Chapter 20

Orabella wakes up to a morning that feels uncharacteristically cold. She shivers lying face first on the battered turf and a blasting pain splits her head while her entire body aches from a night she's glad she can't remember. The filthy junky and his numerous lust filled friends have disappeared and left her cold and alone now that she was no longer of any use. The mental image of her beloved captain flashes in her mind's eye and a tear instantly forms and runs down her dirt smeared face. The shame and heartbreak he would feel if he were to see her right now, she can't bare to think about it. Above all of her pains and aches, shameful regrets and her husband's judgmental specter, one thing still burns in her hotter then anything else. A desire for another beautiful hit of heroin. To feel that euphoria like she'd never felt before. Shooting through her veins and lifting her head up above the highest clouds into a blissfully carefree state of suspended animation.

The Italian beauty rises and stretches big, amplifying the stiffness as it shoots through her elegant body. She reaches down and rubs her aching legs and gasps in astonishment when she realizes that the insides of her thighs are heavily bruised and streaked with long droplets of blood. The fact that she's standing there in broad daylight in just her underwear is just starting to come into reality as she fumbles to pull her pants up over her battered legs and cover her breasts which are covered with bruises and bite marks.

Once fully clothed she walks back towards the only people she knows in the camp to find some food. Her stomach screams with hunger. A crowd of bikes sitting neatly in a long militant column lets her know she's arrived in the right place. She realizes how awful she must look when Torri and Faux greet her a look of concerned terror on their faces.

"Hey girls," her voice shakes uneasily.

"Hey? Are you okay?" Torri asks concernedly.

"Yeah I'm... fine. Hungry."

"Come get some breakfast. There's still some left," Torri takes her beloved mother figure by the hand and leads her towards a smoldering fire. Faux follows with observing eyes. She knows something isn't right with Orabella.

"Where have you been? We were worried. You've got dirt all over your face too," Torri looks at Orabella with concerned eyes.

"Just looking around dear, I'm fine I promise. Let's get something to eat, I've missed you."

"Bacon and instant eggs. Coffee too."

"Thanks sweetie," Orabella grabs a paper plate and drops some strips of bacon and a small lump of yellow, instant eggs into it. A hot cup of coffee helps even her head out a little but it still cries for that intravenous drug. There's a long pause of silence before Faux breaks in timidly.

"Did you find anything interesting when you were looking around?"

"What? Oh no, just a lot of scared and starving people. You shouldn't go looking at that, stay here where the hope is. Okay?"

"Alright..." the suspicion of Faux keeps growing stronger.

"What have you girls been up to?"

"Nothing really, it's awfully boring here. I want to explore inside but the guards are good. Can't sneak by them," Torri says.

"Stay out of trouble you two, the men running this place have enough problems without you girls getting in the way," Orabella plays the good mother part.

"What do you think is gonna happen?" Torri abruptly changes the subject.

"With what hun?"

"This place."

"I wouldn't dare guess. I don't know what the situation is other then it's not safe for people outside..."

"Do you think we'll die here?"

"What I think means nothing dear, stop thinking such thoughts."

"Yeah... we're gonna die here alright," Torri sighs and turns to Faux who is still intently studying the Italian bombshell and becoming more and more wary of her state. Acting distant and oblivious, not really taking in what was being said to her or fully grasping the words coming out of her own mouth.

"You want us to what?" Saul stutters in astonishment. He sits apart from the group with Johan and The General who has just brought to them the mission of infiltrating the bandit stronghold.

"You heard me right and the only reason I thought of you two is because being from Boston you are the least suspicious. Plus, I've seen you both in action and I believe you are fit for this job. And you still owe the club a large debt for saving you, housing you and taking you home."

"What do you say Johan?"

"Do we know what we'll be up against?"

"Not entirely sure, you'll need to be recruited though. That seams to be the most precarious thing we can see."

"Recruited? By who?"

"They have lieutenants among the ruins who find and recruit people. You just need to be found by one of these men."

"When do we do it?"

"Johan."

"What? I've got nothing else better to do. Neither do you."

"We still have things to live for."

"Yeah... one of us at least."

"If it's necessary then I'll go. When did you wanna start?" Johan turns his attention back to The General.

"As soon as possible. Do what ever you need to do in order to get ready. You'll be traveling light. Limited food, no rifles, just sidearms. Mick will be debriefing you as soon as we figure out a concrete plan. I'll get back to you," The General bids them farewell and strides off into the mass of people.

"This can't end well..." Saul sighs as he turns to break the new to Alieana.

"Seams to be the theme nowadays," Johan says cynically, following his friend back towards the small group of bikers and assorted survivors. Torri and Faux sit a chat with Orabella who they haven't seen in quite a long time. Iasan puffs vigorously on his tobacco and paces about between the clusters of random bikers. Alieana is found in a small group of Fergus, Regan, Greylocke and his 'old lady' Willow. A young, kinky-haired girl with a cute face and breasts that look far to big for her tiny body. She sits in Greylocke's lap just as Regan sits in Fergus'. The Scottish beauty glances up to see Saul re-approaching and she waves him over with a smile on her face.

"What's happened darling? You look worried," she says as she runs to him and takes his hands in hers.

"Looks like we've got a new mission tomorrow. Suicide mission if you ask me..."

"Oh no, dong what?"

"They want us to be the ones to infiltrate the enemy's stronghold. I guess we're the most authentic."

"How do they propose you do that?"

"We have to find some lieutenant and he has to recruit us. We don't know any thing more about their recruiting process."

"You're not optimistic about this are you?"

"I'd be lying if I said I was. It just seams like a death wish."

"Better to die brave then hiding here in fear," Johan cuts in.

"I'm not ready to die yet! And neither should you be, Maria could still be out there. When did you loose the faith?"

"I'm gonna get ready for our mission. You should too," Johan looks his friend in the eye and storms off like a man on a mission.

"He's so lost. We need to find him some hope," Alieana says concernedly.

"Look around us, hope's in short supply."

"I'll pray for you my boy," Alieana looks Saul in the eyee and plants a firm kiss on his chapped lips.

"Thanks. I'll need it," he kisses her back.

Late into the night Mick Victor, The General, Ott, Petr and Rej sit in solitude high above the field, safely inside the owner's suite. Mick smokes a large cigar and rubs his head subconsciously as they discuss how they will handle tomorrow's mission.

"How did those two feel about this mission?"

"Well Saul wasn't very happy, said it was suicide. But as for Johan, he seams down for anything, reckless even."

"And of the chance they may find family members there?"

"I didn't bring it up. If I had told him he may find his wife there then the goal of this mission would have changed. They need to focus on what needs to be done as a whole, not just for themselves."

"Smart move," Petr interjects.

"What exactly are we trying to find out here?" Ott asks.

"Anything," Mick replies. "Weaknesses in their defenses, army movements, strategies, maybe even where their real leader is. Any information is good," Mick replies to his deputy.

"I think the hardest part will be finding an in. How will they be noticed by a lieutenant?"

