“Stay where you are!” One of the Purifiers called from outside the corrugated steel building.
“Give me a break. Poole knows exactly who I am and why I came.” He put his arms out to his sides, shoulder height and did a slow three-sixty. “You can see I'm not armed.”
“What have you got in the Humvee?” the guard demanded.
Jake took a few more steps towards them and blew a cloud of smoke from his lungs. “There's a shotgun in the passenger seat, a pair of binoculars hanging from the rearview and two cases of MREs in the bed. You're welcome to those. I'm sick of always being stuck with the meatloaf at this point anyway.”
One guard rolled his eyes and gave the writer an understanding look. “Trust me, pal. I know exactly how you feel. There's not enough Tabasco in the world to make that crap taste good. Doug, get the shotgun and we'll pull the door. I think the MREs can stay right where they are. Supply room's full of the fuckin' things.”
“No need to close up. A friend of mine will be taking it back out shortly,” Jake told them.
The men ignored him. A pair of them shut the garage up, while the other two continued to watch him, weapons at the ready. They'd just latched the steel door when a shaven-headed man, clothed in what amounted to the Aryan Formal Dress Uniform, strolled over from the office building next to the hydro-electric plant. As the newcomer drew closer, Jake realized this had to be Milo Tompkins. The skinhead wore a white t-shirt, fatigue pants with suspenders (of course), along with Doc Martin jackboots like the gate guards and the quartet watching him. Tompkins came to a halt five yards away and crossed his arms.
“Name?”
“Jake O'Connor,” he replied, giving the guy a closer look.
He was an ugly, harsh-featured man, who looked like he'd been carved out of basalt. His cheekbones and brow jutted sharply under his skin, as if it had somehow been pulled tight over his features. A mask to hide what was contained beneath the surface. At some point past, someone had taken a beer bottle to Milo's head, leaving a long-healed crease of scar tissue. It began just shy of his hairline and ran back over the top of his left ear. He had a pair of swastika—one per arm—tattooed on each shoulder, too. As if the wardrobe wasn't enough of a hint. Tompkins was the same height as Jake, maybe a bit heavier around the waist (but not by much), and he moved with the dangerous fluidity of someone used to mixing it up on a regular basis. He also wore a belt with a Walther P-38 in a polished leather holster, and a wicked looking RAD dagger.
“You the one who set the fire?” Tompkins demanded, motioning vaguely at the column of smoke rising from the southwest.
“I needed a way in and didn't have time to build a giant wooden horse.”
“Why didn't you just keep honking the horn on that piece of shit you drove in and draw them off that way?”
“I wanted something visible. Zombies are stupid. That was sure to get their attention,” O'Connor answered. “What? You think it’s going to bring down the property value in the area or something?”
Tompkins' frown deepened. “How many people did you have w—”
“Look, Milo. That is your name right? Milo?” The tattooed skinhead gazed at him levelly as Jake interrupted and pointed at him with the end of his cigarette. “No offense, but it's none of your damn business. Poole, you know, your boss? He and I have an arrangement. My people aren't part of it, and neither are you. So. Where is he?”
The skinhead's lip curled up in a cruel sneer. “Heard you were a smart-ass. I think you and I need to have a conversation, real soon, about your mouth. Like say, when you should keep it closed. And like when someone who's got a whole lot of armed men nearby asks you a question, maybe you should answer it. Politely. If you don't want to get your ass kicked, that is.”
“Why wait? I think that's a conversation I'd like to have.” Jake dropped into a loose fighting stance.
Tompkins smiled, but didn't move forward and merely waved at the guards. The quartet all chambered rounds and pointed their various weapons unwaveringly at the writer.
“Oh, we'll have the opportunity to dance,” Milo said, eyes seemingly sucking all the warmth from the hot July morning around him. “But for now, I'll grant you your wish. Let's get you in a room with Poole.”
* * *
Jake couldn't understand why they let him keep his crowbar.
