by L. L. Akers
“Please,” she begged.
“Would you rather…” the biker taunted. “Eat this wee little mouse, sleep with me, or let your little crumbsnatchers go hungry another day…”
Graysie recoiled at his words and looked at Silva in shock.
She whispered to Graysie. “It’s a little fucked up game they play. That woman and her kids haven’t eaten in two days. This piece of shit wants to bed her, but Cutter will have his ass unless she agrees to it first. We have a No Rape Policy here. It gets broken sometimes, but these guys will try to break the girls first and do it the easy way—easy for them, anyway—rather than invoke Cutter or Smalls’ wrath.”
“Cutter?”
“Yeah, he’s the boss.”
“I’ve seen him. He came to my aunt and uncle’s neighborhood, offering sanctuary here.”
“Yeah, he’s the head recruiter. Let me guess…did someone steal their food first? Or did they have a fire?”
“Their food was stolen. But what does he want with these people if he’s already getting the guns and food? Why keep more mouths to feed?”
“Entertainment for one.” Silva gestured at the window and Graysie’s eyes returned just in time to see the woman obediently open her mouth, like a baby bird, leaning her head back with her eyes clenched tightly closed, but not tight enough to keep the tears from streaming out the edges. She held one of her children’s hands in each of her own. She shook violently.
The man held the frightened mouse over her open mouth, where it fought against the dark hole it hovered over, it’s tiny hands and feet grabbing hold of the sides of her mouth and spreading itself out like a big ‘X.’
The man laughed and poked it in with his fat, stubby finger, and then clamped the woman’s jaw shut with a rough grip. “Chew it,” he demanded hatefully.
The woman heaved, sobbing through a mouthful and chewing rapidly, trying to kill the squirming rodent with her teeth. Graysie heaved along with her, covering her own mouth with her hand. Silva pulled her away before they caught his attention.
They hurried past the rest of the cabins, coming to a huge planted field on one side, and a work area on the other. Silva waved a hand around her. “Here’s the other reason.”
Graysie turned in a circle, looking all around her. Here was another guard tower, looking over a line of heavy equipment parked inside a locked fence on one side. A farm tractor with front-end loader, a Bobcat skid steer, and the military trucks that Graysie had seen come into Tullymore were lined up.
“Where do they get the gas to run all that stuff?”
Silva shrugged. “I don’t know, but they have plenty. They keep it in tanks right behind the trucks. You can’t see them from here. I’m sure they took it just like everything else,” she whispered the last part, glancing up at the guard.
The guard tower also overlooked the field and work area.
A handful of men were chopping and splitting wood off to one side, throwing it into a truck-sized pile, with a guard in green fatigues standing over them, his rifle hanging from a sling at his waist. In the field, dozens more worked silently under watchful eyes. They moved slowly, obviously tired and hot, from the looks of their soaked and soiled clothing.
“They need people to work so they can eat and have clean clothes. And other amenities. They take the teenage boys out on scavenger hunts, sending them into places first in case someone gets hurt. The men are also forced to work outside the camp as often as not, lately. But we don’t know what they’re doing. When they come back—and they always do because they only take the men who have family here—they won’t talk for days. No one but the militia and the bikers know what’s going on outside these gates.”
In another area, woman and teenage girls worked over hot, boiling cauldrons, stirring laundry with wooden oars, while some hung it to dry on a long clothes line.
“See those cages over there?” Silva pointed to two large iron cages that sat near the guard towers, directly in the sun. “Those are used to scare people. That’s our ‘jail.’ So far, I haven’t seen them used for anything but separating stray dogs before they fight them.”
“Dogs?”
Silva nodded. “Big and little. The little ones are used as bait to train the bigger ones. Most that come here have never fought before. They don’t feed them for days, then hang one of the little dogs from a tree, and make it bleed. The bigger dogs are starving by then, and fight over it.”
Graysie shuddered, thinking of Hoss and Daisy and wondering if they were here.