"I'm pleased to report that a few of our recon men have discovered some hot spots in which recruiting commonly takes place," Rej says before Mick can reply.

"I don't remember discussing this," Mick turns to Petr.

"We didn't, we made an independent decision regarding the game plan. You understand," a smirk crosses the Russian's face with the shoe now on the other foot.

"Well what did you find out?"

"Quincy Market is the number one spot. It's turned into a slum waypoint populated by druggies. The women not attractive enough to be made slaves by the army whore from there so naturally the traffic of men is high. The lieutenants take these horny men and promise them better women, not to mention food, clothes, water and a form of human unity. This unknown leader is undoubtedly a smart man, strategic and calculating," Rej explains.

"I never doubted that. So Quincy Market will be where they're headed? Anything in particular they can do in order to be recruited?"

"Well the stronger they look the more appealing they will be but that is also a sign of independence so there's a gentle balance they will have to maintain. Like you said, the first part of this mission will be the hardest to calculate."

"I have another concern," Mick begins. "We haven't told Saul and Johan of the sex they will be assured of upon arrival in the prison but I'm sure neither of them will want to participate as Saul has a woman and Johan is still searching for his wife. I'm worried about how they will appear if they turn down the invitation of free sex from beautiful women."

"I'm not concerned about that, they will do what needs to be done," Rej says coldly.

"I'm not so sure."

"Have you ever been in the field as a spy? Once you get in, the reality blends with the mission and you become what you are pretending to be. The rush will be so great for them that they won't have to think twice after four naked beauties pull them into an orgy," Rej argues.

"I'll trust your... expertise in this field. You are the spy after all."

"Do they start tomorrow?" The General asks.

"I think it's best to start right away so that things don't have any time to change. Strike while the iron's hot," Mick replies.

"Send them out early, before the sun rises and have them head for the market. They need to act natural, just two grizzled wasteland dwellers coming into the marketplace to resupply and fuck something. The lieutenants pass through Quincy usually twice a day."

"Debrief 'em son. Tell 'em they head out first thing tomorrow morning and to get all the sleep they can. It's gonna be a long couple of days, pivotal days," Mick proclaims with a smack of his large mitt on the bar in front of him.

"Tell those boys to keep their heads about them, there won't be anyone to help them but their intuition and lady luck," Rej chuckles as he exits the room behind the stoic Petr.

With the Russians gone, The General relaxes and walks across the suite to the dingy glass window and gazes out upon the glowing, spooky tapestry painted across the Fenway turf. Ott stands, stretches and bids his boss adieu with the nod of his bulbous head. Mick, cigar still smoldering in hand, notices his godson's worried body language and like a concerned father, walks to the young man's side to offer some relief and peace of mind.

"I'm nervous Mick."

"I'd be wary if you weren't."

"Something's eating at me."

"Yeah?"

"Johan, not telling him of the possibility of his wife's survival."

"You think we should inform him?"

"No... yes... maybe. He's because reckless, careless, borderline suicidal. He's at a point where he doesn't care if he lives or dies, I'm not sure what he might do if put into a bad situation. But if we do tell him then his own goals will surely take precedence and the greater mission will be in jeopardy."

"The many tough decisions a man is faced with when the reins of control fall hold tension within his hands," Mick philosophizes as he takes puffs from his stogie.

"God damn it," The General sighs.

"Do what you think is right. The difference between us and them beyond these walls is we choose to make decisions that come from the heart, what's right. We loose our compassion, our humanity and our hope when we let our goals overshadow and steamroll everything around us."

"But if I tell him then the larger goal, and in turn the good of many more people, becomes secondary to his goal of finding his lost wife... So no, I can't tell him, not now. It's not the time."

"No decision is a bad decision son. Now go to those men and tell 'em what the deal is. They'll need some sleep and food and some loving I'm sure. We'll send them off tomorrow."

"Thanks Mick," The General turns to leave.

"And Ulysses," Mick calls causing the young president to turn back around, "you get some damn sleep too, I fear you'll collapse at any time from fatigue."

"Sure Mick," Ulysses smiles almost as if in pain and leaves the police chief alone with his thoughts.

Nightfall again, a sober twenty-four hours have ignited a passionate rage in the hungry demons that dwell inside Orabella's brain. Kicking and screaming, clawing at the inside of her skull only to be quelled by a hot spoon and a dull, rusty needle. The disheveled Italian paces in paranoia, rubbing her arms nervously and fighting with the evil that's ripping at her insides. With each passing minute the urges become fiercer as sweat beads on her forehead and the shakes begin to set in. Her husband's voice begins to scream at her from the grave, disappointment and anger in his haunting voice.

Finally, succumbing to temptation, she strolls from the well-lit biker's area and embarks on a mission to find another fix. It's the only way to fight back the black demons and mute the agonizing voices. In her current state the world seams harsher and more terrifying. Shadows loom higher and claw out at passers by, flames hiss and crackle with fiery destruction, voices laugh and scream bloody murder from disembodied poltergeists, the stars blaze angrily and threaten to rain down on the earth in a blaze of glorious armageddon.

As if forming out of an invisible fog, a shadowy figure floats weightlessly towards Orabella. Blocking her path, it stops and looks her luscious body up and down. A tinge of fear strikes her heart as a cold, scarred face peaks from a tattered hood and bloodshot eyes molest and devour her entire body. From between two cracked lips an assortment of black dying teeth spill forth a rancid, sour breath.

"Hello sweet thing, you don't look as if you belong here. Looking for something in particular?" the phantom's voice is cruel and playful, how a cat would sound as it taunts the mouse it has just caught and is planning to kill.

"I need... uh."

"Dope? Coke? Pills? Even got some ether, nasty and pure. Maybe mescaline is your candy?"

"D-dope. I don't have any cash though. I don't have much of anything really..."

"Oh I wouldn't say that," the dealer winks and looks Orabella up and down once again.

"I just need... something. Just a little."

"I could say the same thing... Only I don't think I could stop at just a nibble. I do think we could work out a deal though."

"Yeah?"

From the pocket of his grimy, tattered trench coat the man removes a small vile filled with a pure, bleached white powder. He gives it a shake and smiles at Orabella, cold and conniving. She steps forward with excitement and anticipation, longing to feel it shooting through her and into the brain.

"I need it."

"Yeah? Gimme a kiss love."

Orabella hesitates and looks disgustedly at the dealers gnarly teeth. A shiver runs down her spine. After a pause, she looks back at the vile and the demons nudge her in the direction of the cracked lips. Closing her eyes and holding her breath, she presses her plump, pretty lips to the cold, weathered ones of the sly dealer.

"Good?"

"Oh, great. Now come with me, time for you to earn it," he reaches around and grasps her firmly by the right buttocks.

"Gimme a little first."

"Why? I aint attractive to you?" the man's calm, charming voice instantly turns cold and mean as his hand shoots from her butt to the soft skin of her throat.

"It's not that- it's just..."

"I need to know what I'm paying for and I aint fuckin' no corpse neither. I got a nice quiet spot we can do some... bartering."

