Realistic or Modern Fallen Angels M.C. | In the Zombie Apocalypse

CLUBHOUSE

Cris was tense in his seat, frowning at the dashboard. Lost in the whirlwind of thoughts and fears, he flinched when Ally's voice cut through the heavy silence. His gaze skipped to her face, her reassurance pulling on his heartstrings. His baby girl… His Santina… Was this really what he wanted? To be part of something that would constantly tear her off his arms. But what other choice did he have?

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips, tinged with anxiety. "Yeah, ye' right." He tried to sound collected but the worry in his eyes betrayed him. "They'll keep'er safe."

His gaze finally cruized up, settling on the evening mirage that their lamps couldn't reach. It was getting really dark now. The rumble of the engines and the single headlights of their bikes barely recognizable with the endless expanse of the undead horde swaying up ahead of their van. The wind picked up, whistling through the cracks in the vehicle.

"Hey, you seeing this?" Cris' mouth went agape and his eyebrows shot up when he realized. "Part of it… it broke off to the South-West- are you seeing this??" The undead stragglers one by one disjointed from the ocean of decay, disappearing in the woods on the side. The woods that were the only barrier between them and the plains the clubhouse was at.

Cris looked at Ally, his heart rate spiked up. "We gotta do something! We gotta go back!"

GROUP 2: THE CROSSROADS

Auguste was right. They couldn’t keep going, they way they’ve been doing things. They were headed down a bad road - figuratively, and right now, literally.

“I don’t think any of us anticipated we’d end up like this.” Fish responded, his voice quiet as he stared straight ahead, eyes transfixed on the horizon, waiting for the dead. “If we’d known… Do you think we would have let it all happen? Would we have just kept saying yes?” Fish traced his finger around the sobriety token in his pocket again. Would he have ever bothered getting sober if this is what life had in store for him? It was hard to say yes, right then and there.

Truthfully, he wasn’t sure if he knew how to be better anymore, in this world. You couldn’t just stop the violence, theft, or hard choices anymore. Things were still too… wild.

Fish stared off into the distance, focusing on nothing specific, mind drifting back to past trials and sins, quiet for a time… until he finally saw it.

It was hardly noticeable at first. A shimmer of movement at the horizon. The setting sun flashed against chrome. The wind picked up, and for a moment, it brought with the stench of rot and the sound of moans and low rumbles.

The dead were coming. He looked to Kallie and Auguste as he raised his radio to his lips.

“Casey, horde sighted, we see your group comin’ up just over the horizon - we’re ready. How are you guys doing? Monty, Elvis, Kit, you guys copy us?” Fish took his thumb off the button of his radio to let the other teams call in, grabbing onto the handlebars of his bike and lifting one foot off the ground, getting ready to peel away when the time was right.

“Showtime,” Fish said as he exhaled. It felt like they had been out there forever, staring at the road while the sun started to set, watching a whole lot of nothing. Now that it was a whole lot of something for a change, his heart started to thud in his chest from nerves. God, it was torture, with how slow they all would need to ride their bikes to make sure they didn’t outrun the horde and lose the dead.

The size of the horde coming was terrifying. Bigger than any group he’d ever seen, especially this close. Every fiber in his body wanted to just gun it and go.

Once Casey’s team started to get closer, Fish let his bike rumble to life quietly and he rode in a small circle, pointing his bike in the direction he needed to go - towards the bridge at the riverside. His hands and arms shook, and it wasn’t from the power of the bike under him. Swallowing hard, he pushed down the fear, took a breath, and counted to ten.

As soon as Casey and Wess were close enough, Fish flipped the horde the finger, revved the engine once, and slowly started to roll out to the southeast. Hopefully some of the dead would peel off as planned and follow.


BeyondDandy smookie NanLia Good_Morels Fluffy-Kat

Kit frowned but nodded. "Yeah, you mentioned it." He chuckled. "Might hold weight, who knows?" He asked as he walked onto the rapidly aging bridge. It creaked under his weight, but thankfully held. His radio crackled to life at that moment, Fish's voice breaking up as it came through, but he got the gist. He reached for his radio to ten four it, but Beau piped in just as his fingers brushed the plastic.
"Ready when you are. Doc, I'll radio when I need y'all." The older southerner's tone sounded hollow, but determined, not all that uncommon of a sound from him, but the hit of fear in the crack of his voice struck him. Unfortunately, there wasn't time for Kit to worry about what exactly Beau would do, he needed to hold up his end. There had to be something he could do to keep Jenkins busy without him figuring shit out. He looked over the bridge into the water below, his mind racing. "Hey Elvis, you hear any of that? My radio's all fucked." He called out after a long minute of silence as he walked back over to his bike. He shook his radio as he did, then smacked a few times to see if that helped. At the very least, if he could get hands on Jenkin's radio he'd cut off his connection to the rest of the groups, which was a start. "Bridge didn't feel all that reliable either, Monty's supposed to radio when he needs us, right? I think we have time to see if there's anywhere better to cross. Hell, there's a settlement around here, yeah? Maybe they built a better bridge." He suggested, grasping at straws but it was all he really had for the moment. Maybe Jenkins was interested enough in self preservation to procrastinate on getting back to Beau.

smookie

GROUP 1

The sharp, sour smell of the dead was no surprise, but it never failed to stoke the bubble of hate in Connor's spine, though the woman was careful to not let the venom in her veins course too hard, too fast. Detachment mixed with poison, that was the ticket. She knew fear in all its shades and degrees, and while Connor had the utmost respect for it, it could no longer command her. Killing zombies for a handful of hours nearly every damn day for over a year sort of took the piss out, as it were. By any rational measure, this was the biggest horde she'd faced head-on, though not by as large a factor as many might assume.

