Page 15

"For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack." — Rudyard Kipling

Axel

Now that we've agreed on the mission, we gear up. Lucky, Jack, Hands, and Wheels will remain outside the fence. No matter what, Suds, Slate, and I will enter through the front gate.

Flanked by the former SEALs, I push the buzzer beside the door handle. No one responds, so I grab a rock. The clanging on metal brings three of the militia wannabes. Rifle safeties off, the idiots race down the hill. Should one of them trip, we’ll be mincemeat.

Once they reach the bottom, I point my weapon at a bald, bearded biker who appears to be the leader. “You have our wives. We’re not leaving without them.”

“Fuck off. They belong to us, now.” One of the stupid, younger guys steps forward. He has no idea how his next breath may be his last.

Slate’s eyes narrow. I swear I can hear his mind whirring.

The older man must recognize my friends’ bone-frog tats, because he suddenly pales. “Lower your weapons, you two. They’re squids.”

When the mouthy one opens his trap as if to object, the hog-rider punches him so hard that the kid drops to his knees.

Rubbing his knuckles, the leader scratches his chest-length chin growth. “I don’t want to shoot you guys, but the boss said no more new members. We barely have enough supplies as it is.”

Slate’s hands remain steady as he stares, unblinking. “You let our women go, we leave. You don’t, you die.”

The guy on the other side of the fence might be genuinely contrite. “If you love them, you’ll want them to stay.”

The scowling Suds shakes his head with his weapon trained on the gangbanger. “What the ever-lovin’ fuck are you talkin’ about?”

“The EMP pulse. It took out all of the East Coast’s infrastructure. Haven’t you been watching the news?” His face shows no sign of falsehood, but clearly, he’s confused. If a bomb took out all electronic equipment, that would also include TV and radio stations.

“Sorry, bro, you’ve been duped.” Suds Sutcliff faces me like I might have a dose of reality for this dude, but I’m all out of magic pills.

I’d prefer to shoot them all, find the ladies, and be done with this nonsense.

As I’m about to give the command to move out, Slate lowers his weapon before holding up a fist. “There’s no point in denying it. We’re here to join up.”

This catches the biker’s attention. “We have orders to kill anyone who tries.” The gatekeeper appears so conflicted I almost feel sorry for him.

Stepping forward, the Patten commander lowers his voice. “Use your brain, dude. Add three experienced soldiers to your ranks. You need us if you’re going to fend off the impending shit show. If you take us to Dr. Lewis, I'm sure he’ll agree.”

Slate’s namedropping has the desired effect. For a brief moment, the three survivalists point their barrels at the dirt and glance at each other. I use this opportunity to fire upon the lock. After Suds kicks the gate open, Slate tackles the biggest. While they struggle, I throw a knife, which lodges in the hand of the smart-ass kid about to pull the trigger.

“D-d-don’t shoot.” Smelling of urine, the quiet one sets his rifle on the ground, then raises his palms in the air.

Soon, we have all three prone on the ground with hands tie-wrapped behind their backs. We can’t afford to have the braver two jump up ugly, so we bind their ankles and knock them unconscious.

Back at the gate, Slate glances up the empty hill, then squats beside the sobbing teen. “You have a choice. Take me to my wife ordie. You try to call out, youdie. Should you do anything I don’t like, youdie. Understand?”

One bob of the head later, My First Soldier, leads us toward our wives.