Orabella pauses once more and contemplates her current predicament. Her gentle shivers have turned into full-blown tremors and the demons have grown wings and begun breathing mind melting fire. Her husband's screams have turned to begging sobs and the sweat on her forehead is icy cold and running in rapid cascades. Temptation's wings are wrapping her tightly in an unbreakable embrace, pulling her closer to the precipice and it's spiraling abyss. The shadows stalk and move in on her from all directions.

"Let's go, I need it. I just need some. Now."

"Follow me my dear," his voice is songful and charming once again. He leads her through the clusters of tripping hoppers all while her withdrawals grow more intense. FInally, they arrive at the away team dugout, it's been completely boarded up accept for a small wooden door buttoned up by a rugged padlock at the very end. Wearing his sly smile, the dealer removes a key from his pocket and opens the door. The two slip inside and the padlock is reapplied from the inside.

Within, the dugout has been stripped of it's seats and blankets line the cold cement floor. The dealer lights a few gas lanterns which hang from from the ceiling and illuminate the rest of the rather warm room. A plain bed lies on the floor in the back surrounded by large amounts of drug paraphernalia.

"Welcome home darling," he removes his trench coat and kicks off his tan boots, "take those dirty clothes off and lie on the bed, it's time we started trading services."

"Umm... I..." Orabella stutters.

"Do as I say or you aint getting your fix," his voice turns to angry hiss.

Without another word, Orabella shamefully removes her ripped jeans and tattered blouse and sets them on a hanger next to the trench coat. With her head bowed, she walks towards the boring but surprisingly clean looking bed. As she takes a seat, the bruises are on the inner parts of her thighs become very visible. She avoids eye contact with the dealer as long as possible.

"Looks someone already got rough with ya recently. Hope they dint rip it up to bad," he's removes his shirt and stands before her in only his underwear. The demons in her head now form an orchestra of hellacious taunting and reality has become just an unreal blur.

"I... I... need something..." she stutters.

"Here, snort this," he taps an open vile on the webbing between his thumb and pointer finger and holds it out for her. Leaning forward she sniffs hard and feels a fine powder line her nostrils and fill her sinuses. The cold snow blasts the fiery devils in her brain and quell the screaming and crying. Her head floats and all pains are washed quickly away. The rush is quick but satisfying leaving her wanting more but straight through the vein.

"Let's see how you suck a cock," the dealer drops his underwear and moves in to the stoned young woman. For about ten minutes she pleases the dirt man who smells like sweat and rotten marijuana. Finally, he pushes her away and throws her onto her back across his bed.

"I need some more," she mumbles.

"I think you earned it. He moves to his cluttered table and removes a vile, a spoon, a needle and a lighter. In the blink of an eye he has the mixture spooned, melted and loaded into the syringe. He comes back to her side and smiles a madman's smile. Without speaking he removes her breast and notices the bite marks that dot her breasts and nipples.

"Ah so you like it rough eh? Here you go," he grabs her arm and expertly pops her with the needle. Just like the night before, she can feel her head swim as the liquid shoots towards her heart and brain. It's pure ecstasy.

"I figure since you're such a sport and I like you so much that I'll do a little something for you. You don't mind do you?"

"N-no," Orabella replies in a misty, oblivious voice.

"Just lay back then," he pushes her onto her back and moves to the foot of the bed. With surprising ease, he pulls her to the edge and removes her tiny panties. With his head between her bruised thighs, Orabella's head begins to rush even faster. The feeling is a sensation she's never felt before, a carnal release that leaves her writhing in glee and clawing at the blanket beneath her. She convulses and moans louder then ever before and feels her reach climax faster then ever before.

The victorious looking dealer rises from her crotch and wipes his wet lips off. The devilish smile crosses his face once more and a darkness dwells in his eyes that, even though she's high on a cloud, gives Orabella frightened chills.

"That was quick, I know you enjoyed that. Now it's my turn," he drops in between her legs. His motions become harder and more violent as he grunts and yells with pleasure. Orabella is so high that she can't feel anything and the rest of the night will surely be forgotten by the morning, which is a blessing in the end for it lasts more then an hour.

The fresh morning is wet and cold. Freezing rain pelts down upon the Fenway faithful and gloom seams to be the theme of the day. Saul and Alieana sit alone inside the open tractor-trailer and watch the black of night turn to they grayness of the coming day. She is wrapped tightly in his arms and looking fondly back at their romantic evening they shared the night before. Hopefully not their last intimate encounter. Any minute now The General and Mick Victor would surely show up and take Saul off to undertake his seemingly hopeless mission. At this point, every extra minute was a blessing.

"How are you doing babe?" Saul asks the quiet, redheaded beauty within his arms.

"I'm okay, don't worry about me sweetie."

"I'm worried about Johan, I keep thinking he's gonna do something stupid thats gonna get us killed. He's become reckless."

"Just be a friend Saul, you're the only thing he has left. Support him and show him confidence, thats all you can do at this point hun."

Before he can respond, Mick Victor and the Valkyrie President approach with Johan following close behind them. The rain has soaked all three of them completely through.

"Good Morning to you Saul, all ready?" Mick asks confidently.

"Guess I have to be."

"I have faith you'll both return safely."

Saul stands and holds each of Alieana's hands in his. He gazes into her azure eyes and feels a pang of agony in the pit of his belly knowing he may never look into their oceanic depths ever again.

"I love you," Alieana quivers with sadness.

"Love you too," he replies in a woeful voce and kisses her long and passionately. He moves into the rain giving his sad Scottish love a final glance. With his best friend and the other two men of power, they stroll off to their destiny.

"Sorry we had to start on such a dreary day, it'll help sell it though I suppose. Are you two ready? Quincy Market, remember that."

"Let's just get started, I'm ready to get out of here," Johan says excitedly as he walks with a considerable pep in his step. The large garage door and short tunnel lead them once again into the towering remains of their beloved home city, a frighteningly breathtaking sight for the both of them. As if propelled by some other force, the two begin walking into the terrifying ruins. No food, minimal water and only their sidearms; Johan and his ivory-handled revolver and Saul, his .45 Colt.

"How've you been man?" Saul breaks the silence.

"Oh just wonderful."

"We're gonna find Maria, I haven't lost that belief."

"Pss, okay man."

"You remember your wife? Do you remember anything about Maria? She's not the kind of woman to give up, she's a fighter. Just like I thought you were, since when have you been a quitter. I helped you come all the way from Scotland and you're giving up now?"

Johan just glances at his buddy and smiles a sideways smirk, his eyes are cold and emotionless like a man who's lost everything he believes in. Stripped of his humanity and self.

They continue in silence while cold rain pelt them on the head and soaks them to the shaking bone. A miserable morning to start what was sure to be a miserable mission. Quincy Market is good distance so the journey was sure to be long and wet but hopefully free of violence. At least being born and bred Bostonians, they both know the way by heart.

