Not surprisingly, the first to rise in the morning is Orabella who's stomach still houses a rather persistent nervous ache. The absence of her husband becomes more nerve racking and heart wrenching as the hours tick by. With the sun still barely hidden, she strolls up to the mess hall where Karen usually does her cooking to find herself a hot cup of coffee to snap her nerves back into normalcy.
The morning is cool and silent with a gentle breeze massaging the landscape under the clear, brightening canvas of blue. Small happy song birds no longer exist in this world as they have been eaten by the larger, mutated birds of the earth. Every so often, loud noises echo through the streets from deep within the city limits. Some sound like rapid gunshots or muffled explosions. Many times screams of helpless victims find their way to the 'graveyard' on the constant breeze. The scariest and most chilling part about these noises for Orabella is the fact that any of the gunshots or screams could be a product of her husband and brother-in-law facing serious, life or death situations.
Once again, a heavy wave of deliciously pungent heat is overwhelming as Orabella opens the door to the toasty mess hall. Salty goodness of pounds and pounds of bacon sizzle and pop aligned together on the white hot griddle top. The second obvious smell is an inviting one for Orabella as her eyes fall upon more then a dozen rounded coffee pots bubbling gently on their hot plates.
Finding a clean, white porcelain coffee mug, Orabella pours it to the brim with the rich amber liquid. Drawing the first smoldering sip between her lips, a warm sensation drowns her knotted stomach and sends an energizing wave coursing through her veins as her nerves finally relax. Karen emerges from within her den of delicious food and offers Orabella an inviting smile.
"You're up early. The food isn't ready yet."
"Oh, that's okay. I never sleep very late."
"Is the coffee hot enough?
"Oh yes, it's fine. Very refreshing."
"You might want to head out of here. The bikers will be coming in throngs any minute now. They'll have their hands all over you."
"Thanks for the heads up but I'm sure you could use some help in the kitchen."
"Well, since you are offering... here here, follow me." Orabella follows Karen back through the swinging doors into the sweltering kitchen to find the griddle of tender bacon and many belching ovens. The intense heat is overwhelming evident by the gallons of perspiration staining Karen's apron.
"How can I help?" Orabella looks around.
"Keep the bacon on the griddle fresh for me while I mix some dough for fresh bread."
"Umm, okay..."
"When a piece looks done just throw it in the bowl and replace it with a raw piece."
"Sure thing."
The amount of bacon to be prepared is staggering to make sure there will be enough to feed all the soon to be rising bikers. Each long, thick strip cracks and snaps as they cook towards perfection. As the rarity is fried from the meat, the strips wrinkle up and shrink to half their original size. A fresh raw strip is plopped down in place of each finished one. One by one, each strip is cooked, flipped and tossed on top of each other into a big steel bowl.
Meanwhile, Karen uses a large wooden spoon to mix pounds of flour with rich milk, water, sugar, and wheat. The putty-like mixture turns into a bulbous lump as the wooden spoon alchemizes the recipe. Once completely mixed, Karen calls over Orabella to help her dump the caldron's contents onto a counter to be rolled out. Obviously having done it thousands of times, Karen divides the giant lump of dough into ten smaller lumps and continues to load them into bread tins to create individual loaves.
With sweat pouring off of her, Orabella exits the kitchen to the mess hall for a refill of her coffee mug. A few inhabitants have taken refuge in the hall sipping coffee and laughing and joking at a distant table. They glance over Orabella and make a few gestures amongst themselves to suggest their pigheaded desires, but overall they leave her alone. With each passing minute, the mess hall grows more crowded. Johan enters in the company of the slightly out of shape Hollowpoint. They appear to be deep in conversation as they both look thoroughly interested in each others words.
Ample supplies of food are devoured by loud, hungry bikers as they wash it all down with gallons of piping hot coffee. The rest of the crew has arrived and joined Orabella for toast, bacon and coffee. A look of concern still blatantly paints her face which Alieana immediately notices as she takes a seat across the table from the melancholy Orabella.
"Is he still missing?"
"What? Oh yea, they haven't come back yet."
"I'm sure he's fine..." Alieana tells her uncertainly.
"I'm not so sure."
Alieana just looks at her food and takes a sip of coffee knowing that there is nothing she can say. The stark reality is that Captain Ferrari's chances of survival grow slimmer and slimmer with each passing minute spent in the hell that is Washington D.C.
Igor and Molotov enter and approach the still chattering Johan and Hollowpoint.They exchange a few words and then turn their attention to Saul and Fergus. Their mission of the day is about to get underway. Molotov is geared up in his black leather vest and boots, blue jeans and Tec 9 hanging from a strap around his shoulder. Igor also dawns his denim and leather with a 9mm Glock fully automatic pistol. Hollowpoint nods to them and heads off to find his gear. As he reaches the table, Molotov's face grows an adventurous expression.