Madison didn't know her companions and had no way of gauging their competence beforehand, instead treating them as though they were mostly not there and she was enacting a stupid plan on her own. The club had an abundance of ammo, and though making bullets was outside her wheelhouse, makeshift buckshot was easy enough, even in these dark days. The hunter kept her cool, riding ahead a little and then periodically stopping to turn and line up a shot just right. The piece Casey had given her was robust enough to punch through two skulls, if she was extra careful. Habit meant she constantly looked around for stragglers and didn't fire unless she was sure.

The time to mount and dismount was a non-starter for hand-to-hand (or was that hand-to-mouth?) fighting, especially at sunset or nightfall. The gunshots were as effective as her headlights in making sure she kept their attention on herself, as much as possible anyway. The louder, the better. Considering zombies didn't cry or feel pain, it was likely these jacks had scratched-up corneas distorting their vision, to say nothing for the growing gloom. Ride, stop, shoot. Repeat.

Even so, dealing with a horde once they were well and truly grouped in a singular mass was straightforward. Not easy, but definitely straightforward. It was like those old video games where all the enemies on screen were constantly making a straight-shot beeline towards the titular main character, regardless of where the sprite might move at any one time. Madison got a good shot and squeezed a round off. A hole blossomed through the eye of a zombie teen in a hospital gown, though the secondary target behind the first moved at the last second, making only one body fell backwards, though Connor nodded silently to herself before letting her bike take her forwards a little at a time. These guys were definitely running on 8-bit brains.

When they were grouped together like this, it was impossible not to notice that these zombies had been..... just people. Men and women, young and old, in everything from pajamas to suits to gothic chic. A few were in undies or even straight-up nude. It was a genuine cross-section of ex-folks, taken at random from their lives and made into monsters. Connor's fury towards these shuffling mockeries was boundless.

The sky was becoming the color of a bruise, and the moon was a clot of curdled milk, gradually more visible as sunset began to break into night. At least it was near full, giving as good a visibility as was available and casting the scene in its pale glow. Most of the time, Madison found the notion of the moon to be a comforting one, but not now. Not tonight. Time oozed by, thick and slow and unrelenting as the single-minded dead.

Eventually, the headlights in the distance gave Connor pause. Getting there. Inchy squinchy. Man, assuming she lived, she was going to be flat out of gas by the time this trip was done. The easy ability to shoot and draw the focus of the horde was about to disappear. Sing? Nah. There were lots of fates worse than death and her singing in public was one of them. Shout? Yeah, that seemed more reasonable. The sound wouldn't carry nearly as far as a gunshot, wouldn't re-tempt zombies that were supposed to be going the other direction. Still, one thing at a time. Getting to those headlights came first. Connor simply had to hope that Casey and Wess were able to communicate their plan effectively at range.


Fluffy-Kat BeyondDandy

Beau took a long drag of his cigarette as the orange glow of the setting sun flooded the landscape. The vaguest hint of a smile crossed his lips as he relished in the last of the warmth. "I don't reckon a sunset's ever looked prettier" He chuckled to himself as he leaned back onto his bike. It had better be the prettiest, considering it may be his last.

The embers burnt his fingertips before he finally stamped the paper wrapped cotton out. Somewhere out in the waves of heat rolling off the earth, clouds of dust began to kick up in a shadowy display, dancing on a backdrop of fiery red. Beau took a deep breath and grabbed his radio.
"I can see ya Fish. Elvis, Doc, I'll meet ya at the bridge. I've got 'em" He called with a tone of determination and confidence he hadn't felt in a while. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck before getting back onto his bike, a weight lifted from his shoulders at the knowledge his group was at least safe for now. With any luck, they'd be home soon.

"Hell of a night to die Sav. Don't worry too much, somebody'll find you" he promised, gently patting the bike as if to comfort it. He revved the engine and headed out towards the horde, the hungry snarls and footsteps growing louder and louder as he approached. He tensed reflexively, his body screaming at him to turn around, but his head and his heart were in solemn agreement. He turned and slowed to ride alongside Fish, nodding to him.

"I've got 'em from here, God knows I shoot best while riding anyways." He raised his voice to be heard over their engines.

"The others are at the bridge, I'm heading East. Go wide n take yer time, if you can't find me I'll see ya at home." He promised with the same conviction he'd used on his wife when he lied to her face about being involved arming a gang. Unshaking, direct eye contact, the most believable lie he could muster. He'd smiled at her then, laughed off the idea, but he didn't dare do that now. Instead, he gave Fish another nod and slowed his bike a little more, turning his attention towards picking off stranglers before anyone could argue. He wondered for a moment if they would, not that it mattered much. He wouldn't know with the engine in his ears, not with his shit hearing.

The roaring of engines was a relief as the other bikers drove off, leaving him alone with the horde. It scared him less and less the longer he drove with them, especially since he hardly had to stop every time he dropped a straggler. It wasn't long before darkness began to overtake them, his surroundings almost blue as dusk fell. He flipped on his headlight, occasionally shouting a whoop or "yee yee" to keep the attention of the ones that could still hear. It was a rhythm he could keep up for a while at least as he figured out where exactly he would ditch the horde.

If he got there, of course.

He found with a familiar, cold numbness that he didn't care either way, not when it was just him and his bike. Of all the times, this would be the best of them. He only wished he'd drank his nerves as numb as the rest of him.