Granted, it wasn't much good against semi-automatic firearms, but it was still a weapon. As Tompkins led him through the main structure with the quartet of guards, he saw a few men working on one of the smaller turbines, presumably trying to get it up and working again. There were another three dozen in what looked like the building's cafeteria eating, but that was pretty much it.
They filed up to the fifth floor, entering a row of executive offices after trooping up the stairs. Passing one that stood open, the writer looked inside to see the only furniture within was a fairly nice, queen size, pillow-top mattress set which rested on the floor. There were a total of five more such offices with nothing but beds inside, and he could easily imagine what they were used for. Looking at the impromptu red light district confirmed exactly what kind of lowlife Poole was, no matter how placating his line of patter might have been on the radio.
When they reached the plant manager’s office, Tompkins dismissed two of the guards and, opening the door, directed O'Connor inside. Upon entering, the pair of sentries moved to take position at each end of a large, industrial desk at the far end of the room. Behind them stood a row of eight by ten windows providing a view of the distant Cincinnati skyline. Dead center in the windows, hanging from a copper wire and lag bolts that had been screwed into the cinder blocks, was a large Nazi flag.
Jake discounted the view entirely. The flag, the windows, the “I'm So Important” desk, they were all meant to put someone in a defensive mindset. Unfortunately, for the Purifier's leader, Jake had spent some time being shot at in war-zones, interviewing people who—if given half a chance—would cut his head off, and then ship it to the nearest American embassy FedEx. He could care less about the man's intimidation tactics and mind games.
William Poole was a rail-thin man, with shock salt-dusted hair and a politician’s smile. He looked like he'd spent a lot of time either in tanning beds or the Caribbean before the dead rose in an attempt to consume the world, because he was extremely tan. Jake wondered how a man who looked like the love child of Robert Plant and Howdy Doody had ended up in charge of a racist, para-military organization.
“Ah, Jacob,” Poole said with a smile, his teeth in sharp contrast with his sun-bronzed skin. “I wondered when you'd arrive. I must say, you look exactly as she described you.”
“That's nice.”
“Did you have any difficulty finding our installation?” Poole asked.
The writer shook his head.
Poole sighed. “Jacob, I don't believe there's any need for the two of us to be hostile to one another. I understand your feelings about us holding your friends at the sewage plant before. I even understand your reaction. But neither of us have the ability to change our current situation, so we are forced to make the best of it.”
Jake pulled a cigarette out of the pack in his hip pocket and lit up, as the Purifier's leader rattled on and on about 'cooperation' and 'beneficial working relationships'. It wasn't until O'Connor began blowing smoke rings, that the pale-haired man noticed he was gazing out the window at the city's distant skyline.
Poole raised an eyebrow and asked, “Is there something wrong?”
“Just wondering when you're going to realize I'm not working with you, or adding to the overall survival of your group, or telling you one damn thing for that matter,” he said, causing Tompkins to frown darkly. “At least, not until I watch Karen drive my Hummer out of this fucking rape camp you've got going here.”
The Purifier's leader tilted his head slightly. “Your opinion of our stronghold is a bit inaccurate. We're—”
“Cut the shit, Poole. I spent more time in second and third world countrie
s than I'll ever be comfortable thinking about before all this happened. I've seen brothels before.” The writer came forward to lean his hands on the hardwood surface of the desk. The sentries began to raise their weapons, but Poole waved them off.
“We made a deal. I turn myself over, you let Karen go. Don't think for a hot second I’m going to take your word for it, either. I'm going to talk to her, I'm going to walk her to the Hummer, and I'm going to watch her drive out through your gate. Right now. In chains, if that will make you feel better.” Jake stood upright once more, stuck the American Spirit between his lips, and tried to give Poole a fair imitation of Foster's, squinty-eyed, Stop-Me-Before-I-Kill-Again maniacal glare. “One more thing. If any of your men have taken liberties with her, shall we say? If I find out they couldn't keep their dicks in their pants, or they've so much as pinched he ass... You and I are going to have a serious problem.”
That didn't make Tompkins very happy. He broke off scowling at Jake and glanced at his boss.