"You boys ready to show us what you're made of?"
"You're looking at two fine men," Johan assures him.
"Well go get your pieces and meet me and Igor at the gate. There has been a slight change in plan today, a little more work is at hand but the reward will be good."
"Damnit all then, let's get out there," Fergus wolfs down one more piece of bacon and stands boldly, ready for another adventure.
The three stride back to their garage barracks to retrieve their weapons and can't help but notice the two large rigs now parked at the entrance gate of the compound. Johan scoops up his Dragunov and jacks a shell into the chamber and slides the ivory handled revolver into his holster. With his old .45 Colt firmly in his holster, Saul checks his spare Kalashnikov clips and finding they're all full, lifts the rugged Russian rifle and jacks in a shell. Still wearing his slightly goofy yet slightly sadistic smile, Fergus breaths on his .50 Desert Eagle and wipes the condensation away leaving a handsome shine. Next, he retrieves the old reliable Benelli 12 gauge along with a bandolier full of shells and Desert Eagle clips and tosses it over his shoulder.
Locked and loaded, the three reemerge into the bright morning sun and make their way to the humming behemoths that are a faded red Mac dump truck and flat black John Deere skidder with powerful metal arm and claw. Flanking the steel machines sit two rumbling bikes with Igor and Molotov perched atop them.
As the three get closer, Hollowpoint pulls up and takes the lead. He also wears his leather and jeans. Two small black pistols rest inside shoulder holsters under his arm pits along with a powerful looking combat shotgun with a cut down barrel strapped to his back. The beastly tangle of steel roaring between his legs is a testosterone fueled Harley Davidson Night Train painted flat black with z-bar handle bars and menacing spikes jutting from the rims. The gas tank is tagged with a cryptic silver 'V'. Molotov's bike is also completely blacked out but is in the Harley Crossbones model with black leather saddle bags filled with dynamite, grenades, and molotov cocktails. His gas tank is emblazoned with skeletal hand that gives the impression of it clawing it's way though the steel of the basin. Lastly, Igor sits atop the less powerful but extremely sharp looking Iron 883 in primer gray with the gas tank decorated by a type of Norse warrior. All three also sport black half helmets. Hollowpoint cuts his engine, removes his helmet and looks at their three guests, Johan is in the lead.
"Alright hot shot. You said you can handle the skidder, show me what you got." "You got it," Johan turns to the flat black, humming leviathan, steps onto the running board and propels himself into the machine's cockpit. Not having operated a machine like this is in over fifteen years, Johan glances around the controls and it all slowly comes back to him.
"You two can climb up into the dump truck and we'll be on our way. I'll take the point. As we collect steel we'll head in the direction of the old armory where we got some intel about a whole cache of C4, they say a whole ton. The General says Mick Victor will love that amount of boom power."
"Yer drivin' boyo," Fergus chuckles as he hops up into the passenger seat. Hollowpoint reignites his hog's engine, nestles his dome into the padded comfort of his helmet and makes a motion with his hand over his head as if to say "move out". The two sentries at the gate begin to raise the door and Hollowpoint slowly pulls out into the metropolitan wasteland.
Johan slowly presses the throttle forward and the two ton animal springs into motion with a lurch. The skidder growls and rumbles as it belches out plumes of black smoke. Rolling from the gate, Saul is close behind in the dump truck. Igor and Molotov flank the convoy as they creep along like a giant battalion of steel and fire power.
Most of the vehicles in this area have been cleared away, most likely because they were easiest to scavenge for the club. Inching forward, they gradually pick up speed, Hollowpoint leads them through abandoned streets. After five minutes of chugging along, they finally come to a cluster of long dead vehicles. Pulling off to the sidewalk, Hollowpoint cuts his engine, removes his helmet and places it on his handle bars. Igor and Molotov pull up beside him and do the same. They glance around in different directions to make sure they aren't being watched even though they most likely are. Hollowpoint looks up into the skidder cockpit and motions to the first car in the street.
"Alright, you see that shitty old Saab? Well we're going to start ripping it and i want you to use that claw to load the scraps into the dump truck. You got it?"
"I hear ya," Johan nods as Hollowpoint moves to instruct Saul.
"I need you to get yourself turned around so you're boy can load you up. And I want the big man down on the ground so we have another set of eyes while the vehicles are being ripped."
"Will do," Saul revs the engine as Fergus climbs down from the high cab. He walks around the grill and joins the three bikers on the sidewalk. Molotov reaches inside one of his saddle bags and removes a small butane cutting torch, he hands it to Igor and removes one more.
"Let's rip that Euro piece of shit."