GROUP ONE

before

The halls echoed with the buzz of cell doors and chatter of inmates. Escorted to the visiting room, the prison guard removed inmate number 23671’s handcuffs as he sat in his designated area. Casey grimaced as he stretched his wrist, looking across the glass at his best friend on the opposite side of it. He reached for the phone mounted to his right and placed it against his ear - looking left and right at all the other inmates. The phone was warm, giving him the impression that someone had just been in his place, looking through the glass at wishful freedom.

“How’ve you been brother?” His friend asked. Casey bit his lip, hiding the emotions that flustered him from hearing a familiar voice. Being able to speak to anyone from his world meant so much, but he couldn’t show that - not while surrounded by men that would feed off his weakness. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath he gathered himself, reminded that he still had years on his sentence and needed to stay resilient.

“Where’s Jennifer?” Casey asked bluntly, getting right down to what mattered most to him. Jennifer was his high school sweetheart. He married her right after graduation and lived a fairy tale by her side for some time. Eventually he managed to screw her life up and landed in a cell because of it. He apologized hundreds of times, tried to make amends in any way he could. His words were meaningless however and landed on deaf ears. “She’s not coming anymore, Case,” Jon admitted, a look of distraught drowning his usual smile.

Casey responded with a blank stare. His hands tingled with numbness as the voices that whispered about faded into silence. His eyes caught Jon speaking more into the phone, but his words weren’t reaching him. He replayed that night in his head on loop - seeing his fist grow red with the blood of his victim. The sudden harsh knock on the window however snapped him out of the trance and back to reality. Casey blinked rapidly, regaining feeling in his hands as the noise returned. “Did you hear me? Your attorney says there’s a good chance your sentence will be reduced. You just have to stay strong.”

now

The group continued on with their mission, crossing the train tracks as they passed on the torch to their comrades. “We’re going strong,” he relayed over the radio the rest of his crew. Fish and group two were sharp-witted and Casey had no doubt they would be able to handle the task at hand. He simply worried about the unforeseen events that would unfold upon reaching the bridge that he had no control over. After this point Group One would lose contact with the rest of the club. Casey hoped they could pull it off.

On the other hand, Madison had shown a lot of initiative on this mission. Casey would not admit it but he was glad she was on their side for this. He still had a lot of questions about her and did not trust her fully, but he couldn’t disagree that she could handle her own. She initiated their use of guns against the horde and kept them at bay and obedient. Casey started doing the same to ensure they’d be successful - stopping alongside her to fire off his handgun as his motorcycle rumbled in neutral. “How’s that sportster holding up?” he asked Madison in between shots, knowing the small tank of her Sportster would eventually become an issue.

They’d been riding for a few hours now, the sky evidence of it. They all left with a full tank, but at best her bike mounted a 3.7 - which was not enough to keep going without a refuel soon. He looked over at Wess, “I can handle it here. You two ride up ahead and load up. Bishop’s is just down the road, wait for me there,” Casey instructed, firing another shot that cracked the eye socket of a walker, forcing its body limp.

Bishop’s was an old junkyard the club used to store excess essentials like gasoline, canned goods, ammunition and other supplies at the start of the pandemic. The club had about three of these locations scattered around Indiana. It made it easier for them to stay allusive with their supplies, but later found it to be unreliable for specific reasons. This particular location was a few miles ahead, but now empty aside from carefully placed vehicles for gas syphoning.

“Go on, I’ve got this,” Casey reiterated as he buried his pistol in his vest pocket and remounted his bike, twisting the throttle to make as much noise as possible. He turned his radio channel to reach Ally, hoping communication was still open. “Group Five, status?”Unfortunately only static filtered through, leaving Casey in the dark.

Namazu
Tool
Fluffy-Kat NanLia

Jenkins tapped his leather-clad foot against the bridge, arms crossed, his body language betraying how on edge he was.

"What??" He paused and looked at the other male with a grimace. "I'm not going on a fucking road trip to look for another bridge." He gingerly gestured in no particular direction.

"This is the bridge." He kicked the side of it and thankfully nothing seemed to fall off... "We stick to the plan. Just stop overthinking it, doc, will ya." Look who's talking. Elvis's head was brimming with a million shitshow scenarios.

The passing dusk added an extra layer of tension to the already ominous atmosphere. The distant rumble of engines grew more distinct, and Jenkins could now see the headlights of the motorcycles piercing through the thickening darkness. Radio exchange between the riders sounded confident but the sight behind them sent a shiver down the man's spine. The massive horde was stretching as far as the eye could see. Their lumbering forms, so familiar by now, still put a pit in his stomach. And those kind of numbers? He really fucking hoped Hank's plan would work. Not that he was a fan of using strangers as a snack for those monsters. He just…didn't want to fucking die, okay?

"Can't say I'm happy to see you." He yelled to Fish, approaching their two bikes that the others were parking beside. "We're all set?" They just had to wait for that wall of decomposition to get a little closer and go over the bridge, right? Ride a little longer so they all went through it and then just fuck off back home while the rotters would be on their marry way to whatever community was on the other side.

Fish was riding at a crawl pace, it felt like - and it was getting torturous to keep the horde this close all the time. The crawling sensation on the back of his neck wouldn't let up.

"You should be happy to see me. I'm damn good looking." Fish called back, offering Jenkins a grin, though the grin faltered as he glanced in his mirrors. Now or never - now it was time to get Jenkins on board.

"Last minute change of plans, man. Scrap going across the bridge. Follow the river, head east and keep drawing them away. Just not towards the other community, and not into the river. Got it?"

