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.