With dark sunglasses shielding their eyes and black bandanas around their mouths, Igor and Molotov move to the broken down Swedish vehicle. They begin by ripping at the roof. Slowly, the small jets of incredibly hot flame eat through each reinforced panel as the roof slowly loosens. With each support felled, the two bikers toss the metal sheet into the center of the road. Next, they open the doors and begin to blast away at the rusted hinges. As the door panels fall away, they crudely tear away the pieces of useless plastic, cotton and glass. The pile in the center of the pavement grows larger as the sad vehicle looks more and more like a decrepit skeleton.
Johan creeps forward in the direction of the disemboweled automobile. Slowly and gently, he grips the crane controls and eases the arm into action. With a jerking motion, the claw grasps in the direction of the scrap metal and clangs down into the pile. Closing the fingers, the scraping of metal on metal cuts into their eardrums. Johan draws back the arm and is not impressed to see the jagged fingers completely empty. With a deep breath of determination, he gives it a second try. Repeating the same action, Johan uses the controls like an old fashioned claw machine trying to win his lovely Martina a smiling plush teddy bear. A loud creak rings out as the claw locks ahold of two different stripped door panels.
With extreme concentration, Johan swings the load around, centers it over the dump truck bed and drops it with a loud crash. Simple as that. Wearing a confident scowl, Johan focuses and quickly loads the entire ripped car into the dump truck's bucket. Saul flashes him a thumbs up and even Hollowpoint looks thoroughly pleased with Johan's performance. By the time the Saab is all loaded, Igor and Molotov have moved to the next vehicle, a Jeep Grand Cherokee, and begin ripping it as well. As with the Saab, Johan loads the scraps into the bed of the truck and Johan grins with approval.
Fergus looks around to observe his surroundings trying to find something to quell his boredom. The tall metal buildings love to play games with the eyes and mind of the paranoid. Every fleck of dust flying on the breeze appears to be a raider or cannibal stalking them for the kill. With his Benelli locked firmly in his hands, a small twitch develops above his lip. The loud creaking and clanging makes the paranoia even worse at not being able to distinguish the sounds of the landscape.
Hollowpoint also observes closely, almost knowing they are being observed. He turns to look into a small building behind him and notices a rustling from within. Subconsciously, he draws one his Glock 10mm from it's shoulder holster and slowly approaches the blackened bowel of the building. Fergus also takes notice of Hollowpoint's observation causing him to draw his Desert Eagle and follow behind at a slight angle.
On the cusp of the open door, a scared trembling voice emits from within. At first, the words are illegible coming as timid gibberish. Hollowpoint scowls, looks down his sights and beckons the hiding being.
"Who's there? We're not here to hurt you."
"I, we... just go... or else."
"You need to show yourself or else."
"Well... I..." there is a slight pause followed a bright flash and echoing crack of a gunshot. Hollowpoint parries to his right opening a free shot to Fergus. On cue, the big Scotsman rips off three shots into the dark doorway. A figure within can he be heard crumpling into a pile on the ground. Fergus bounds to Hollowpoint's side and is relieved to find him unharmed.
"Son of a fuckin' bitch!" Hollowpoint hollers.
"You alright boss?"
"Yea, clear that fuckin' room."
On cue, Molotov runs to the doorway with a grenade clutched in his hand. Pulling the pin, he tosses the round explosive inside and a hollow eruption fragments the building's interior. Another yelp signals the presence of one more felled inhabitant.
"Come on, let's move on," Hollowpoint moves to his bike and fires it up to continue on their mission.
Deeper within the ghostly ruins, the feeling of being watched is even greater. The skidder still belches smoke and the dump truck rumbles forward with Fergus itching to shoot something. At a four way intersection, Hollowpoint signals with his right hand that they will be turning right.
Nothing else stands in their way on their trek to the armory. They pull up to a small shed-like building surrounded by a high concrete wall topped with barbed wire. The front gate is still firmly in place and barricaded by steel reenforced concrete slabs and padlocked cyclone fence. Hollowpoint glances back at Molotov who on cue, gets off his bike, removes a bundle of dynamite from his saddle bag and strolls up the military grade barricade. Expertly placing a few in sticks in precise locations, the demolitions expert arms the fuse and slowly backs away while uncoiling the detination cord. Once free of the blast radius, Molotov attaches the cord to a small box containing a metal handled plunger. Placing it on the ground, he steps on the plunger causing a charge to shoot down the cord and into the explosive sticks. An earth shattering blast sends chunks of steel and concrete raining all around them. As the dust clears, a clear path through is visible. The hole is large but not large enough to allow access to the hulking skidder and dump truck. Noticing this, Johan and Saul both cut their engines and join the bikers at the jagged opening.