She followed Silva and walked past the two work areas and stopped at a lean-to shack that was set off from the beaten path. The air around the shack was heavy with a tangy, coppery smell that turned Graysie’s stomach. Heavy tarps were hung from the porch roof, mostly blocking Graysie’s view inside, with the exception of two huge, bloody hooks that were mounted to the porch walls. From one hung a furry rabbit, and from the other, a handful of squirrels, all tied together by their tails.
On the wooden plank floor were huge spots of blood, looking all the world like left-over spills of red paint, and a pile of assorted vacated animal skins, waiting to be processed. Graysie stared at the top of the pile, into the empty hulls of a cat’s eyes staring back at her. Its fur was a striped orange. A regular house-cat.
Near a dilapidated rocking chair was a metal bucket, filled to the rim with rusty, bloody, metal tools.
Outside the lean-to, a deer hung from a tall tree, a jagged line cut into its belly and its guts dropping in a steaming pile onto the ground.
A greasy-looking, chubby man in overalls working in front of the deer turned around, wiping his knife on an already-bloody apron. He shot a look to the guard in the tower, gave him a quick suggestive wink, and leered at Graysie with a broken line of teeth, the gaping holes even more sinister than the rotten teeth he did still possess.
He licked his lips.
Graysie shivered in spite of the heat, and Silva put her arm around her protectively. “This one is Smalls,” she said, her chin stuck out. “Hands off.”
Silva led her away. In a whisper, she said, “If there’s a donkey in the camp, it’s probably in there somewhere.” She pointed with her chin to the horrific lean-to as they passed it, nearly bringing Graysie to her knees.
34
The Farm
Grayson paced the floor, waiting on Jake and Gabby to return.
They’d left hours earlier, with plans to make contact with Gabby’s MAG group. It was the mutual assistance group of prepper friends she’d met on the internet, the same group that had saved their bacon once before, in the grocery store.
He’d have preferred to have gone with Jake and Gabby, but had sent Tina and Tarra instead, choosing to stay home and guard the farm with Elmer, while trying to calm Olivia and Ozzie down.
Both were nearly frantic.
He was proud of Olivia for not falling apart—yet—after hearing their news of the camp, and Smalls, the biker from the TWO gang. It helped that she had the Littles: Briar and Brody, in her shadow, watching and listening to every word. She didn’t want to scare the children with her own tears.
In typical Olivia-style, she was a whirlwind of cooking and cleaning, constantly checking the window for signs of her sister, and the company she might bring, her face filled wth worry.
Hours later, Gabby arrived with a hope and a prayer.
She’d found the MAG group’s bug-out location. But all were gone, other than Pete. When she relayed the story to Pete, and asked for their help, he made plans to meet down the road from the camp the day after next, after the rest of his group was due to return from a scavenging trip in town.
Grayson had cursed their luck and slammed his fist into a wall, not wanting to wait. But he was no idiot. There was no way his small group could go up against so many guns alone, and they might only have one chance. He hoped both his daughter and Puck could hold on…
35
Camp
Late the next morning, Cutter stood o
utside the dog pen, his eyes narrowed at Puck, and his hand hovering over his sidearm. His fingers danced in anticipation. “How’d you do that, boy?”
When Puck saw Cutter coming, he knew the man was mad. He walked with angry steps and he had a scary face, and it wasn’t just the scar that scared him. It was his eyes.
He’d scurried to the farthest corner of the pen, and put his back again the wire and his butt on the concrete, trying to make himself small. The three dogs followed and turned, standing in formation between him and the gate where Cutter stood. The canines were shoulder to shoulder; the Pit taking center position.
All three dogs bared their teeth at the man, daring him to come in.
“Do what?” Puck asked in confusion.
“That Pit right there…that’s my dog. He don’t take kindly to strangers, he doesn’t get along with other dogs, and he definitely doesn’t growl at me. He knows I’ll kick his fucking teeth in. What’d you do to him?” Cutter demanded.
“Mister, if this is your dog, you haven’t been very nice to him. He’s all messed up.”
Cutter sneered at him, his scar wrinkling in distaste and his lips curled.