With no sun in the sky to signify the passing of the day, Saul and Johan appear to be walking through a cold, dead world that lacks any sort of timeline. No one appears to bother them and not a word is spoken between the two during their entire, painstaking journey. Through the pelting, cold condensation and his screaming joints and muscles, Saul keeps his head up and his morale strong. Whenever his will begins to falter he digs deep inside of himself and thinks of Alieana and his best friend he travels with. If he were to loose his hope then there was no chance that Johan would ever regain his.

Most of the day is gone by the time they reach the remains of Quincy Market. The golden letters above the dignified Roman columns that each remember so vividly are missing and the open area is filled with tents and lean-tos which shelter the inhabitants from the freezing rain. Fires can be seen burning within the long, narrow hall which appears guarded by two men equipped with rusty shotguns. Occasionally, men approach the hall entrance, they are only allowed acceptance if the guards receive what they believe to be proper compensation.

"You ready for this?" Johan asks Saul playfully.

"The question is are you?"

"I'm ready for anything, no fear here friend. Let's find this lieutenant," he picks up his step so Saul has to catch up and they move swiftly among the downtrodden folks of the Quincy camp. As they draw closer to the glowing hall they can feel warmth, smell food and sense the presence of of hot, dirty bodies. Nasty women wearing rags for clothes emerge from the building with their Johns and quickly swap them out for someone new.

The only thing on Saul's mind is getting out of the frigidness and warming himself by a hot fire. Some food would be nice too, didn't matter what, his stomach screams for anything.

The shelter of the hall's outer roof finally looms over them and relieves their frames of the driving coldness. Plumes of heat waft from within along with pungent smoke and the guttural moans of men and women locked in the throes of lust. The entire scene is dirty and trashy with garbage strewn everywhere, the stench of blistering infections and the heavy aura of animalistic sex. They both take a seat and look around trying to find what the next step would be, the entire camp is stuck in a state of lethargy which is no surprise due to the current weather.

"What kind food you think they got around here?" Johan shivers.

"Nothing great I imagine. This place is just..."

"A shithole."

"Yeah that works."

"You two don't belong here," a sudden voice appears behind them along with a small-framed man with bony arms and crazy eyes.

"Excuse me?" Johan chuckles.

"Too pretty, I think you should leave."

"Is that so?" Johan stands up and looks the little man directly in the eye. "And why would I leave for your skanky ass?"

"Maybe for this," the small man flicks his wrist and pops the blade of a small switch. Johan, not having lost his instincts, parries the assault and smashes the attacker's nose. He drops his knife, which Johan quickly kicks away, and falls back in pain. With insanity engulfing him, Johan grabs and tosses him off the steps of the hall into a freezing mud puddle.

"Little cunt you are!" Johan screams as he descends the steps and draws his revolver.

"Johan no!" Saul rises from his spectator's seat.

"Oh I aint gonna shoot him, that'd be a waste of ammo," Johan grins and grips the long pistol barrel, wielding it like makeshift hammer. As the panicked man lying in the mud turns to look upon the crazed newcomer, he sees a momentary flash as the ivory handle shatters his nose.

He cries out in pain as blood percolates in his sinuses and he raises his hands up in a hopeless defense. Blow after blow from the revolver handle pummel the weakling into a bloody pulp as he coughs and chokes in the death cold mud.

"Had enough bitch? Had enough? Huh?" Johan is seething as his face blazes red and spit rains from his yelling lips. Saul trots down the steps and gets between his buddy and the coward lying in the mud. A crowd has gathered due to the ruckus and they call over their friends who wouldn't want to miss a good ass-kicking.

"Come on, let's find something to eat."

"I aint done with him yet!"

Just as Johan moves in for another round of beatings, a shot rings out and everyone steps back in confusion. Johan and Saul look around in alarm to find the sudden disturbance. From the crowd, a man moves confidently into the open. He's not like the other spectators as he doesn't look dirty and disease ridden. Square shoulders and small waist give the appearance of a man who once felt at home on a football field or hockey rink. In his hand rests a smoking, double-barreled sawed-off shotgun.

"Holster your pistol mate," the intimidating man orders Johan in a thick Aussie accent. Johan looks at the blonde haired man and then slowly towards the startled face of Saul who nods discretely. He slides the pistol back into it's holster and waits for the armed man to make his move.

"Get up you limey coward," the shotgun toting man kicks the cowering, beaten man causing him to yelp and scurry off in shame.

"Who are you?" Johan asks boldly?

"Me? The better question is who the hell are you? I Never seen you nor your boy ever before."

"Well we aint seen you neither."

"Oh really? I'm here everyday, I'm all over the place truthfully. Where you from?"

"That don't matter."

"Well what brings you this lovely abode?"

"Needed some food. Thought I might get my dick wet in the process."

"Wet? You're more apt to get it burning and falling off in this dump. And the food? Start eating your buddy there for that's all your sure to find here."

"Well why are you here hot shot?"

An amused smile crosses the man's face, looking a bit shocked that Johan genuinely didn't know who he is. As he draws closer, he clicks open the barrel's of his shotgun and replaces the one spent shell with a loaded fresh one.

"There's a certain job I've been entrusted with and this place just happens to be a very profitable locale for my enterprises."

"And what might that be?" Johan plays the part perfectly although Saul, who sits silently in the background, worries that the act is more then just a charade.

"You got my attention mate, but I don't feel like discussing such things in the presence of this... FILTH!" he shouts and the disheveled spectators scurry off back to their misery.

"Where shall we discuss it?"

"Let's walk."

"I've had enough of the rain. Got any place dryer?"

"Let's go inside," he leads them back up the steps and into the warm lobby of the Quincy Market Hall. All around them women moan and sigh and fires crack and sizzle. They enter a vacant room and the door is closed behind them.

"Well?" Johan asks expectantly.

"I'm Lieutenant Swarovsky and I have a great opportunity for the two of you."

"Here comes the sales pitch."

"You got balls stranger, I'll give you that."

"Yeah, yeah. Out with it."

"I'm offering the two of you a job with endless benefits. A sense of brotherhood, real warm food, a home and pussy that puts these dogs around us to shame. In our new world, you will be noblemen of your own little kingdoms."

"I could use some warm food and the women sound nice. But what kinda work are we talking? If I start doing favors for people I wanna end up living like a fucking king, not some insignificant nobleman."

"Moxie mate, you got it. You'd be enlisting in the greatest army the history of man has ever seen. And with your mojo you'd be a seargant in no time, maybe even a Lieutenant."

"Sign us up," Saul cuts in.

"Oh yeah? The other one finally speaks. What are your names mate?"

"I'm Saul and he's Johan."

"Awfully quick to join up. Has my sales pitch really gotten that good? You share the same sentiments as your buddy Mr. Johan?"

"Alright... let's do it. Aint gonna live forever and I could use some adventure."

"Feel like traveling some more through the shit out there? The reward at the other end will be grand I assure you."

"Better to go now, I need to fuck something and I'm afraid I'll catch the bug if I stay here."

"Let's set off then, spend as little time here as I can."