Jenkins was in the process of getting seated on his bike when his brow bent and his head snapped toward Fish. "What? What change of-" His brows furrowed. "What in the hell are you talking about." He looked at other faces. Confused. Alerted. "This whole plan is barely fucking stitched by the idea of them going across the bridge."

Fish shook his head. "No. I said, change of plans, Jenkins. We're going to take these things a different direction. They're not going across that bridge and into that other community. You got that, or do I need to repeat it again?"

Fish glanced over his shoulder again. The horde was moving a bit closer, steps at a time. They still had some safe distance here, but it wouldn't be for long.

"It isn't up for discussion, either. We don't have time for that."

Jenkins snorted. "Says who?! Who made you the fucking Captain. Pres said we take them over to the other side of the bridge so we're doing that!" He looked at Kit, Auguste and Kallie.

"Are you all fucking dense?! If we don't get them over the-" Elvis paused, looking up at the darkening skyscape. The whirring sound so out of place in their new reality. So... mechanical.

"What the..." He looked around until his gaze paused on the- "Is that a fucking drone??" The machine hovered above the ground on the other side of the bridge.

GROUP 1 - SPLIT

Connor had talked more in the last hour than she had for several weeks beforehand. The Veep's question concerning her bike made her cock a brow behind her clear visor, and when she spoke she made it a point to do loud enough to be clearly heard. "Alright." What more was there to say? She hadn't crashed it, it had been maintained as well as she could manage on the road...... it was present, accounted for, and it had carried her through worse than this. So far, the luck of these Fallen had held, but who knew how long that would last?

The Swarm encountered the second component of bikers and, as expected, a component of them began to follow the new food that-a-way. Her dark gaze watched Casey shoot a zombie in the face, and she was satisfied that he was a good shot. She supposed everybody had to be good at something. Connor almost opened her mouth to direct Casey not to keep firing with the big guns, now that the mass was beginning to split. Loud noises going the opposite way from Group 2 would tug the attention of stragglers back the way they'd come and would, eventually, make the dead in the middle uncertain which way to go. But.... nobody here had listened to a damned thing she'd said about this little soirée. For whatever reason, this club was dedicated to doing things in one of the most pointlessly dangerous ways possible, short of simply leading the dead to their clubhouse, directly.

DoorDash, as it were.

Their fearless leader gave her and Wess direction to ride ahead and stop at Bishop's, presumably a fuel cache, ammo cache, or both. Connor tried to grind her teeth and bite the inside of her cheek enough to draw blood, but nope. "If that were entirely true, you'd be sending one or the both of us out and around back of this bunch to do something at that bridge." A thumb jerked back and forth between herself and Wess. The latter whistled, as though calling forth a dog.

She sighed as she holstered the larger gun. Whatever was on her face now, it wasn't righteous indignation, though it didn't yet approach sympathy. How heavy was the head that wore the crown when his club was a third of the way munching through a shit sandwich of his and the prez's own making? King Douche had made the plan, but Veep here was in charge of putting the rubber to the road.

"What is your plan for the last stand at that bridge? You..... you do realize you don't have to split them that final time, right?" Urgent brown eyes searched Casey's face for comprehension, for any sign he was actually listening. Whatever her opinion of the VP, very few people deserved to be torn apart and eaten...... and a dead-end-bridge sounded like a literal and final truth.

"Wherever you were gonna have Group 2 take their zed-heads, you could have Group 3 meet 'em and just lead the dead all away. Zombies will follow wherever there's visible food, and more people leading means more dead following. Hell, whatever damage is done taking them past the clubhouse is done, now - easy enough to get Group 2 and 3 out this way and daisy-chain the whole bunch down this road." The woman's earlier words echoed back in her mind; You don't have to do this.....

Though she waited a moment, at the VP's silence, Connor shook her head and headed in Wess' direction.

Bishop's was a junkyard, and Wess apparently had the keys. The ambush, woman in front and quartet behind was.....honestly predictable, and Connor hated that she'd let herself fall in step behind Yellow Rose, going too fast and getting made by a rookie mistake. Fortunately or not, her helmet was under her arm.

Casey and the horde were about an hour away, maybe a little more; Casey couldn't go any faster than average walking speed, and six or seven miles meant they were a ways back. Small miracles, Connor thought to herself, looking at the woman with the riffle, and back towards the man and the..... teens. These were kids. Either an older sister or a young wife...... but these weren't grown men. By blood or circumstance, these were kin. Interestingly, Connor didn't seem especially worried. She recognized that meant there was probably something wrong with her, somewhere deep inside..... but what the hell. It sure helped in the moment.

"Family, right?" Madison said, holstering her gun and using her cop voice, the calm one to talk suicides off the bridge, the one that said hey now, we're all just folks. It helped that Connor was sincere. "We got the two bikes, but they're almost dry. Came looking for gas."

The man gestured with his gun. "Keys, then. Put 'em on the desk."

"You know how to ride?" Connor asked, mildly. "Well enough to carry one extra person apiece?"

"We can learn." Said one of the teens firmly, his voice freshly dropped and eager to show his dad he, too, was An Adult.

Connor looked at the woman out in the yard, then back at the teens and their father. "Bikes are fast but loud." With her helmet, Connor gestured at the woman. "You heard us coming this way far enough out to get froggy and lie in wait for an ambush, and you didn't even know we were coming in here. Dead can hear, too."