“Milo? If you would take Jacob to one of the offices and bring our guest. I'm sure he'll be overjoyed to see her. Afterwards, gather the men. I'll address them in two hours, right before we release Miss Parker.” He smiled at the writer. “Would that be acceptable? Just so no one gets rambunctious and starts something?”
“Fine.” Jake was a little surprised. It was seldom an utter scumbag like Poole would actually keep his word, but he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Enjoy your reunion then. One more thing, though. I hope you understand we'll have to secure you until later?” The guard to the right of the desk produced a pair of handcuffs at Poole's nod. “Milo will take you into the room outside, and we'll provide the two of you some privacy until our men have gathered.”
Jake shrugged and followed the other Purifiers into the hallway with Tompkins. They led him into the last office on the right, cuffed his hands behind his back, and left him sitting on the queen-sized bed with his thoughts. He'd expected Poole's skinhead subordinate to take a couple of shots at him, but Tompkins just smirked when they'd shut him inside.
“Well. This worked out just great,” Jake grumbled to himself.
One of the other guards had been nice enough to rest his crowbar, still in the sheath, against the wall next to the door before they locked him in though. At least he wouldn't have to try to lie down while wearing the thing.
Minutes later, the door unlatched again and a Purifier stepped to one side as it swung open. “We'll be just next door,” he called over his shoulder into the hallway.
Relief washed over O'Connor and he began getting to his feet from where he sat on the mattress. “Karen? Don't worry. They're going to let you go. I made a deal so—”
“Well, you know what they say about deals.”
Nichole strolled in and pulled the door shut.
Jake's stomach dropped, heading for China by was of the center of the earth.
The blonde woman's smile was touched with madness as it bloomed across her face. “Always read the fine print.”
-Chapter Ten-
“Nichole,” Jake said coldly, testing the cuffs that secured his hands behind his back. Nope, still solid and still locked. “You know, I'd like to say I'm surprised to find you here, getting friendly with the slime of humanity, but I'm really not.”
“You always did have a way with words,” his ex-girlfriend laughed and flipped her hair away from her face. She'd taken to wearing it longer—almost down to her waist—as Laurel used to.
She was dressed in the Purifier uniform of the day. White (and extremely tight) t-shirt, camouflaged pants, the works. The difference was, Nichole actually made suspenders look erotic. Her breasts pushed them to the side so they ran over her ribs, as opposed to down the front of her flat stomach. The outfit left an inch or two of her waist exposed and he could tell she'd been emulating Poole in his worship of the sun. Also, instead of Doc Martins, she'd picked up a pair of Gucci equestrian, riding boots from somewhere. She looked healthy and sexy, like a post-apocalyptic, pole dancer. Which, when he thought about it, was exactly what she was. But she still repulsed him beyond words.
Jake looked at her in disgust. “I see you finally found your niche. Helping an asshole like Poole. That's revolting. You know that right?”
The blonde-haired woman laughed delightedly, putting her hands on her hips and sauntering closer. “Please! Who said I was with Poole? He's a fossil.”
“Oh. Tompkins huh?” Jake rolled his eyes. “Yeah, that's a step up on the social ladder. The guy who does the boss-man's dirty work. Let me guess: you hooked up with him at the airport, in Columbus.”
She looked amused as she walked to the bed and sat down caddy-corner to his position. “Very good, Jake. Now let's see if you can figure out the rest.”
He considered it for a minute. “After we booted your nasty ass out along with Mike Barron for attempting to pull that twisted shit with Karen, the two of you—being a pair of morons—went north on the 270 interchange. You made it all of what, four miles? Before figuring out the freeway was a shitty idea and turned off at the airport.”
Nichole's head bobbed up and down. “I knew there was someone in there, from the story you told everybody about you being shot at during your little motorcycle trip. It wasn't that hard to figure out which building they'd taken over, either. All we had to do is drive by once, while I flashed my boobs.”
“Classy,” Jake told her, “and exactly what I'd expect from you.”
“Milo and some of the others came out and took us inside. I realized pretty quickly where the power really was in the group, but Poole's into meat-pipe, so I hooked up with Milo.”