"This place looks pretty much untouched but proceed with caution just the same," Hollowpoint swings the shotgun off his back and keeps it at the ready. The six of them slowly approach the armory which sits in the center of a small parking lot lined with sandbags. Approaching the front entrance, Hollowpoint stops and observes the solid steel door.
"This should be pretty cut and dry. Our intel says that the explosives are just stored here in bulk, getting this door open may be a problem though."
"Yup, she's locked up tight. Taker her down?" Molotov holds up another stick of TNT suggestively.
"It won't set off the stuff inside?" Johan asks.
"Nah, that shit needs a fuse to be dangerous. It might as well be a harmless two tons of plastic right now."
Molotov steps up to the door and tapes the red stick in the crease of the door over the area that should contain the lock. After cutting an extra long fuse, he gives his lighter a flick and the fuse begins to sizzle madly. They jog away and shield their ears from the impending explosion. Just as the wall before, a loud bang is followed by the sound of the falling rain of rubble. Hollowpoint steps first, through the newly created hole.
"Alright, let's get this shit loaded. These explosions will be attracting every fuck up and psycho in ten square miles."
"How much is there boss?"
"Sure as fucking shit aint two damn tons," he says in disgust looking at five large wooden crates.
"Still, better then no shit at all," Molotov heads to the first box, lifts it to his waist and notices it weighs around fifty pounds. "This shit could still level a couple street blocks."
"Yeah, yeah. Just get it loaded."
In quick order, Fergus, Saul, Johan, Igor, and Molotov take control of the plastic explosives. Wearing a scowl, Hollowpoint paces around the room and his attention is stuck on a small cabinet that appears to be locked up tighter then a bank vault. He scratches his chin and ponders his predicament.
"What the fuck you reckons in there?"
"Couldn't tell ya, want me to bust her open?" Molotov offers.
"Give it a try. I'm intrigued."
So Molotov goes about trying to crack the secure metal cabinet. Outside, the rest of the crew takes a second to chill. Igor smokes a cigarette and kicks his boots about in the dirt out of boredom.
"Chill out you ADD crack baby," Hollowpoint grumbles. Igor stops, snuffs his nose and leans against his bike. His eyes dart around the landscape nervously as a twitch develops in his neck.
"Whatcha so antsy fer?" Fergus asks.
"The fuck you mean? I'm fi-" a seering whistle cuts the air and a red fountain explodes in the middle of Igor's chest. The impact sends him sprawling out over his bike, smearing it with blood.
"Son of a bitch! Get inside!" Hollowpoint turns quickly and ducks back inside. Johan, Saul and Fergus follow behind him as another shot ricochets off the steel sided weapons depot. Molotov whips around in alarm.
"The fuck is going on?"
"They got Igor."
"They? What the hell is going on?"
"They picked off Igor. Now get that fucker open."
They sit patiently as Molotov continues to fiddle with the cabinet. Using the butane torch, he blasts away at the rugged hinges attached to the swinging door. The black metal gets bright white.
"Fuck it, put your heads down boys," with the metal still bright white, Molotov steps back, aims his Tec 9 at the smoldering hinges and swiftly sends a burst of ammo vertically into the cabinet. The hot metal is blown away and the steel door falls open awkwardly.
"What do we got?" Hollowpoint asks greedily as Molotv carefully reaches inside around the still smoldering metal. Drawing his hand back out through the hole, they find a state-of-the-art rifle scope. The right side of the black device contains four tiny knobs.
"That's all, toss it in a saddlebag and let's get the fuck out of here."
"Aren't we a little pinned down?" Molotov asks as he hides the scope into his empty dynamite bag.
"Fuck, we need to find a way out of here."
"Well partner, there's no way we're all getting to our bikes, starting the machines, turning them around and getting out of here without them getting a hundred shots off," Molotov says in a frustrated voice.
"I know, now shut up so I can think."
"Maybe we could wait until dark. Here, let me see that scope," Johan extends a hand to Molotov who obliges by handing over the fancy scope.
"What you playing at?"
"Ah-ha! Just as I thought, this scope has a night vision setting," Johan gets a huge smile on his face as he walks to the cabinet and reaches back inside and as he thought finds a small set of screwdrivers. "I'll change out this scope and get the bastard at night when he can't see us. We have enough fire power in here to hold off anyone from outside."
"Yea, until they start sabotaging our vehicles," Molotov sighs.
"Them fuckers put a hole in my chopper and they'll be bleeding from every hole," Hollowpoint growls menacingly.
"Well, let's think about this. When Igor got shot he obviously took a front facing shot, I mean the impact practically threw him over his bike. The sniper has to be on this half of the road and his bike is facing at almost a ninety degree angle from this door. He has to be in this area somewhere," Saul points his hand to the buildings lying beyond the left-hand corner of the shed.