"Lead the way sir," Johan belts out and salutes mockingly. Back into the stormy coldness they plunge, on a mission which holds thousands of lives in the balance. Saul's stomach lurches as he can feel ulcers forming while Johan breathes in gallons of ignorant confidence. Death is no longer a concern as he already feels as if the grim reaper has taken his soul and his mind and is simply waiting for the body to fade away as well.

Chapter 19

The General and Mick sit alone inside the owners box sipping on cups of bitter, gritty coffee. They gaze out upon the small village which the eldest has worked so hard to create. A forsaken pocket of humanity surrounded on all sides by pure, uninhibited violence and evil. Mankind's last vestige of hope in a doomed world. The sun is just starting to set and fires begin to sprout up like blooming flowers on the turf below. Without speaking a word, The General produces a cigarette and places it between his lips. He feels around in his pockets trying to find a lighter that isn't there. Mick's big mitt then pats him on the shoulder. The young club president turns to see his father's war buddy holding out a vintage silver zippo with the letters U.S.M.C. printed on the side in chipped red paint. Much like an heirloom Ulysses has seen before, always safe at home in the pocket of his daddy's cut.

"Thanks," he lights the butt and hands the lighter back to Mick.

"Who are we waiting for son?"

"Hollowpoint is coming to meet with us."

"Ah yes, Roland."

"Says he has an idea... and he doesn't feel like passing it by the Russians. He feels that they have no respect for us, and I'm inclined to agree. I know you must see it too."

"Yeah, I know. But you have to realize that we stand a much better chance at succeeding with their help. They're invaluable allies to have right now and I was assuming you and your men would be more understanding and respectful. The Russians are too arrogant to concede to anything."

"Roland just sees it as bowing down to them, which isn't fair considering what we sacrificed to come here."

"I understand son, I really do. I'll do my best to to keep each side equal from now on. I'm-" Mick is interrupted when the door behind them opens suddenly. As they turn to greet the visitor they hear two men talking. Hollowpoint and Mick's deputy Orion Sobotka, or Ott, are deep in conversation.

Ott is an odd looking young man, large and lumbering with a squashed, simpletons face that's dotted with scratchy white whiskers. He sports a brown leather jacket over a Red Sox sweatshirt and tan Carhartt pants. Around his neck, his badge is tethered to a chain and rests between his large pectorals. Finally, like some wannabe cowboy, two revolvers sit holstered on each hip. Two .357 magnums. Bulky, oily and mean looking. Like two silver pitbulls that ooze death and destruction. The young deputy has an odd intimidating persona and not just due to his sheer size, he also gives forth the feeling that even he doesn't know what he himself is quite capable of.

"Ulysses, this is Orion Sobotka, my deputy. Just call him Ott. Ott, Ulysses."

"Another Sobotka?"

"No relation I assure you, just a cruel coincidence," Ott chuckles in a very deep yet articulate voice.

"Come and sit, both of you, we have some things to discuss," Mick says.

"That we do, I got an idea to get some info. Only I don't exactly feel like running by those Russki bastards."

"Let's hear it Roland."

"Okay, so I was thinking instead of trying to covertly discover where these fuckers call home, why don't we just scoop a few up and get the info we need right from those sons of bitches?"

"You expect them to just tell us what we want to know?" Ott questions.

"No, that's why we do some interrogating. Round up four or five of the worthless bums, put 'em each in separate rooms and tell 'em, 'we got a couple of your friends and we're asking them the same questions, tell us what we wanna know first or we'll kill ya.' We gotta stop pussy footin' around and get some damn answers. I'm done sneaking around with the fucking Russians. It's time to get shit done, with a mean face and fuck load of balls. Lucky for you and those arrogant Russians, I got a heavy dose of both."

"What if that don't work and they hold? You ready to put bullets in five heads?"

"Then we go to plan B and I break out some wrenches, blow torches and ball-peen hammers. Work it out of them in a more... direct fashion."

"I am still a cop you know Roland."

"The fuck you are Mick, you're the general of a guerilla army fighting against odds that are stacked heavily against you. If you expect to defeat these worms then you better be prepared to get into the dirt."

There's a long silence as Mick looks the passionate Sergeant at Arms up and down trying to find an opinion of the man's plan. Hollowpoint's eyes are deadpan and serious, filled with an absolute killers darkness that chills the chief to the bone. It's a feeling old Mick hasn't seen in a man since staring into the eyes of his Colonel back when he was stationed in Kabul. How could he say no to a man filled with so much pure animal determination.

"Alright, you take a team out tomorrow and bring in some POW's. This is your mission, no Russian mob interference."

"Thank you sir," Hollowpoint stands to leave and plan his course of action for the next day.

"And Roland."

"Yes?"

"Don't make me regret this."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Hollowpoint smirks and leaves the owner's suite followed closely by Mick's loyal deputy.

Victor's big, bald head turns back to The General and his face is marked with amazement, intrigue and a hint of admiration.

"He's got some balls that Roland. Good thing he's on our side huh?"

"He's a hard man to turn down. Loyal as a dog though, he'd sooner die then kneel down for something he doesn't believe in. I trust you'll be satisfied with the results he brings, I always am and my father always was."

"Well that makes me feel even more confident in him. Your confidence is my confidence. Any idea who he'll bring along to do this mission?"

"I would imagine Molotov and Greylocke, I'll send Joker along too and one or two of the others. The big Irishman for sure, he'll be a great physical presence when rounding up some prisoners."

"I've been interested in seeing that bear of a man at work, he looks dangerous. You know his background?"

"I've only ever seen him in action with that hand cannon fifty caliber he totes around but I believe he was a farmer back before the fallout, used to wrangling steers. I'm sure he can handle a couple drugged out bandits."

"That's what I like to hear son," Mick stands with a big smile on his face, "I'm glad you and your boys are here, it boosts my confidence ten fold. And them out there view you and your boys as heaven sent angels on the holiest of holy crusades. Divine liberators."

"Glad we could be of some help, it's what my father would have done. He respected you more then anyone else on this earth."

"And I him, he'd be damn proud of you son, I just want you to know that. You've carried out the honor of his club admirably."

"Thanks Mick."

The morning rises as Hollowpoint and his small squad of kidnappers plan out the coming day's events. It's a cool morning with the sun shining bright upon the devastated Boston remains from a bright blue, cloudless sky. With the guidance of The General, Hollowpoint has put together a team consisting of himself, Joker, Molotov, Greylocke and the hulking Irishman Fergus who looks eager to get out of the confines of Fenway and bust some heads once again.

"We'll leave by foot moving in a close pod and we'll seek out any lonesome druggies, bandits and vagrants we can find. Most of them, especially the worthless ones traveling alone, are only armed with hand to hand weaponry so we should be able to just approach and subdue them at gunpoint. Mick Victor has been so kind as to supply us with hand cuffs and shackles with which we can imprison our catch with so they won't try any funny shit."

"How many we need?" Greylocke asks.

"Half dozen or so, the more men we take the more answers we're apt to get. We'll have to be on high alert though because we will be very vulnerable, that's why I've chosen the few I believe to be the most able bodied in a fire fight."

"Should we take some some heavier fire power then?" Molotov speaks up.

