And in Abigail he saw a sickness to be sure. A sickness of the mind that afflicted her every action, that poisoned even the air she moved through. It stunned him that he had not been able to see it before. His idiot lust had blinded him.
She was crazy, sure enough, and crazy didn’t have a place in the Cauldron. Foolhardy, sure. Brave, definitely. Mean, callous, vicious, and dangerous—all of these had a place.
But the Cauldron was built on a bedrock of discipline, and discipline had no place for crazy for crazy itself had no place for discipline.
Carthage approached through the camp, walking through the various shanty tents and tall spiraling piles of wood that the Cauldron used for its signal fires. The Sooner crew—hard soldiering men from Oklahoma that Brall trusted as steadfast shock troops in the thick of battle—hailed Carthage as he walked past. With those men, Brall soon would be ready for war. A few days at most.
Bikes rumbled down the trail. A convoy, most like, though Brall had not heard of one leaving that day.
Strange.
At the head of the group was Troy—the lieutenant from the Family. His gun out. Brall could see it all happening before it did, useless foreshadowing that preceded the action itself only by moments. Not enough to be heard. Not enough to change anything. Only enough to feel helpless.
Two bikes rushed forward and knocked Carthage around in the road. Chains swinging out like thunderbolts. A pipe, reading at easily fifty miles an hour, hit him in the leg. Somehow he only fell to a knee, swearing and promising revenge. The next bike hit him in the head. Like clockwork they went, knocking him down. Troy swept by and shot him three times in the back and then all seven of them drove out into the wastes.
Their bikes motored into the distance and Carthage was left motionless on the ground. Dead or dying. No way around it.
Brall grabbed Garner. A stout man, long burn scars down one side of his face. He was fast and able as any on his bike.
“You bring me a head from them,” Brall pointed to the trail of dust behind Troy and his men, “or you don’t come back here.”
Garner nodded and in less than a minute he and six others were off.
Brall, though, stayed behind. Everyone understood. It wasn’t just to grab Carthage’s barely alive body and get it out of the road—though there was that. It was in case there was another round of attacks. The Cauldron would need leadership present. There was a protocol to every eventuality.
And whether Garner succeeded or not, there was another protocol the Cauldron was now apart of. With the indoctrination of Abigail, they had hit the Family. The Family had hit back.
Chapter 13:
Robin snuck out from the Compound on her own—with Abigail nowhere to be found to serve as an escort (and with Robin certainly not trusting anyone else to escort her)—and arrived at the general store a full half-hour before she had arrived the day before, hoping beyond hope that Brall might have the same idea. They could ease the day away again, somehow morphing the bare minutes of time they had together into hours or even days of full-blast loving. Instead, though, she waited, and waited. Just like she had waited last night.
God, to taste him again...to feel that gorgeously hot spray land against her throat. Her fingers digging into those chiseled-hard abs. Nails sliding into that tight, sculpted ass, tugging it hard so his crotch slammed against her needy face for more and more of his enormity. Her body burned with the need to feel that again.
To feel that, and to feel so much else. To feel him inside of her. For him to be her first. For him to know that she was pure, totally pure, totally his. His little virgin slut, made for him to fuck and own and even impregnate, if he wanted.
God knows Robin already wanted that. Her body swelling and changing because of his seed. Her tits filling up with milk his load had inspired. Her belly pushed outward, a new curve for her brutal stud warlord to admire. Her body gaining that weight, that heft, so that she could withstand his hard, ruthless fuckings even better.
Her body felt somehow incomplete without that seed now. Without his cock inside her. Without being pregnant just for him.
She didn't know why he hadn't shown up last night. She could only assume—when she was being positive—that he had been held up for some reason. He must have had a million responsibilities as the leader of the Cauldron.
But a darker part of her mind insisted that she was just some fuck to him. That he told her he loved her just to keep on a string. That he was a brutal warlord, incapable of real feelings like love or trust. A being of pure lust, of pure instinct. But that made her hot to think of, and getting hot made her think that maybe it was all real, that he did want her like she wanted him, that it was all meant to be between the two of them...
The town felt strangely empty, like something had happened. But if it had, there was no one around to tell her. She nodded to the general store owner, Kachen.
“Quiet today.”
“Yes, ma’am. There was a ruckus outside the walls earlier. I think it spooked everybody. You want a walk home, you let me know and I’ll shut down the shop.”
She took his deference with dignity. “Thank you, Mister Kachen. But I don’t think that will be necessary.”
After wandering through the shop for a few moments, pretending to care about the dry-packaged peach slices coated in “real pacific salt!”, she stepped toward the back, pretending to notice something out the door. It was a stupid charade, and probably Kachen saw straight through it, but she couldn’t stop herself from trying. Just like she couldn’t stop herself from hoping Brall would be there early.
But instead of Brall, it was Abigail. Her lovely, busty blond friend wore her usual tight garb—skintight jean pants and a t-shirt full of holes, showing her expanse of tit flesh to the world.
“H-hey!” She smiled at her old friend. “Where were you last night? Case was asking about you.”
“You and him are getting tight and tidy already, huh?”