"You dare peak your head around that corner sniper boy?" Hollowpoint sneers as Johan.
"Well what other choice do we have?"
Johan readies his sniper rifle and takes a knee at the opening of the door. Bringing the scope to his eyeball, he quickly scans the outlying buildings. The windows all seam empty until his vision falls upon a window shielded by a black shudder shade. From between one of the shudders a thin black barrel appears to be protruding, a few inches higher, the shudders are parted ever so slightly. Drawing in a deep breath, Johan places his finger on the trigger and the crosshairs in the center of the window. He draws another deep breath, only this time he exhales only half of his drawn breath. With a gentle squeeze, the Russian rifle bucks as the trigger is pulled. The semi-automatic mechanism ejects the spent shell and replaces it in the chamber with a fresh one. A millisecond later, the shrouded window explodes into shards of glass and the shade falls away. As the black facade flutters down the many stories of the building, a pair of slouched shoulders sit motionless and bloody in the late afternoon sunlight. Hollowpoint shuffles to Johan's side and attempts to glance out the doorway.
"Is it all clear?"
"I think so, just let me make sure."
Through the Dragunov's scope Johan continues to scan the ramshackle buildings. The dead sniper's body still twitches in the open window as his drained blood turns his complexion whiter and whiter. Once finally confident no one else hides in the ruins, Johan stands, re-slings his rifle and turns to the rest of the crew.
"Okay."
"Good work partner," Hollowpoint pats Johan on the shoulder and timidly steps into the sunlight. He glances into the ominous vacant buildings and steps back to the corpse of his murdered ally Igor. Molotov falls in behind him and a flicker of rage and sadness lights in his eyes.
"Big man, come here," Molotov barks to Fergus without looking up.
"Yea?"
"Help me get Igor into the bed of the dump truck."
"We takin' 'im back?"
"The man deserves his proper send off. This is a brotherhood, I'm not leaving him out in this shit hole to eaten by some inbred fucking ogre," spits flies from Hollowpoint's mouth as he bristles with anger.
"Gotcha."
With Molotov grabbing Igor's arms, Fergus takes up his stiffening legs and they walk the small man to the rear of the dump truck. Noticing the predicament, Molotov glances up the deep metal bucket. Fergus rolls his eyes and chuckles sarcastically.
"What next boyo?"
"God-fucking-damnnit, find something to wrap him in and I'll get him back on my bike," Molotov drops the body in the corpse impatiently and looks around for something to bag the body. Doing the same, Johan glances around and his eyes fall upon a pile of sandbags shielded from the elements by a thick, brown canvas tarp.
"Hey, will this do?"
"It'll have to, here, let me," Hollowpoint runs to the tarp knowing they're wasting time. From inside his pant leg, he removes a double edged knife and continues to cut a large eight by ten square of fabric. Hustling back to Igor's body which has taken on the board-like stages of rigor-mortis, he and Molotov lay the body down on the flattened canvas and proceed to wrap the corpse tightly. After binding the open ends with fuses from Molotov's saddlebag, the cold cadaver is loaded onto the back of Molotov's bike. Now finally ready to disembark, Molotov glances to Hollowpoint and holds up one finger asking for one more second of patience. This draws an obvious eye roll of disgust from the impatient sergeant.
"What now!"
"Im not leaving that bike for the ogres. Big man, toss me a block of C4 from one of them boxes," Molotov calls up to Fergus who is sitting in the passenger seat of the dump truck. He turns to one of the wooden crates and removes a small block of malleable plastic explosive. Casually, he tosses it down to Molotov who continues to jog to Igor's bloodstained Iron 883. The gray explosive is stuck firmly to the bike's primer gray gas tank. Molotov removes a small fuse from his pocket and proceeds to stick the metal probe into the soft plastic. With the explosive armed, Molotov runs back to his bike and gives a thumbs up for them to move out.
Hollowpoint once again takes the point followed by the skidder, the dump truck and tailed by Molotov. Clearing the street, Molotov removes a small controller with a lone toggle switch and red light located in the center. As he arms the device, the red light turns on. With a quick flick of the switch, a quick clean bang causes the earth to shake as Igor's bike is blasted into a billion microscopic pieces.
The scarred and obedient face of Joker sits at attention next to the young and charming Ulysses Lee, or simply The General. They silently sip coffee and chew bacon in the crowded mess hall. Deagle, Ripper, and Iasan also sit in their company.
"So old man, you were a what again? A nurse?" Deagle chuckles mockingly.
"Tha's what I told yer. Yer find 'at funny?"
"No, no. I personally would just use a different title."