"I'll be giving you and Grey each an AK along with your pistols. Ferg, you got the hand cannon and the shotgun, Joker does his best work with pistols and I'll have my two nine's along with an SMG in case things get bloody. And I know you'll have your usual assortment of hidden explosive goodies."

"That I will," Molotov laughs.

Just then, Neil Rice, the truck driver, walks to Hollowpoint's side and sets down two small bundles. Blankets wrapped around something of value. The sergeant picks them both up, one in each hand, and turns to Greylocke and Molotov.

"Here's your AK's, four fifty round clips are wrapped inside the bundles," don't waste the ammo, it's more valuable then any other supply we have right now," each of the biker warriors take's their bundle, unwraps their contents and readies the freshly oiled weapons. Clips are clicked into place and shells jacked into chambers. The spare clips are tucked into free spaces; tightly in belts, hidden inside cuts and in the back pockets of tattered, grimy blue jeans.

"You got enough shells for that shotgun big man?" Hollowpoint turns to Fergus.

"I sure hope so. Got more'n enough for the fifty though. Plus, a big ass knife," Fergus glances down at his right leg which bares a mammoth combat knife strapped tightly inside a sheath.

"Good good, let's move out men. Get this shit under way."

Hollowpoint turns and walks across the field followed by the others in his armed little squad. The refugees gaze upon them with admiration, awestruck by their confidence and bravery. To them, these gun-toting bikers were armed saviors sent to liberate them from the world's horros which surround them. They exit through one of the large metal, garage doors located along the outfield wall, dwarfed at the base of the historic green monster. After passing through the restrictive hole in the wall they emerge into the ominous Bostonian remains. Everything is eerily quiet.

The only noise comes from the wind whistling through the ruins and the crunch of the squad's boots along the broken pavement. They all scan their surroundings intently hoping to find their first prey. The silence along with the looming evilness of all the shattered buildings creates uneasiness in all of their stomachs and makes their eyes play games with their brains. The only one of the squad not feeling these effects is the unshakeable Joker who continues to breath easily and scout his surroundings without imagining he's seeing movement among the wreckage.

Fenway Park soon disappears from their line of sight and the mission is now completely underway. Hollowpoint draws one of his nine millimeters and walks cautiously down the broken road before them. After a few hundred yards they spy a small fire smoldering inside the blown out lobby of an old corporate office. Molotov and Greylocke raise the barrels of their AK's and Fergus unholsters his Desert Eagle as to be ready for an ambush.

Once to the building, Hollowpoint peers in through the open space where a floor to ceiling glass window once stood. Inside he can see three figures lying still on the cold tile floor. He turns his head to his team and places his finger over his lips as a command to remains silent. With a flick of his head Molotov, Greylocke and Fergus stealthily move inside and stand over the bodies looking like angels of death on the verge of taking their next victims.

As a playful smirk crosses Hollowpoint's face he points his pistol to the ceiling and cracks of a single shot. Two of the three slumbering inhabitants bolt upright, startled from their dreams. Their alarm is soon overcome by panic when the first thing they see is the barrel of an AK and the barrel of a Desert Eagle looking them straight in the eye. Fergus' prisoner doesn't take this surprise well as he hollers and attempts to stand.

"Who the fuck do ya think ya are!"

"Just sit down there ya twit," Fergus chuckles and pistol whips the dirty man across the back of the head sending him into a crude pile.

"W-what do you guys want?" the second one stutters as he looks down Molotov's barrel.

"We want you boys to politely put on these cuffs and shackles and come with us to the new utopia," Hollowpoint says sarcastically.

"I aint goin' nowhere with you fucks," the pistol whipped prisoner grunts with his face pointed down into the tiles.

"Oh yeah?" Fergus holsters his pistol, grabs the man by neck and lifts him effortlessly to his feet. He kicks and struggles but finds it to be no use against the Scotsman's brute strength.

"That fucker dead?" Molotov addresses Greylocke referring to his prisoner.

"Seams to be, I don't think he's breathing."

"Kick the fucker."

Greylocke lifts his boot and delivers a swift kick to the lifeless lump of human being in front of him. Not a grunt, not a sigh, not a single movement comes from the man. The young biker shrugs and kneels down at the corpses side. With his free hand he rolls the body over and quickly jumps back in astonishment.

Lying before him on the cold tile floor is a reeking deformed body riddled with maggots. The flesh of the face is broken and ripped as if pulled apart by frantic humans hands. Cheek bones peak out through blackened skin and the dead man's mouth gapes open as if locked in an eternal scream of terrified agony. Bullet holes dot the bloated body through dirty clothes which are caked with dried blood and human excrement.

"Son of a bitch!" Greylocke yells as he fights back the urge to throw up his breakfast.

"Just give him another shake, I think he's still got some life in him," Molotov laughs sarcastically.

"What the hell happened to him? You sick fucks eat him? Are you fucking cannibals?"

"We're survivors. Plain and simple," the cannibal held at Molotov's gunpoint grumbles.

"Well not for much longer. Stand the fuck up," Molotov prods the sketchy, dirty man.

The two prisoners are handcuffed, shackled and tethered to Fergus' large frame so the squad can continue on their snatch and grab mission. The pistol-whipped prisoner, not having learned his lesson the first time, makes a point to drag his feet along and to be loud and abrasive.

"Where the hell are you taking us? Why don't you just kill us and be done with it?"

"If yer keep talkin' I'll be sure ta cut yer fuckin' tongue out," Fergus threatens with his big knife. Needless to say, the threat hits home and the miserable cannibal shuts his rotting, toothless mouth.

The next prey they come upon meets the squad standing directly in the middle of the road. A short, twisted looking little man with long red hair, reddened eyes and an aluminum baseball bat locked in his hand. Hollowpoint notices the foe and locks his sights square in the center of their chest. He and the rest of the men slow to a crawl and prepare for the man to make a move.

"Who are you guys?" the bat wielding man asks in an oddly nonchalant tone of voice.

"We're men with guns telling you to drop your weapon and give up or be shot to fuckin' shit," Hollowpoint replies in his cold, toneless voice.

"Well fuck, I aint gonna live forever anyways," the man smiles, lifts his bat in offense and bolts out in their direction. Without a word, Joker steps forward, drawing one of his pistols as if by magic, drops to one knee, and with both hands gripped on his pistol fires a shot that echoes loudly off the surrounding buildings. The projectile flies true, as it always does for Joker, and smashes into the charging man's clenched fist. With a bloody crunch and an earsplitting ping, the attacker's hand explodes in a fountain of blood, fingers and shredded metal. Screaming in bitter agony, the man falls to his knees and grasps at his mangled, gory hand.

"Holy fuck, well you aint dying today partner," Molotov hoots loudly as he runs to the wounded man with handcuffs and shackles. "Don't get feisty now, I don't wanna have to blow your other hand off!"

The man is chained and placed in line with the others in front of Fergus. As they prepare to move out a noise from within the wreckage causes Joker to stand dead still and eye wearily into the shadowy remains. Hollowpoint immediately notices this pause and knowing not to ever doubt Joker's instincts, helps scan the surrounding buildings.