How in the ever loving fuck had the woman gotten inside a supposedly secure fence so fast as to lie in freakin' wait? Connor could practically see the teeth grind in the older man's skull, but she could see the wheels turn. He wasn't an idiot, just hungry and desperate and trying to do the best he could for his family. He didn't have a ready answer, so Connor pressed the point. "If I was in your shoes, family in tow and no way to know who the fuck was coming, I'd have hid, wai-"

It was the oldest trick in the book to attack while in the middle of a word, but Connor's patience for some asshat demanding her goddamn ride was wearing gossamer thin. Besides, the trick wasn't typically coupled with a Cop Voice yelling "GET DOWN! GET DOWN ON THE GROUND!" at a truly surprising volume while she was moving and giving Dad an uppercut with her helmet, sending a blast from his shotgun up and into the ceiling. This wasn't the talk-crazies-down voice. This was the I Have A Badge voice. Madison used the momentum she'd gotten to leg sweep the dad and land atop the older man, an inch away from his broken (?) nose and looking absolutely furious, her own gun pressed under his chin.

Everybody was yelling and these people seemed a singed cunthair away from following the worst (but most widely followed) advice in the world:

When in danger or in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout.

Connor was the most grateful for the absence of gun or riffleshot in her immediate surroundings. The teen boys seemed wise enough to recognize that if they tried to shoot her at this distance, they'd hit dear old dad. Connor was secondly grateful for the youth of the hostiles in her immediate vicinity.

The cop began to talk to the man in low, urgent tones. "Now you listen to me, you moron, there is a horde coming, along with some real trigger happy living. They're going to be jerking the dead around for hours. You look me in the eyes and tell me I'm lying."

Wide blue eyes looked into Connor's, and though his were faded with time and circumstance, haggard from so long on the road and doing his best to provide for what was left of his family, he saw grim truth in the cop's gaze. "Y-you're.... You're serious." The older man replied.

"Yeah. Yeah, I am." Connor told him. "Look...... You want a place to hunker down, I'll tell you where to go, but you and yours need to stay here until after dawn, understand?"

The older man looked confused. "Why...... why would you do that?"

Connor opened her mouth to answer, but she heard a female voice behind her call out "Let him go!", wobbly-scared and uncertain. Probably the girl with the riffle. Officer Jones called back "Be cool!" She whispered to the patriarch of this bunch: "What's her name?"

"Elizabeth. E-elizabeth Galligan." The older man replied. "I'm John."

Though she didn't take her eyes off the prize, Connor yelled loud and clear. "Elizabeth! Just be cool! John and I are having a talk!" Connor dropped her voice to a near whisper, telling the older man exactly what to do and when. All things considered, she didn't trust Wess not to tell the others a damn thing. It was almost three minutes later when John nodded towards his presumed sons and Connor got off of him and held out her free hand to help him up. He ignored it and got to his feet on his own.

"It's alright, Liz." John called out while Connor looked at Wess with tired certainty in her eyes. Dad stood in front of his boys, not yet willing to put a hand to his bleeding nose, but not as panicked as he'd been before.

"You shoot them while I'm gone and they didn't pull first, I'll kill you." Connor told her traveling companion. It was a statement of fact, flat and uninteresting. She stomped outside to her bike, dug through her bag, and returned with two fistfuls of protein bars. Even though she handed the food to the man to distribute as he liked, Connor addressed Wess.

"We are going to help them up and into some of these cars to wait out the horde until after dawn. And we're going to leave them the fuck alone. Then, you and I can get gas. You tell your boss whatever you want, but the Galligans will be gone by noon tomorrow. Better places to be. Objections?" Though the phrase was technically an inquiry, the questionmark was largely ornamental and more akin to a statement in the form of a question.

Fluffy-Kat

GROUP ONE - SPLIT

“Sorry we attacked you,” John started as he brushed off his wife who tried to help him control the bleeding nose. “We thought you were with…them,” he stated ominously without explanation as though Madison and Wess would know who he was talking about. His children looked up at the bikers as they chewed on the protein bars and could see the confusion in their faces. “They don’t know who you’re talking about daddy,” said the girl as she took another bite out of the half-wrapped chocolate bar.

John sighed as he rubbed his nose with a small piece of cloth handed to him by his wife. He looked up at the Angels with defeat. “A week ago my family and I had to abandon our camp. We were with a group, about thirty of us. We’d been together since the beginning. One night we were attacked. We were lucky to escape with our lives..” he explained, putting his hand on his wife’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze - thankful his family stayed together that fateful night.

“The rest of our people weren’t so lucky. So when we heard your motorcycles, we dug through the back fence and broke in here to hide. Again, we’re very sorry.” John's short story was disrupted by the static of an incoming call. Casey broke through Group One’s walkies asking where his club was and what was taking them so long.

“Thank you for letting us stay here the night,” the wife added with a soft smile and no eye contact. “Yes, we’re very thankful. We can help you fuel up if you need it?” John volunteered, sitting up off the desk he was leaning on and snorting the last of the running blood away. “It’s the least we can do.”

—-

Casey continue to lead the dead at a slugging pace after radioing the rest of his group about their whereabouts. He took turns stretching his wrist and arms - second guessing the fourteen inch t-bars installed on his bike. They were installed for aesthetics at first but weren’t very practical for situations like this. The sea of dead trailing him stayed right on his heels. Looking down at his watch he confirmed his part of the mission was coming to an end. Another hour and they would be able to trail back to the others.

Madison expressed her concerns about the second half of the plan before she and Wess headed for fuel. Casey had not responded to her then and kept silent, even though everything she had suggested was already being done. He decided to keep her in the dark as she was not a member of his club and had not yet earned his trust - and more importantly, just wanted her to be quiet. Despite getting under his skin, Casey was warming up to the idea of keeping her around. Even in their dire circumstances, it made him think of what the future of the club could look like.