"I'm sure yer won't still be laughin' when a crippled ole man nurse shoves his boot so far up yer ass it'll leave a footprint on yer adams apple."
"Enough Deagle, I'm sure you don't feel like getting embarrassed so early in the day."
Deagle grumbles and stuffs his face as an excuse not to talk. Karen approaches the table and removes two empty bacon platters. Ulysses turns to her and glances at the somber faced Orabella.
"Has her husband showed up yet?"
"No, I fear for the worst though..."
"You go ahead and tell her that me and Kiril are gonna head out and take a look around for him after breakfast."
"Sure, she'll be glad to hear it," Karen goes to turn away when her brother grasps her arm once more.
"Sorry it took so long to get you help here in the kitchen."
"Don't worry about it. We both know all the other women here couldn't cook to save themselves. We both know what they provide to the group," Karen says in a spiteful voice and leaves the table.
"And they're damn good at," Deagle laughs and winks at Joker who just stares through his black shades coldly and looks away from the piggish lieutenant.
"Just the two of you are going out? Let me come for extra muscle," Ripper begs.
"We can handle ourselves," Ulysses stands and on cue, Joker does the same. They down the rest of their coffee and head for the door through the crowded mess hall. Walking out into the clear and pleasant morning, they approach the motor pool filled with beastly motorcycles each with a black half helmet hanging from their handlebars.
Lee heads for his bike which is parked at the front of the motor pool. As he pulls on his helmet, his legs straddle a black and chrome monstrosity that is a Harley Davidson Fatboy. Before turning the engine over, he checks the pistol at his hip and gives the custom handgun a once over. The black plastic pistol is equipped with an extended clip that holds twenty-five rounds rather then the standard fifteen. The end of the barrel is also extended five or six inches by a jet black silencer. The flawless chrome sparkles in the morning light and the ballsy V-twin engine roars to life. Joker on the other hand moves to his custom built Harley Nightster with monkey handlebars, thick rugged wheels, and blacked out engine. Nothing shines on the silent man's machine, perfect for his dark and mysterious persona.
With both of their machines roaring at full capacity, Lee and Joker cruise out through the gate and into the gutted city. They roar along and admire the dead ghostly skyscrapers which emit an aura of stark terror. They head in a different direction then the scavenge team as if they are on a beeline for a specified location. As they come to an old burnt out cul-de-sac, Lee turns to Joker and gives him a silent nod. The small housing establishment is a sad little cluster of once pleasant two story houses all in rows parallel to neat little streets. Coming to the center of the cluster, the bike engines cut, helmets are removed, and eyes scan the surroundings. Through his dark sunglasses, Joker's steely gaze cuts through the gray landscape. Finally confident that they are alone, they get off their bikes.
"Let's get these out of sight. You know where we're headed right?"
Joker nods as they roll their beloved bikes into a vacant garage. Once completely hidden from wasteland saboteurs, they pull down on the garage door and take a casual stroll down the cracked sidewalk.
"If anyone knows where that Italian went, it'll be Gregorovich."
They walk along in silence as is usually the case with Joker. They pass stripped and wrecked buildings and even some empty foundations where houses have been completely ripped away. As they come to the outskirts of the cul-de-sac, they arrive at a very sad looking house. The walls have been covered with steel plates that function as a bullet proof siding. The windows are all blown out and patched with swinging metal panels that allow quick sniping. Barbed wire, cinder blocks and razor wire create a barricade all the way around the perimeter. Approaching the one and only entrance, Lee looks down and sees a thin infrared trip wire that will alert the occupants to their presence. With a slight hesitation, Lee kicks his foot through the beam. Seconds later, one of the boarded windows swings open and they are met with a long barrel and bulky scope of a vicious .50 caliber BMG sniper rifle.
"Easy Grego, don't you think that thing is a bit of overkill at fifteen yards?"
"Bah! Half the battle is intimidation, and I'll tell you, nothing is more intimidating then this fuckin' cannon."
"May we enter?"
"Of course. Lou, let these gentlemen in," Gregorovich shuts his window with a swift bang as the front door creaks open slowly. Peering out at them through the door way is a short fat barrel belonging to a sawed-off twelve gauge shotgun. At the other end of the barrel is a young boy not over the age of ten. His eyes are cold empty as are most children's of the wastes.
"Quick," Lou says hastily as his eyes dart around at the houses behind them. They scurry inside to find themselves in a room lit only by candles and a smothering fireplace. Along the walls sit stacks of ammo and canned goods along with two empty beds. In the center is a thick wooden table covered with dirty dishes, random weapons and empty rifle and pistol clips.
