up the soldiers on the other side.
Mark looked at his map for a moment to confirm his location. ‘Head for the town’s main street, it should run parallel to this road one block to the south. If we’re going to find anyone, that’s probably our best bet.’
Vinh grunted an affirmative and eased the truck back into gear, a low vibration running through the cabin as it picked up speed once again. Mark kept an eye on the last vehicle in their convoy to ensure the gate was secured behind them once again. Its barrier might be basic, but it was better than nothing.
‘Hey Mark, we’ve got some movement ahead,’ said Steph, pointing out a small group of men running toward a motorbike and 4WD as they turned the corner onto the main street. Mark thought he made out some sort of skull/helmet picture on the back of their jackets as they scarpered from the scene.
Mark sighed quietly, feeling mildly deflated at the sight. A bloody outlaw motorcycle gang was the last thing he needed to contend with in the town.
‘You want me to go after them, Boss? They might be the only people left here to question,’ asked Vinh.
Plague War (Book 3): Retaliation Page 6