In the last couple of months the club had fallen victim to the spoils of survival. They’d taken every action necessary to ensure their club would stand above the apocalypse. They forged relations with other groups, eliminated those that stood against them and built a place they could call home. But when all those accomplishments were drenched in blood, Casey couldn’t help but think there could be a different way.

If the club was fortunate enough to get through this mission, Casey would vow to his club members that he would change things. He envisioned a club that could strive on positivity and good-doing - just like they did in the past. The only thing in his way was Hank.

Tool
Fluffy-Kat

"What the fuck? No, it can't be-" Fish started, narrowing his eyes up at the drone. Sure enough, that's what it looked like. He watched it for a moment before revving up his bike.

"We gotta move, and now. If that thing's watching us, now whoever is controlling it knows we're here. It might be from that community across the bridge - and now we sure as fuck can't bring the horde across. They'll know we did it intentionally, and if any of them live through it, they'll make sure we pay for that."

Kit stayed quiet as Fish explained the plan, feeling the slightest bit guilty up until Elvis openly suggested that it was better to sacrifice that random community. He scoffed, feeling stupid to have forgotten that Jenkins, just as much as their boss, was a greedy soulless power-hungry dictator in the making. That, or he was a boot-licking spineless pussy of a government c-

The whirring of a motor pulled him from his thoughts and his head shot up fast enough to give him whiplash. "There's no fucking way" he commented, frozen for a moment before following Fish's example. "Fish's right and you know it, you can either get with the program or go fuck yourself, I'm not going to let this half baked bullshit plan get us all killed." he growled, sounding ever so slightly more spiteful than he intended. He knew he'd pay for that language later if they survived, but fuck it, he wasn't sorry.

"Where the hell is Beau?" He asked Fish, suddenly realizing there was no sign of the horde or the southern drunk.

Auguste spat on the road as Jenkins, predictably, argued with Fish and the new plan. He knew, without being told, that this new, altruistic plan, was not Hank's approval but at the moment he didn’t give a fuck. He didn’t really care whose plan it was, it was what they were going to do.

Thankfully, or maybe not, the buzzing of the drone ended any kind of debate Jenkins could have made. The horde wasn’t too far behind them and any further lollygagging was going to split the horde apart. Auguste opened the carburetor and turned on the choke. He kicked back the side stand and turned on the engine, letting the muffler rumble before turning back the way they’d come to intercept Beau and the horde.

Jenkins thought it was stupid. The whole idea from the start. But this, the drone? It was another fucking level of what in the fuck. Who the hell lived on the other side of the bridge?! Were they watching the whole area? Did they have more drones? What were their intentions… Jenkins had a whole box of questions in his head but in the end they didn't matter.

"Yeah." For once he didn't try to argue. "Along the river will do." His gaze was glued to the hovering machine moments longer before he revved the engine and without looking back he followed Auguste and the rest. They would be fine. Just had to lead the horde away and get back. Piece of fucking cake.

As their bikes roared away the horde staggered after. Until the sound of a horn blared all around. Jenkins screwed his face up when glancing back over his shoulder. The noise was almost deafening, drilling into his brain. His eyes were narrowed but instinctively widened when he saw the undead. Turning. The decomposing ocean of undead humans turned towards the drone that was the source of the sound. And as it slowly glided inland, the monsters followed. Crossing the bridge and marching towards whatever they would find in their path.

FLASHBACK PART 1 & PART 2

Ten years ago (nine years before the dead rose)...

Part 1

Red and blue emergency lights bounced off the discarded motorcycle helmet’s visor, lighting up the asphalt that was slowly accumulating a light layer of snow. The only other things that marred the otherwise pristine start of snowfall on the road were three sets of tire tracks, metal and plastic debris, and blood.

The semi-truck sat jackknifed across the two-lane country highway, blocking both lanes, with the back end of the trailer sliding into the ditch. An old Ford pickup truck, driven by a contractor hauling tools in the back, was accordioned against the semi-truck’s cab. Another set of tracks - motorcycle, judging by the way it was a single line of tire treads - lead straight for the semi-truck’s trailer before disappearing.

Multiple emergency vehicles had descended upon the scene after the accident, called in by a passerby. The semi-truck driver was injured, immobile, and not very coherent. The contractor in the pickup truck was even less lucky. Someone had grabbed a tarp off the back of his truck and draped it over what was left of the driver’s side window, shielding prying eyes from the scene inside.

“Anyone have a visual on the bike?” The ranking officer on scene called out to the cops that were fanning across the area. Most went for the ditches first, figuring that was where the biker had wound up. There was no sign of him - not until one of the cops went around to the backside of the semi-trailer and saw the motorcycle helmet laying in the road. Wincing and bracing himself to see something awful, he knelt down and tipped the helmet slightly to the side, peering inside.

Thankfully, it was empty. No severed head. But where was the rider? Pulling his flashlight from his belt, the cop clicked it on and shone it under the semi-trailer.

“Jesus Christ-” The cop turned his head and clicked on his radio. “Found the motorcyclist. He’s under the trailer-” He paused, leaning forward a moment, then scrambled forward. “He’s alive and moving!”

One leather-gloved hand reached forward from under the trailer as Fish dragged his battered body forward, an inch at a time. What was left of his bike was wedged under the center of the trailer, crumpled from taking the brunt of the impact. He had taken off his helmet moments ago, feeling like he couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t because of the helmet, but he didn’t know that.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” The cop repeated, taking Fish’s hand. He had never seen something quite like this before. Apparently the pickup truck’s load was unsecured.