"What it is?"

Joker replies by holding up a hand signaling him to get off of the road. They all obey and duck quickly into an abandoned building opposite from where Joker heard the ominous noise. Just as Fergus passes through the doorway a shot rings out and explodes against the wall next to the big man's head. He falls down in astonishment causing all the prisoners tethered to him to tumble to the ground as well.

In the next second, the setting turns into a raging explosion of rapid gunfire. Hot lead pelts the walls around them raining dust and debris down upon their heads. They cover themselves and pray that a stray bullet doesn't catch one of them in the eye. Hollowpoint tries to scream orders but they become lost or distorted behind the echoing firefight. After what seams like an eternity, the firing stops and the crew sits perfectly still with anticipation.

"What are we gonna do?" Greylocke asks softly as everyone else shakes the ringing from their ears.

"There's an exit door in the rear I can see but I sure as fuck ain't standing up after that barrage," Hollowpoint replies.

"Let me see what I can do..." Molotov says as if he can see a plan coming to mind. In a prone position, Molotov shimmies to a blown out window facing towards their assailants. Reaching inside of his cut, the crazed biker pulls out a round frag grenade. Without hesitation he pulls the pin and lobs the grenade out into the street. A few seconds later an explosion erupts shaking the ground beneath their feet. Molotov sits down on his butt and faces the others.

"Alright, so I'm gonna toss one more out there then drop a smoker in the middle of this room. Once we're completely shrouded, we'll head for that back door and get us the fuck outta here."

"Any objections?" Holowpoint asks. "No? Then fuckin' do it brother!"

With a sinister smile on his face, Molotov pulls another round frag grenade along with a larger, green canister. The pin is pulled from the frag and tossed through the shattered window. Before it can erupt, the pyromaniac pulls the pin on the smoke grenade and rolls it to the center of the building's tiled floor. It pops and sizzles and begins filling the room with a thick, gray smoke. Shortly there after, a bang comes from the street followed by yelling from the surrounding buildings.

With their building now engulfed with thick smoke, Molotov stands and yells to the others, "go, go. I'll provide cover fire."

He stands with his AK in hand and brings it to his shoulder, standing just far enough behind the window that he would not be seen from the street. With a gentle squeeze, the Russian made machine gun jumps and barks loudly in his hands sending a hail of bullets raining on the buildings across the streets. Under the cover of the machine gun fire and the heavy smoke, the others in the group move safely to the door in the back of the building. Molotov then turns and bolts safely through the door into a very narrow alleyway. They all stand in place for a second breathing deep to recover from the smoke in their lungs. Hollowpoint looks in both directions to find only one way out as the other direction is blocked by a high brick wall.

"Alright, lets get the fuck out of here," the sergeant heads towards the end of the alley. Before they can reach the end, two stalking silhouettes stroll into their line of site, blocking their only exit. The group screeches to a halt and quickly ducks behind two different dumpsters just as bullets fly in their direction from the two attackers. Hollowpoint, Joker and Molotov are stuck behind one dumpster while Fergus, Greylocke and the three prisoners sit safely behind the second.

"Fuck! We can't afford to get into a firefight. we don't have the ammo supply for that. Molotov, you cover the front of us with your AK and Grey, make sure we don't have any surprise attacks coming from that door we just came through," Hollowpoint calmly barks out his new orders.

Molotov stands and sprays the last of his clip down the alleyway at their attackers, as the bandits duck and scurry about, Joker rises to his feet and with his surgeons precision, guns down the fleeing men with four clean shots.

"Alright, lets move," Hollowpoint directs as he emerges from his cover with both pistols drawn. Joker follows close behind, also wielding dual pistols like some post apocalyptic, leather-clad pistolero of doom. Fergus sets his large handgun back in its holster and replaces it with his trusty twelve gauge Benelli shotgun. Molotov and Greylocke take up the rear with their AKs up and ready for another assailant to show their face.

On their sprint to the end of the alley, a body spills from the smoking door and is quickly filled with lead from two quick bursts of 7.62x39mm shells. As Greylocke strafes by the two downed bodies, he loots the corpses of their weaponry. A silver Smith & Wesson 10mm with thirty shells and an old Luger with twenty-five shells. He tucks the pistols into his belt, the shells into the pockets of his cut and moves right along with the rest of his armored squad. Finally, he produces a small molotov cocktail, lights it's rag wick and smashes it over the dead bodies, which will block off the bottlenecked alley for a minute or two.

"Pick up yer feet yer limey cunts or I'll fill yer asses with buckshot," Fergus bellows as he drags the prisoners along behind him.

With the alleyway left behind them, Hollowpoint leads the group back in the direction of Fenway Park. It doesn't appear as if they are being followed as there is no howling voices or frantic gunshots behind them, but the safest thing in the sergeant's mind appears to be turning tail and getting back to the ballpark's safe confines as soon as possible. He had three men to interrogate and at least one of them had to hold some kind of useful information, and if they didn't, he'd just be left with three piles of bloody pulp. He'd find out soon enough as Fenway Park now looms over them, a feeling of safety is a welcome relief.

The prisoners, bound by duct tape around their wrists and ankles, are placed on their knees in the center of what used to be the away team's showers. The blue tiled floor is stained with age and encrusted with black mold. A makeshift dungeon with drains in the floor, perfect for spilling large amount of blood. Hollowpoint stands menacingly over them, a bloodthirsty warlord on the precipice of torture and murder, while Molotov guards the door. A look of sadistic pleasure lines his scarred face. Two of the three prisoners shake and quiver with fear while the third, the same mouthy cannibal, smirks defiantly up at the menacing sergeant.

"Alright, so this is how it's gonna work. I'm gonna ask the three of you a question. Who ever answers my question first will be spared and I'll kill the other two. First question, who the fuck is this infamous queen rumored to be running the ruins?" Hollowpoint begins his interrogation.

The three men remain silent at first, the scared two just shake and look hesitantly at the bolder man placed between them. The one with the bullet damaged hand looks at Hollowpoint nervously.

"Well..."

"You shut the fuck you pussy," the defiant prisoner barks.

"No you," Hollowpoint steps forward and knees the feisty prisoner square in the nose. He falls onto his back with a grunt that sounds like a laugh muffled by gurgling blood. "Get back on your knees bitch," Hollowpoint leans over and pulls the psychotic prisoner back up onto his knees.

"We aint gonna tell you shit, so you might as well just throw in the towel. We aint no snitches."

"I'm not sure your counterparts share those same sentiments."

"Try us leather boy, in the end you'll just be proven a cunt."

"A cunt huh? You know, your voice is really starting to aggravate me boy."

"Ahhahaha," the man laughs insanely as blood begins to funnel from his busted nose.

"I need an answer," Hollowpoint ignores the laughter.

"Fuck... y-"

"Shut the fuck up!" Hollowpoint draws his nine-millimeter and from three feet away blows a bloody hole in the defiant prisoner's head right where his busted nose used to be. The two remaining prisoners yelp and begin to shake even harder.

