Cannibal Corpse, M/C

They’d been hanging low in New Castle, Neb and Slaughter, the last two Disciples, keeping under the radar because there were still a few minor warrants floating on them—probation violation in Neb’s case, assault in Slaughter’s. Chickenshit stuff from before the Outbreak that the John Laws decided still needed to be enforced. And this, Jesus, with half the country in ruins and zombies walking the streets and mad dog militias clashing with the Army and nukes dropping out west. When the cops kicked their way into Neb’s old lady’s apartment, Slaughter had been in the can but he heard what came down, how Neb had run some cover for him so he could get away and then the cops put him down.

And as a brother, as a Disciple, there was only one thing Slaughter could do. While the cops were celebrating their kill, he came out of the bathroom with a MAC-10 that Neb had stashed behind the toilet. The cops saw him. Their shit-eating grins evaporated. They reached for their weapons and Slaughter gave it to them full auto, emptying the clip into them, blowing them apart like party piñatas, their stuffing scattered about in red, runny pools.

Didn’t take long for word to get around that Neb’s old lady—Indiana, she was called—had dimed them, brought the heat down on their asses. Didn’t take long either for Slaughter to hunt her down and do her up proper with a knife. And it took even less time for the State of Pennsylvania to put out a warrant for John Slaughter…three counts of capital murder.

Of course, he tipped that one in the law’s favor by leaving the spent MAC-10 with his prints all over it next to the perforated bodies of the cops. Same went for the knife they found sticking out of Indiana’s belly. But it hadn’t been carelessness on his part. Slaughter had been in and out of county lock-ups, had pulled time in state and federal joints for everything from aggravated assault to armed robbery to battery of a police officer.

He knew the system.

He knew they’d match his prints.

And he wanted them to. Because that was part of the 1% lifestyle, that was part of the blood oath and the brotherhood—you’re good to us, we’re better to you; you fuck with us, we bring hell down upon your ass. The cops had murdered Neb in cold blood just because they wanted to and because they thought they were above the law. So Slaughter had returned the favor and took out them and their rat. It was a way for the world of police and criminals to know one thing: you hurt a Disciple, you get it in kind and no badge or court system or witness protection program will save your ass.

It was a statement. Because in the outlaw biker world, respect and fear were the primary tools of enforcement.

So Slaughter ran west.

And he was still running.

Running into a deep dark pocket of desolation where they wouldn’t find him.

And if they did, well, out in the Deadlands it would be war to the knife.

Chapter Six

Around noon when those sweetgrass Minnesota hills were so close he could smell them and feel their freedom chugging in his veins along with his blood, he came across a compound that was secured with a chainlink fence and had guard towers set at its perimeter.

Right away, it intrigued him.

Funny a place like this, out here.

The idea of that reached out, gripped him, held him, made him downshift and circle back around. He figured he was in no hurry, though once he was across the big river and into the Deadlands he was going to breathe easier.

Slaughter pulled to a stop on the hill, dug in his saddlebags and brought out a pair of compact Minox binoculars. They came in handy when you needed to see what was down the road a piece. He scanned the compound. No sign of life. Lots of weathered gray blockhouses lined up like ranks of tombstones. Nobody in the guard towers. No movement anywhere. It looked deserted.

He decided he needed to have a look see.

He pulled up to the gates cautiously. They were locked with chains and rusty padlocks. The gate was the only spot along the high fence that didn’t have barbwire spooled atop it. It was here or nowhere. Strapping on his web belt with the Combat Mag in its olive-drab holster and the Kukri in its leather sheath, he climbed up and over, dropping into the dirt drive on the other side. He followed it up to the first row of buildings, his motorcycle boots kicking up clouds of dust. Most of the windows were either boarded over by unfinished planks or broken out completely. He tried one door, then another, both were locked. Both shook in their frames and he figured he could have kicked his way through had the need struck him.

But it didn’t.