Fish groaned in pain as he moved, multiple screwdrivers of various kinds shoved into his side between his ribs. A set of pliers were shoved into his right thigh. A circular saw blade was lodged in his back, just deep enough not to fall out. Other bits and shards of metal were stuck into his leather jacket and legs; no telling how deep any of those cuts were, but plenty to make him bleed. His left wrist appeared broken badly, with bone sticking through the skin. It paired nicely with Fish’s dislocated left shoulder. The area smelled heavily of gasoline and diesel - enough to cover the smell of alcohol on Fish.

“Sir, just hold still, you’re injured.” Fish didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. He had already passed out against the cold ground.

Part 2

The tiny conference room in the courthouse was cramped, oppressively beige colored, and smelled lightly of armpits and cigarettes. Fish sat in an uncomfortably hard chair on one side of the wobbly circular table, staring blankly at the wall across from him as he waited for his public defender to come in. His left hand and wrist were still in a cast nearly up to his elbow, arm in a sling. His ribs ached; it was damn near impossible to sleep in any position other than sitting up at a slight incline, and taking a deep breath was off-limits unless he was in the sweet spot of fresh painkillers.

Had Fish not been plastered on painkillers, he may have actually been thinking about how close he came to dying at the ripe young age of thirty. The only thing he could think about was how much he wanted to go home, drink, and sleep. He barely remembered anything about the night of the accident, but he vividly could picture where on the shelf in his kitchen there was an unopened bottle of tequila.

God, the painkillers were wearing off. This was going to be intolerable if he had to sit here much longer. Thankfully, the door finally opened.

A harried man in his mid-fifties, with what little hair he had left flying out of place, shoved himself into the room and into a chair that barely had enough clearance to be pulled out from under the table. Fish put his good hand up against the edge of the table, making sure the man didn’t shove it into his tender ribs. That might have killed him if it did happen.

“Matthew Fischer?” The man asked, adjusting his ill-fitting and loud plaid suit as he slapped ten separate dark navy blue file folders onto the table. Fish’s heart sank staring at this clusterfuck of a man in front of him. This guy was an attorney? Fish nodded his head, already wondering if he should accept his fate.

“I have some excellent news for you.” The man grinned, displaying teeth that were far too white to be real as he rummaged through the folders before pulling one out that apparently pertained to Fish. He flipped it open, pulling out a few papers and spreading them out on the table in front of Fish as if they were supposed to mean anything. Fish stared at them. The words wiggled on the pages.

“The charges are being dropped. The hospital didn’t process your blood test correctly, so the results are a dud. Without that, goodbye DUI charges.” The man pulled a pen from his pocket, slid a business card out from the folder, flipped it over, and scribbled something on the back.

“You’re free to go. I do want to give you a parting gift, however.” Once he was done writing, he held the business card out to Fish. On the back of the card was a website, street address, and a day and time. Fish took it hesitantly, eyebrow raised in confusion.

“Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, a local chapter. Great group. I know the guy that runs it. Stand-up guy. You really should consider going.” The attorney took the rest of the papers and tucked them back into his folder. “You may have escaped charges this time, but next time? Buddy, you’re not always going to get so lucky. Next time it's going to be prison, or you’re going to wind up dead. Hear me?”

Fish nodded. The motion made him feel like the whole room rocked with him. “I hear you. Thanks.” He glanced down at the card, on the handwriting at the back.

“How do you know the guy running it?” He winced as he accidentally took too big of a breath.

His attorney leaned to the side and reached into his pocket, pulling out a large shiny coin. He held it up for Fish to see. The number ‘15’ was emblazoned on it.

“That was the first AA group I ever went to. Fifteen years sober. Now don’t worry, you’re not going to bump into me there - I joined another group about six years back when I moved closer to the city for work.” He shoved the coin back into his pocket, then slid out of the chair and scooped his folders up off the table. Fish was apparently just one of a dozen to see today, at least.

“Think about what I said, and quit being a fuckup, yeah? I don’t want to see you back here again.” The attorney’s smile faded quickly as he gave Fish a nod, yanking open the door and seeing himself out.

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FLASHBACK - PART 3

TRIGGER WARNING: Domestic abuse & violence

“You’re fuckin’ useless, Matt!” Tonya slurred as she threw the empty bottle at Fish’s head. He ducked out of the way at the last second, letting it shatter against the wall behind him. He wasn’t so fast to dodge the heavy pewter candlestick holder or the shoebox full of mail she chucked at him next.

“I work my goddamn ass off to pay bills, and all you do is go and make more of them! The fuck is your problem, you sack of shit?!” She stepped over the broken lamp on the floor, got right up into Fish’s face, plucked the half-spent cigarette from her lips, and shoved it hot-end first into his chest. He felt the painful heat sizzle right through his thin shirt as he flinched from the pain. Without thinking, Fish shoved her backwards. She tripped over the broken lamp, falling into the couch. Without pausing a beat, she kicked forward, aiming for Fish’s kneecap. Being just as drunk as Fish was, she missed. Fish stepped forward, backhanding her across the face.

“You think I don’t work, bitch? Fuck you.” She was barely listening, trying to claw at Fish any way she could with her long, fake nails. “You fucking work at Hooters. Don’t act like you’re something special.” He spat back, stepping away from the couch and heading for the bedroom.

“At least I earn an honest living, fuckin’ scumbag! Do you know how much money I have left in the bank after this last fuckup of yours? I have ten dollars, Matt. Ten. Fucking. Dollars.” Tonya got up off the couch, stomping towards the bedroom - only to freeze steps away from the door.