Robin shook her head, face quizzical. She had seen Abigail acting this way before—her stance and her tone. It was the way she talked to men who weren’t Case. The men she thought weren’t worthy to fuck her. The men she thought weren’t worthy to be around her.
“I...” Robin smiled and laughed, trying to warm her friend up. “If you think I’m super excited or whatever about screwing with what you and him have, I’m not, Abigail. I was a little freaked out yesterday, I admit. But if I can help you, I’ll help you.”
She interlaced her fingers into Abigail’s. A gesture they had made a million times chatting about this excitement or that. To their right, behind the shop, was the long wall that surrounded the town. Bikers could be heard outside of it, rumbling and rolling. The sheet metal shifted and rattled, clanking against the hard concrete underbelly of the wall. This was a common sound and neither of them took much notice of it.
Abigail’s eyes cast down. There was shame, there? Recalcitrance? It was hard to know.
“Really,” said Robin. “I know it’s taboo, or whatever, with him being your brother.” He was really Abigail's stepbrother, but Abigail had never referred to him as such. “But if you two love each other you ought to be one another. No matter how forbidden or anything. I want you to be with him. If we came to him together, we could make him see it. Couldn’t we? I could even like...” she shrugged, smiling wickedly. “I could urge him on to do it, or something. I could tell him what a man he’d be, to be the first one to marry his sister proper. It’s not like you’re blood related. It would be fine.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Well, not all by itself, but—”
“No. None of it. You’re late to the game, Robin. I put it all in motion already.”
Robin’s head tilted. More riders circled outside, their thunderous vibrations rolling across the wall. They were close, for some reason. The roof of Kachen’s store shook up and down from the trembling air.
“What are you talking about?”
“I know you
were coming out here to be with Brall, Robin. Did you think I was stupid? Do you think I am now? I’m not stupid, Robin.”
Robin stuttered. “I-I know you’re not stupid, Abigail. Nobody thinks you’re stupid.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me about Brall when I told you about Case?”
“I-I-I don’t know.” Her shrug was deep. “I just, I don’t know, I—”
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
“Sure it matters. You’re mad about it. So let’s talk, and—”
“I slept with Brall. With all of them.”
Around them, the motoring sounds of the bikers were suddenly gone. All that thunder, all that vibration, no longer around. The words were like firebombs thrown in the dark. Molotov cocktails, spinning and spinning through the air, their contents not quite landed yet. The fire still not catching.
“I don’t understand.”
“I went to Carthage. You know, their big black guy? He’s like Brall’s second-in-command. I went to him, and I asked to be indoctrinated. And Carthage set it up for me. He thought he was doing Brall a favor, I think. He thought Brall was still in love with me. You remember that, right? I guess it’s just normal for you to be what men move onto after they’re done with me.”
“That’s not fair, Abigail. I—”
“—Anyway. I went to their camp last night and they fucked me. All of them. Or, eight of them. But that was enough. It was some time just walking here, I’ll tell you. Those Cauldron boys,” she licked her lips. “They really know how to fuck a woman. All I was to them was just three holes and a pulse. I loved it. Every last second of it. And I loved it when Brall fucked me, too. I think I might keep him. His love for you was so new, I mean. The crush he had on me?” Abigail put a finger to her chin. “That takes precedence. I think I’ll draw it out of him again. It should be pretty easy. He seems to just love any kind of woman he shouldn’t have. You know, his cum inside me felt fucking terrific? I wonder if he got me pregnant. I bet he did. So virile. And you haven't even fucked him yet, have you? Not properly? He'll never knock you up now that he's—”
Robin slapped her. The sound was thick, reverberating around the two for some seconds.
The skin on Abigail’s cheek became red. Her gaze murderous just for a few instants. And then she started to laugh.
“So angry, Robin. And for what? Some guy you barely knew who didn't even take your cherry? I’m your friend. You should be on my side.”
How dare she. Robin couldn’t believe her ears. The way the truth got twisted up in Abigail’s head. It was like words and perception went in one end and got caught in a grinder, all mixed together and tossed out in a mess of cluttered, concentrated thought.
“You should be on my side,” insisted Robin. “Instead you’re just...I don’t even know what you’re doing. What’s your game, Abigail? Why are you doing all of this?”
Abigail appeared hurt. She circled her toe in the dirt. “Maybe it’s because I’m just super attracted to you and I want us to be left alone with each other?”
Before Robin even had time to react to that—and it would take quite some time to—Abigail had slipped her hands around her neck and pulled her in for a deep, scorching-hot kiss. Their tongues melded together easily, sweetly. All the kissing practice they had done in the past was just that—practice. Practice for men. It was nothing for Temple girls to practice their kissing, to make sure they would be good enough for men.
But this was the real deal, with real passion behind it. A hot, mewing noise emanated from the back of Robin’s throat as she found herself sinking into her beautiful friend’s clutches.
And then just as soon as she found herself truly forgetting where she was, forgetting all about what was happening, what was said, believing even that maybe Abigail was nursing some big-time crush on her, Abigail pulled away. Laughing. Giggling. That wild look in her eyes.
What the fuck was happening?