From the left, they hear a clamoring in the pitch black staircase followed by the emergence of Gregorovich. The man before them is of below average height and middle age. His upper lip is shielded by a thick graying mustache and his eyes bare a weight that only comes from a life full of tragedy and loss. On his belt rests a Smith and Wesson model 29 with black steel and cherry handle along with an old Vietnam era machete. His attire is old marine khakis, fingerless gloves, bandana around his forehead and cracked leather boat shoes.
"What's the problem?" Gregorovich asks impatiently.
"We're looking for someone. Two dark young men in late twenties or early thirties. They stumbled off into the wastelands."
"Boy, we saw two folks like that yesterday. They looked lost. They were on the other side of this shit town. They are probably dead. One was armed but the other looked as if he had a screw loose or two. Who are they?"
"We took in a couple travelers, they're two of them."
Gregorovich's head whips around as a loud bang comes from beyond the reinforced door. He bounds back up the stairs to his snipe window.
"Did anyone follow you? Damn ogres," he swings the window open to find his front yard eerily quiet and empty. His paranoid eyes dart back and forth until he finally re-shuts the wooden panel.
"So is that all?"
"God damn you Ulysses, you're lucky your old man saved my skin in that sandbox. Follow me and I'll show you where I saw the two sad sacks. Boy, stay here and hold down the fort."
"But I-"
"Do as I say!"
So Lee and Joker exit the fortress with Gregorovich leading the way. With a quick pace, he shuffles down the sidewalk, across the street and in between two cavernous concrete foundations. They stroll across a flat clearing that was once a park. On one side of the park, a swing-less swing set creates a gruesome atmosphere with two lynched corpses swaying in the breeze as they dangle from the crossbar. Leaving the morbid scene behind, they arrive at what seams to be the poorer side of the cul-de-sac. This area is all trailers and one story bungalows. Upon approaching a silver camper, their leader turns back to them.
"Last I saw them, the armed one was dragging the simple one into here. Now I can't leave the boy any longer. Good luck to you," Gregorovich sprints back across the park in the direction of his home leaving Lee and Joker by themselves outside the metal camper.
"On your toes," Lee whispers drawing a stoic nod from Joker. Reaching for the door, Lee slowly turns the knob and pushes the rickety door open. As he steps through the door it becomes obvious that someone is inside evident by a low, labored breathing. Cautiously, Lee draws his tricked out pistol and moves further within. Laying on the overturned kitchen table, they find Anjelo deep in sleep with blood on his forehead. Looking closer into the room, their eyes fall upon Captain Valentino Ferrari slouched in the corner with his head hung and his hair matted with blood. Lee takes another step when the captain's head whips upward and his hand flies to the pistol on the ground beside him.
"No, no, stop right there. We're on your side," Lee barks as his sights rest on the wounded captain's chest.
"Christ, don't sneak up on a man like that. Get yourself shot."
"I assure you that if you kept going, you'd be the one filled with lead."
"Well, I'm already half way there," the captain motions to his bloodied leg.
"Is it bad?"
"I think my achilles is torn and my leg feels broken. What the hell are those things out there?"
"I'm sure you're referring to what we like to call 'ogres'. Big fucking ugly mutated cannibals. You're a lucky man to have come face to face with one and lived."
"Took a whole damn clip to put the thing down."
"I'm sure it did. Now what the hell are you doing here? Your wife is worried sick."
"I can't go back, I made a complete ass of myself."
"You're coming back god damn you. I sure as shit didn't come out to this shithole just to chitchat. Let's go."
"I don't know if you noticed but my leg is worthless as shit. I'm not going anywhere at the moment. And he's terrified."
"What's wrong with hi-" As the words come out of Lee's mouth, the camper gives a large shutter and the supports holding them up emit a laborious creak. Lee stumbles and braces himself on a burnt out old toaster as Joker's hand flies to his pistol, ready for action in half a second. As the camper rocks once again, Anjelo awakens as he rolls off the makeshift cot. The captain bumbles up onto his good leg and signals for the door.
"Go see what the hell is going on!"
Lee and Joker turn and sprint from the camper as it jars violently once more. Without speaking a word, the two head in opposite directions around the rocking camper. Coming around the old dwelling, they find themselves staring down two hulking beasts they simply know as ogres. Their bodies are rock hard and engorged like giant boils. Glossy, bloodshot eyes gaze angrily at them as they attempt to seak their blood lust. With tremendous speed, Joker cracks off three shots that send off-red blood flying from one of the beast's chests.
The ogre facing Lee lunges causing him to fire a silenced shot into the sturdy leg of the mutated man while he parries to the side. In a rage, the ogre continues around the camper and thrashes through the open door. Four shots ring out from the captain's Colt as the clip is emptied. A primal roar emits from inside the camper as the enraged ogre begins to mercilessly thrash the injured captain.