“What about Barron?” he asked. “What exactly prompted that?”
Nichole dismissed the occurrence with a wave. “He got caught trying to sneak into the harem when it was his off night, before we moved here. I was able to tell them exactly where you were going next, thanks to your oh-so-thorough route planning by the way. There wasn't any reason to stay in Columbus anyway. The place is over.”
“You're fucking amazing,” the writer said in disbelief.
“Aren't I though? That's why Milo put me in charge of the harem,” she bubbled.
He snorted. “Figures. He looks like the type.”
The blonde-haired woman frowned fetchingly. “What type?”
“The type who'd be into a whacked-out, bat-shit crazy, half-wit like you,” Jake said brightly. “I take it this little brothel up here was your idea?”
Nichole shrugged, causing her breasts to bounce. It was an amazing sight, which he ignored. “The Purifiers already had a group of women they'd found wandering around somewhere. I organized what we needed contraceptive-wise, and came up with the “entertainment” rotation for the men. We've got eleven girls now. And two guys.”
Jake curled his lip. “So you're the camp Birth Control and Sexual Assault Organizer. That's a new low, even for you.”
She gave him a wicked grin. “It's great. Way more fun than being an exotic dancer ever was. Milo lets me... indulge myself... as long as it doesn't disrupt the schedule. Granted, being the number two to a fierce pirate like Poole allows him to keep me occupied, four days a week. But the other three? I get to play.”
“You're disgusting.”
Nichole laughed and backhanded him. She'd always been a bit prissy, so the blow was weak, but it knocked him off balance. As Jake fell on one elbow she moved to straddle his lap and, taking a grip on his hair, produced a small knife from her back pocket. The blonde then gave him a shallow cut across his chest, which stung like a son of a bitch. As he clenched his mouth shut, she clipped him again across the left pectoral, leaving another six inch slice. Neither was life threatening, just painful and slightly messy. If he managed to survive, he'd have yet more scars to add to his collection.
“Thanks a lot,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “This was my last CBGB shirt, you know? You never did have any appreciation for good music.”
/> She tossed the knife towards the door and shoved him to the mattress.
“I always liked you in this position.” She rubbed her hands along his torso, avoiding the seeping cuts and she ground herself over his hips. Nichole bent down as if to kiss him and Jake turned his head away. She smiled and ran her tongue up the side of his neck until she reached his earlobe, then took it into her mouth. After applying her teeth to it briefly, the ex-stripper pulled back just enough to whisper in his ear. “Karen looked really sexy this way too.”
Sitting up again, she smiled and continued to grind her crotch against O'Connor's as his eyes slowly came back to regard her. “What?”
Her smile grew, and Nichole's eyes hooded in pleasure as her fingers moved to his chest. “She couldn't stop squirming. I get the whole “barely legal” attraction now.”
Jake was horrified. “Tell me you're joking.”
“But that would be lying.” Her eyes sparked with evil mischief. “Truth be told, I was hoping they'd manage to pick you up at that broad's cache, but once Milo brought Karen in? I couldn't wait to get my hands on her. Why do you think I convinced Barron to have a go at her back at that old asshole Foster's place? She was surprisingly responsive, too. Especially for an emotionally pent up prude. I managed to help her break through all those barriers though. We had a lot of fun.”
“I don't believe you!” he exclaimed and twisted away from her. She caught Jake's hair and held his head steady as she went horizontal against him. Nichole rubbed herself along his frame, causing him some discomfort due to the fresh cuts on his chest, but nothing compared to the razors that were running through Jake's mind. She was also getting his blood all over her white tee, but seemed not to notice.
“She was so-o-o hot. Would you believe Poole's cronies actually complained because of all the noise?” He could tell Nichole was getting aroused, due to the way the tips of her breasts scraped against his skin through her shirt as she slid down to nip along his stomach. “She was right here on this bed. I had her cuffed, too. She wasn't going to catch me with a cheap shot like last time.”
Rotting to the Core (Keep Your Crowbar Handy Book 2) Page 20