Puck cringed backward, pressing his back against the wire, and willed himself to be brave. “I think you’ve been mean to this here dog, mister. And that’s not very nice,” he mumbled.
“What are you, a retard?”
Puck gasped. “Mama Dee doesn’t allow anyone to call me that, sir. That’s not very nice either. You have bad manners.”
Cutter shook his head in disbelief.
Earlier in the day, someone had brought food and water to the dogs and Puck. He’d saved his to trade, waiting for another kid to walk by. There’d been plenty of them all morning passing through in a hurry, stealing fearful glances at both him and the Pit. The next that came by was more than happy to take his trade; his food for a bottle of the clear medicine in a brown bottle that made bubbles when Mama Dee poured it on his scratches, and some clean bandages.
It’d taken over an hour, but the kid had come through, greedily trading the tin plate of cold scrambled eggs—mostly runny anyway—and burnt, curled Spam for exactly what Puck had asked for.
He’d let the dogs drink their fill of the water, and then slowly made his way toward the Pit with the water that was left over and the supplies, scooting on his bottom and looking a different direction. He’s sang a quiet song under his breath, ignoring the dog. It had taken a long time to get close enough, an inch at a time, but Puck eventually coaxed the dog into letting him into his space. Then he’d cleaned the bad leg and bandaged it up.
After that, he’d ran his fingers gently over the Pit, and sang to him some more, eventually working up to rubbing his sore muscles and earning a loyal friend. Hoss and Daisy had cautiously crept closer and closer until they saw the Pit accepted them as well. They finished the job by cleaning the older dog’s scratches on his face with their tongues while he lounged back and ate up the unfamiliar attention and companionship.
They were a pack now…and the pack had turned on Cutter.
Puck put a protective hand on the Pit, and scratched his back, cooing to him in baby-talk. Cutter spit on the ground and furiously grabbed the padlock, digging in his pocket for the key, when Smalls walked up.
“What’re you gonna do to that kid?” he asked.
Cutter looked over his shoulder at the bigger man, and then back to the lock. “Not sure yet. My nephew died last night, so this kid owes me, and it’s a debt that can only be paid in blood.”
Now Puck shook in fear. He hadn’t meant to shoot that man. He was just trying to stop them from shooting Jenny. He was sorry that he died.
Cutter fumbled with the key, almost getting it in, when Smalls moved his hand, shoving the key away from the lock. “I want this kid.”
Cutter turned around and scoffed. “That’s weird, even for you, Smalls. But no can-do. He’s mine.”
“I’m not asking. I’m telling you,” Smalls growled, standing up to his full height, which was well over four inches taller than the smaller man.
The two men circled each other like mad bulls, one in fatigues, and one in jeans and a leather vest. Both men covered in ink and meaner than two snakes.
“You can’t have them all, Smalls. You already got the girl.”
“Your men have the donkey.”
Puck stood up. “That’s my donkey! That’s Jenny. Where is she?” He ran to the gate, his eyes wide, his fear for himself gone now. “Is Jenny okay?”
Cutter laughed. “Jenny? Damn boy, you are a retard. Couldn’t think of anything more unique than that? I assure you, Jenny is good. Or she will be when the cook gets done with her.”
Puck looked at him in confusion.
“Leave the kid alone,” Smalls demanded. “Don’t tell him that shit, and don’t use that word, either.”
“What the fuck, man? You seriously got a hard-on for this kid, or what?”
“1980 called. They want that word back. And you and I agreed there’d be no unusual cruelty here. That was the deal.”
Cutter scoffed again. “Unusual cruelty? That mule is meat. It’d be cruel not sharing it with the people we have here.”
Puck shook the fence. “She’s not a mule! And I will share! Jenny has enough love for everybody!”
Cutter shook his head at Puck, and laughed. “This kid is a moron.”
Smalls stepped in front of the gate. “The people here would eat fine if your men would give them some of that food they’ve been hoarding for themselves. You don’t need to mess with the donkey.”