As he comes out of his roll, Lee turns to the second ogre which stumbles about in pain from the three shots it just received from Joker's .45. Lee aims quickly and fires four more silent shots into the ogre's mutated back. As the beast rears back in pain, Joker puts his bead on the ogre's head and taps off three more rounds. The stalky .45 cartridges causes the deformed skull of the ogre to explode in a red slushy storm of brains and bone fragments. The two bikers pause for a second and then spring back into action as the rampaging beast within the camper regains their attention.
Coming back to the door, it is evident that the beast is thrashing about so violently that no one inside would be alive. Lee steps forward as if to re-enter the camper when Joker puts a hand across his chest to stop him. Reaching into the pocket of his vest, Joker removes a flash-bang grenade. With a pull of the pin, he tosses it inside, snaps his eyes shut and plunges his fingers into his ears. A muffled bang is followed by a bright light and intense whistling. Joker reopens his eyes, steps through the doorway, places his sights on the ogre's back and empties the rest of his clip. With the speed of a trained professional, he ejects the empty clip placing it in his pocket and replaces it with a fresh one. The stunned beast blindly whirls around just as the next shell is jacked into the chamber. With four more shots fired so quickly they seam one, Joker explodes yet another ugly ogre face. The camper gives a violent shake as the beast falls to the floor.
The captain lies face down on the floor underneath the murdered ogre. Leaning over, Joker checks the captain's pulse to find no blood flowing. With a quick glance at Anjelo, no pulse is needed to ensure death with his skull properly smashed by the ogre's mammoth hands. Still emotionless, Joker turns away and exits the camper to the anxious Lee.
"Well?" Lee asks while Joker simply shakes his head to say they hadn't made it. "Fuck, let's get the hell back and inform the widow."
In complete silence, they walk back through the cluster of decrepit buildings, through the grizzly displays in the park, around the open foundations and back to their bikes still hidden in the empty garage. They roll them into the street, mount their steel steads, pull on their helmets, and roar from the cul-de-sac at top speed. Joker's face is still stoic and emotionless.
Pulling back into The Graveyard complex parking lot, Hollowpoint and Molotov take their spots in the motor pool. Igor's body is dragged to a large fire pit and placed on the ground to conduct a ceremony in the evening. Johan maneuvers the skidder so it will be out of the way. On instructions from Hollowpoint, Saul backs the dump truck up to the garage and dumps his load of steel in front of the lifting doors. Saul then rolls up next to the skidder, cuts the engine and begins to unload the C4 with Fergus. Random bikers fall in to help stack the crates inside the garage. Deagle and Ripper stroll in their direction and Hollowpoint steps forward.
"Where's the kid? That C4 intel was bullshit, two tons my ass."
"Oh come on, that haul doesn't look too bad," Deagle reassures.
"Not when we loose a man in the process."
"Shit, they got Igor," Ripper's shoulders slouch at the death of his usual partner.
"We get the body back?"
Hollowpoint points to the blackened fire pit.
"Ceremony tonight. I'll let everyone know," Ripper walks off slowly to get the ceremony announced among his brothers within the club.
"And where is Ulysses?"
"He and Joker ran off to find that fool who went and ran off," Deagle chuckles at the stupidity of the captain's decision.
"Wait, is that them?" Hollowpoint goes silent and listens to a faint rumbling carrying on the wind. They cruise through the front gate and lineup in the motor pool. Lee strolls into the mess hall while Joker walks into the garage without giving anyone a second look.
That night, the entire club gathers around a large stack of wood, siding and beams. Atop the mound rests Igor's corpse. As Ulysses touches off the gasoline dowsed timber, a blaze instantly breaks out. Once a proper bonfire breaks out, each member draws his pistol, aims it in the air and touches off three shots in unison. They all soberly watch the conflagration as it dies down to smothering coals. The ceremony also serves as a memorial for Orabella. Her eyes have been puffy since receiving the news but she has not shed a tear despite her heart being undoubtedly broken. After Saul, Johan, and the rest of the crew head back to their cots, the second stage of honoring Igor begins.
"Well, I guess part of honoring a lost ally is getting completely wasted," Saul chuckles.
"Sounds good ter me. When I get kill't yer all need ter get smashed," Fergus barks his hearty laugh.
"What are you talking about? I don't see anyone killing you," Saul says back.
They all lay in silence and listen to the shenanigans going on outside. Bikers hoot and holler as they chug down beer and smack the asses of the club tricks. At first the happy good time doesn't seam fitting for honoring a death, but as the night passes they begin to see that there is no time or point of going through the stages of mourning. They all undoubtedly had had enough sadness and mourning to last a life time so they would rather laugh and celebrate the lives of the dead rather then cry over their deaths. In Saul's mind, these people really had their sights set on the right things.