"Please, please!"

"Who's ready to speak?"

"Me! Me!" they both cry.

"You," Hollowpoint points to the prisoner with the mangled hand.

"The queen's just a myth, there is no queen."

"What the fuck do you mean? Then who's uniting everyone out there?"

"We don't know. Nobody knows. No one ever sees him. He's insulated."

"Insulated?"

"He has lieutenants who do all of his interacting with the people of the wastes. Four or five I would reckon. Me, I've only ever interacted with one, a mean motherfucker who goes by the name of Lieutenant Herod. He recruited me."

"Well where did these sexual hypnotism rumors come from? A queen that hypnotizes men into doing her biding?"

"I don't know about that."

"How about you?" Hollowpoint turns to the other prisoner.

"Well..."

"Speak you miserable piece of dog shit," Hollowpoint pistols whips the prisoner in the side of the head.

"Okay, okay," the man cries with his face buried in the bloody, moldy tiled floor, "they keep an entire harem of beautiful slave girls. The dying, starving, hopeless men of the wastes are brought in, served hot food, warm bath and unlimited amount of free, clean, shaved pussy. They brainwash us into becoming part of the army. When I saw this, I left immediately, it was too much to bare. My wife, my sister and my two daughters are part of that harem. So I left."

"Where is this stronghold? Where are they breeding this army you speak of?"

"Where else? McTavish prison. You know, that old ass dungeon surrounded by brick walls and barbed wire. That's where the lieutenants and the girls are. I have no idea about the man in charge, what ever you wanna call him. One of the lieutenants would know... So what are you gonna do with us now?"

"That's not my call. Can you two still be of some use?"

"I'll do anything."

"Yeah... me too."

"I'll talk to my boss, see what I can do."

"Thank you, thank you so much," the prisoner with one hand grovels.

"No no, thank you," Hollowpoint smiles and exits the stench ridden showers leaving Molotov to guard the shaking prisoners.

"We've got a breakthrough man, more then one," Hollowpoint reports excitedly to The General and Mick.

"Yeah? Let's here it," Mick urges, intrigued.

"I've learned, from our two prisoners, that there is no queen, rather an army of sex slaves used to brainwash men into enlisting in this army. They are also housed, bathed and provided fresh food. They're recruited by lieutenants who work as buffers between the common recruits and the man in charge, who ever he is. Second, I know where the hub is, the place in which the lieutenants live and the woman work and stay. Fucking McTavish prison."

"No shit, great work Roland. My faith in you was well placed. Now just to figure out what the next step should be."

"One more thing, what do we do with the two prisoners?"

"How badly did you torture them? Are they in horribly bad condition?"

"One has a damaged hand, from a gunshot wound from when we took him in. But I never had to break out any tools, no. They're just cold. Cold and lightly bruised, that's all."

"Take them out of those filthy showers, patch the hand up and give them some food. But keep a close eye on them, I don't want them hurting getting any ideas and hurting anybody."

"Molotov will keep a close eye on them. I assure you of that."

"Alright then, dismissed," Mick nods and Hollowpoint leaves.

"Told you he wouldn't disappoint," The General speaks up.

"Indeed you did. What do we do now? We know McTavish is gonna be heavily guarded and fortified, it is a prison after all. But I don't see how we find anything out about this tyrant unless we get ahold of one of his lieutenants. And they sure as hell aren't gonna be giving up information as easily as those vagrants. The Russians are gonna have to help here. I don't see any other way around it."

"I agree, as much as I would like not to. Stealth isn't exactly the strong point of our men."

"And a full on assault would result in many of our men dying along with the deaths of the innocent slaves they keep there. There's undoubtedly family members of our refugees being held as slaves. There's just gotta be."

"Our friend Mr. Kristmas is gonna wanna storm the gates once he hears that info. He's on a hellbent mission to find his wife, she could be part of that harem, I wouldn't be stunned."

"Well he needs to be kept under control or completely in the dark. He can't be ruining our plans."

"I'll talk to his buddy there, the big one. See what he think about it."

"You do that, also speak to both of them about infiltrating the stronghold. They'll be our best bet for getting inside. I'll consult Mr. Sobotka about this and see what he thinks about tackling this new info."

"If you think that's best Mick. I'll return shortly."

The General leaves and Mick turns and strolls to the window overlooking his small haven of hope. The dim lights inside the owner's box shimmer off of his shiny bald head as he lights up a cigar and puffs, deep in thought over the bits of newly acquired intel. This new tyrant must have been a man of influence during the days before the fallout in order to have so many resources at his disposal. A small group of extremely loyal lieutenants who recruit his budding army and keep him safely insulated from the rest of the world. A legion of attractive, enslaved women which he uses to entice and brainwash the men of the ruins into becoming a deadly, united horde of murderous, loyal drones. The psychological aspect of these truths is undeniable leaving Mick to believe this tyrant to be a man with experience dealing with human nature and the way that the mind of the desperate and destitute works. A man in that position would have to be extremely manipulative and have an unmatched intellect.

With a sigh, Mick walks slowly across the owner's suite to a walkie-talkie placed on the old bar. He clicks the button and speaks into the receiver.

"This is Mick, send Mr. Sobotka up. I need a word."

"Indeed. Over," Rej Trevelyan's voice replies from the other end.

In less then five minutes, the Russian Mob leader arrives with his second, Rej Trevelyan. They both look tired and a little angry, perhaps they have already heard the news of Hollowpoint's latest mission which they had been left out of.

"What?" Petr asks bluntly.

"I was hoping to discuss something with you."

"Oh, well that's a change."

"Well I guess you received the news of the bikers running a mission."

"Sure did, was I purposely left out of the loop?"

"They had a plan that they wanted to carry out themselves. Turns out it came to fruition and was a major success. We have no room for jealously right now, there's more important things to deal with right now then who's got the bigger dick."

"Do you need us or not? If we're not going to be involved then we will gladly withdraw our services."

"And go where Petr? We're each other's only options and you know that. They had an idea, it was authentic and it worked. Accept it and help us, it's the only option, we both know it."

"Tell me what they found."

Mick explains the intel extracted from the prisoners by Hollowpoint. About the discovered dwelling, the lack of a queen, the harem of slaves and the unclearness of their next step.

"This is right up our alley," Rej cuts in, "this is a call for stealth and espionage. I have a few men who I know can infiltrate this. Lets set it up."

"They're not gonna buy a Russian going in there. They know that the Russian Mob is against them and is their most formidable enemy. We need Americans, Bostonians preferably. They'll be the least inconspicuous. I've already got two in mind thank you."

"Then how the fuck are we involved?"

"I want you to be the ones that nets us one of their lieutenants. They won't come easy I assure you, do you think you can handle it?"

"Without a fucking doubt."

"Good, now you can get off my back, stop complaining and do your goddamned job. Once we get in and find out who these lieutenants are, we'll send you out to capture one. Just have patience, your day will come soon."

"It better."

"Or what?"

"Or your revolution be damned," Petr says coldly and walks from the suite with purpose.