“’Maybe it’s all really about me! Maybe I’m the center of it all. Maybe Abby's got a great big ol' crush on me?' God.” Abigail rolled her eyes. “You’re past due for some growing up, Robin. I’ve got my reasons for everything, but I don’t trust you for a minute, and why should I? You want to make every last thing about yourself.”
The words were one thing. But there was real, hot passion in that kiss—the same sort of passion that Robin had felt from Brall. Maybe Abigail wasn’t able to feel anything real without throwing up walls around it, directing anyone who probed all the way ‘round her needs. That way, they were safe. Untouched. They couldn’t be maimed in any way. They couldn’t be called taboo or forbidden. They couldn’t be shot down by people with more power than her.
“That’s not true,” said Robin. “You know that’s not true. I’m—” she took a breath. “You seem really upset about a whole lot, Abigail. I think a lot of terrible things are about to happen because of what you did. Case is going to be furious. I wish you had...” she stopped, shaking her head. “I wish it had been possible for us to talk about everything before it got this bad.”
“We didn’t.” Abigail walked off. “And it’s your fault, as far as I’m concerned. Deal with it.”
Chapter 14:
Robin’s taste was still on Abigail’s lips when she returned to Brall’s camp.
She ignored the sweetness of it, the residual warmth that she hadn’t ever felt from a woman before. It was, despite all her posturing, the first time she had kissed a woman like that. Beyond practice. Beyond pretending it was Case—she kissed Robin and kissed Robin, no pretending it was a man. She hadn’t expected herself to like it so much.
The camp was in a bustle. Something had happened. She’d been gone all morning, leaving before first light to get into Temple without any questions asked of her.
Women in the Family were kept, it was true. But they had certain rights to be enjoyed. Freedom to move about the town. Freedom to make purchases on their own judgment, to make repairs at their own convenience, to settle disputes between other women or even Kin, and even if the Kin were shopkeepers or traders. She could do whatsoever tasks she set her mind to doing and whatsoever she thought needed doing took priority. In short, she had free will, within certain parameters. And free will within parameters was most of civilized life anyway, as far as Abigail could tell.
Life for women in the Cauldron was...different. A strange combination of more discipline and more debauchery.
First of all, a woman seemed to belong to any man at all unless she was told explicitly otherwise. And a rider who claimed a woman for his own had to forgo extra shares after looting or raiding or any legitimate transactions, to make up for what he was shorting his brothers in pussy.
And yet even though the women were passed around more freely than in the Family—and seemed incredibly open to being shared and used—they still had their own duties to attend to. The maintenance, repair, and cleanliness of all weapons, vehicles, and structures was left solely to the women, each with a specified task. A woman would work solely on cleaning and polishing guns, and another next to her would work on tightening its barrel or adjusting its sights, and another next to that one would work solely on cleaning and polishing another sort of gun, and so on.
It was all stratified and decided beforehand, with efficiency as king. If a woman was called by a rider to attend him as he rested, she would leave her work exactly where she left it, and after being dumped full of hot, virile seed in her mouth or ass or pussy, she would return to work with a pleasant smile on her face and the knowledge that her work was helping her men do their jobs.
The organization and discipline surprised Abigail, she supposed, because Brall and his road-worn compatriots did not look—at first glance—like they would thrive on such discipline. But they truly did.
Brall stood over a table, maps arranged in the open with small stones keeping them in place. His lieutenants were around him, each of them conferring with one another and with Brall in kind.
It was their d
ress, Abigail realized. Or their lack of it. The Cauldron wore mostly what the Family wore—whatever they could put together. Loose leathers, canvas pants and shirts, buckles crafted from melted down bullet casings and helmets rounded out from hubcaps. The main difference was their black and red patch—canvas again—stitched onto their leather vests.
But the Family had vests, just as the Cauldron had vests. Vests with badges of honor and respect; vests that were as good as anything about signifying who they were.
It did make them seem similar, though, despite all their differences. She wondered idly how the Cauldron would respond to the suggestion of actual uniforms. Brall would probably love it, as he loved all instances of uniformity to his will.
Quickly, though, Abigail shut the thought away. She didn’t care. These weren’t her people. They never would be.
Brall saw her sauntering through the camp and called her over. He looked upset.
“Where have you been?”
“In town. What’s it to you?”
“There’s places for women in the Cauldron, and—” he wiped his jaw briefly. “I ain’t getting into it. Nevermind. Just know that you got a job. The Matron was wanting to put you on duty in the garage this morning.”
Their “garage” was little more than a long series of tents connected to the outside of a gym they used as a training area. She didn't do a good job of not showing her disbelief.
“Anyway,” said Brall, “it doesn't matter. We’ve been rounding up the women to get below deck.”
“What for?”
“You didn’t hear?” His eyes narrowed. “You didn’t hear. Carthage was killed.”
“Carthage? Your Carthage?”
“Yeah. Shot down. Right there.” He pointed to the road leading into Temple.
“By who?”
“Who the hell do you think?” He shook his head. “I ought to string you up and leave you to dust out in the wastes. He was worth a thousand of you.”
Gang Up: A Bikerland Novel Page 7