Cutter backed up a step. “Your men are eating pretty good too. So are the women they’ve claimed for themselves, I hear.”
“I say good to that. Everybody deserves to eat. We’ve got plenty,” Smalls answered with a shrug. “Now, unlock the gate. I’m taking this boy back to my cabin.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am,” Smalls roared.
A small crowd had gathered, eager to see the two head honchos of the camp go at it. Cutter and Smalls realized their mistake and both stood down. Cutter yelled at the crowd, “Get back to work, or no food rations today.”
They scattered.
Smalls still stood in front of the gate, an unmovable mountain.
Cutter sighed. “Look, Smalls…let’s not split hairs here. How about come to my office and we’ll sort this out.”
“The boy safe here?”
“For now. But know this… there will be payback for my nephew, and it can only be blood. But we can work something out.”
Smalls paused, glaring at him. “You lead,” he finally answered.
Puck watched the men stomp off to decide his fate, and he sunk down to the concrete, one hand still grasping the fence, worry for Jenny squeezing his heart.
36
Camp
Two long sleepless nights passed, with Graysie tucked into the corner of a top bunk, uncomfortably sweating, and quietly swatting at mosquitos all night. She’d been fed only twice, both times a plate of rice and beans, the two days prior, and her constant requests to see Puck had finally raised the ire of Smalls, who until then hadn’t so much as looked her way.
He’d screamed at her to shut up, and sent her to bed.
She’d spent yesterday on her new work assignment, picking June bugs off row after row of tomato vines. She reeked with their putrid smell, and she repeatedly cursed the southern bug that sprayed the toxic-smelling fumes to warn off its enemies. She must’ve picked a thousand, dropping them into a tiny hole in a screen into a bucket…and her legs ached from the constant squats, but her job was better than some she’d seen.
The TWO gang made sure their girls were assigned the best jobs, as most of them didn’t want the women too tired when they returned to their bunks at night. Silva said in the other cabins, the women were treated like house-slaves, made to wash and groom the bikers—and other things—as ordered. When Graysie asked what Smalls required of his girls, Silva hushed her,
sending Graysie a quiet nod toward one of the girls at the bunk across the room.
Silva tapped her ear, and then made the universal sign for ‘talks too much’ with her hand, and she hadn’t been given a private moment since with the Cabin Mom to ask all the questions on her troubled mind.
But it wasn’t a worry the first two nights, as Smalls came to bed long after they did, not purposely waking anyone as he came in. Silva would jump up to do his bidding, and he’d wave her back down again, sending her back to bed in relief.
Graysie didn’t let that soothe her qualms. She didn’t trust him and slept with one eye open, if she slept at all. When she felt herself nod off, she’d pinch the underside of her arm as hard as she could. At this point, she was nearly catatonic with exhaustion and the need for sleep.
Now she lay quietly watching the sun fill the dismal cabin, and thought of home while listening to Smalls snore. The past few hours had been quiet. Before that, she’d listened to several of her cabin-mates quietly weeping off and on. Throughout the night, she’d watched Silva, creeping by moonlight, from one bunk to another, offering comfort and sometimes a few nibbles of food to the four other girls there with them—all of who were Graysie’s age, including two that were Silva’s own daughters.
Graysie wondered what terrible things Smalls had inflicted upon these women and when it would be her turn. Her eyes and mind were in constant motion trying to figure out how to get her hands on a weapon, or how to make one. So far, the only weapons she’d seen—other than the pistol Smalls kept under his pillow when he slept—were the ones the guards or the bikers carried with them, or the rifle that she watched Smalls put in a footlocker before he laid down to sleep.
Even a knife or fork were out of the question, as they were made to eat with plastic sporks. Graysie bit her lip wondering if she could grab his pistol from beneath his pillow before waking him. It would be a huge risk… but one she might be willing to take to get Puck and go home. She made her mind up. If Smalls called her to his bed, she wouldn’t give in without a fight. She’d learned long ago to fight like a man…and she would make a grab for that gun and do her daddy proud.