Fish held the shotgun, aiming at chest-height at Tonya, as he approached closer. It wasn’t that long ago he got out of his cast, but it still ached to grip anything this tightly.

“Ten bucks is enough gas to get to your mother’s. Or whatever fucking prick you’re bouncing on lately behind my back. Or a ditch. I don’t care which, just fucking pick one and get out.” His finger curled around the trigger. “Get out and do not ever fucking come back.”

The silence in that moment that filled their dingy rented rambler was probably the only time their home was quiet. Fish and Tonya were an awful pair, and nobody could understand why they were together beyond the need for both of them to have someone to take their endless anger out on.

Getting a hold of herself, Tonya’s expression turned from fear to sour hatred. She took a step forward until the end of the shotgun was pressed against her chest, glaring at him as if daring him to shoot.

“Fine. I’m leaving.” She said after a few long moments, stepping away and grabbed her purse off the floor - some cheap, brightly-colored knockoff - and stomped off towards the front door. Fish followed behind her, gun still up, making damn sure she was leaving. Just as Tonya stepped over the threshold, she stopped, holding the screen door open as she turned to glare at Fish.

“You know what? One last gift for you, Matt. That doctor’s appointment I had last week?” She paused for a moment, waiting for Fish to respond.

“What about it?” He kept the shotgun aimed at her, not moving a muscle yet.

“I was pregnant. I aborted it. No fucking way am I having your baby, Matt. No fuckin’ way.” Tonya turned, letting the screen door slam shut behind her.

Fish let those words sink in for about three seconds, then squeezed the trigger.

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An orange sun melted into the cracked and bitter skyline of the city, and the hours spun by until cloudy blue-black chased away any brighter colors, leaving the place fit for the lonely and the lost. In Detective Jones' opinion, this city was, in fact, two cities. The first was a normal city, wherein people had jobs, soy lattes, little-kid soccer practice, mortgages, and prescription sunglasses. The second city only really got started after one in the morning, the shift change happening with an almost audible click from bright-eyed people living their bright-eyed days to night-time denizens. A midnight nation.

With a sigh, Madison rubbed at her deep eyes, trying to chase away the burn of too many sleepless nights. The click-click of her turn signal accompanied a crack of her neck. This was supposed to be the end of her shift, but one of the Fallen Angels had reached out in both panic and anger, and here she was, driving towards a nice fresh scene when she should have been having dinner and bedding down as the sun rose.

Alfie Travers (Fallen Angels Secretary) got a call, that call, the call that would make any father's world come crashing down.

We're so sorry, but there's been an incident. It's about your daughter.

Scanner chatter put Alexandra Travers down as a 10-56. Suicide.

As Madison rolled up to the tenement building, the familiar red-and-blue lights welcomed her, and a flash of her badge let her beyond the super-special members-only yellow tape.

After crunching on a nicotine lozenge that 100% counted as breakfast, the girl approached the street pizza that had once been Miss Alexandra Travers. 20 years. Caucasian female. Sightless baby blues were pointed upwards while the flattened back of Alexandra's head was a slurry of blood, brains, and bone. One knee was at an odd angle, but otherwise Miss Travers could have slipped and fallen backwards on a bit of uneven pavement.

A few things were an itch against Madison's instincts, even beyond the low rumble of her usual paranoia. After crouching down, and noticing a flash of chrome, a quick check with a pen confirmed that Miss Travers was wearing a retainer. And make-up. A full face of it, by the look of the watermelon pink lipstick that looked sad in the yellow streetlights. There was something...... Madison got closer to the woman's face, peering into eyes hollow as glass. Contacts. Why the devil would a young girl put on a full face of makeup, retainer, and contacts before throwing herself out the window? Answer: she wouldn't.

As it turned out, Miss Travers lived in one of the upper floors of the tenement building from which she'd taken a fatal dive. Front door locked from the inside, no sign of forced entry, conveniently convenient suicide note.

Detective Hanks was technically assigned to the case, but Madison knew Hanks would be more than happy to transfer the case onto her docket. Madison learned that the hard way, years ago. Hanks wasn't a bad guy, fair to middling family man as far as she knew, but he had passed disinterest years prior and was fast approaching apathy. Too many of her peers shellacked over the job, putting a protective coating between themselves and the people they served, smoothing over bullet holes and broken lives, maybe getting some emotional distance.

"I'll put you down as lead. You want this mess, you got it." Hanks stated in flat, disinterested tones, before giving a demure burp and turning to go.

"Thanks. I owe you one." Jones replied to her peer's retreating back. She shook her head before looking at the nearest beat cop. "Take me to the apartment and fill me in. Please."

How long would it be before she, too, was willing to turn over the life and death of another with less investment than deciding what to have for dinner? Madison knew she'd get there eventually, no way to manage decade upon decade of this otherwise...... but for now? Let it come. Let the jagged ghosts fill her like a cup and drive her engine onward. A simple, small notebook made its way into her hands and she began to take notes to remind herself of what she'd seen, give her first impressions of the scene, the victim, the building, even as she followed the officer inside. This wasn't the first supposed jumper she'd dealt with, but it was the first in a while that tugged on her instincts.

The apartment of the late Miss Travers was messy but not ransacked-messy, the crime scene techs having finished their initial pass. Oddly, Madison started in the bathroom. Miss Alexandra Travers had been all dolled up for her nosedive out the window. Wearing a retainer. A brush of Madison's index finger confirmed what she already suspected.

The toothbrush was damp.

The window was the detective's next stop, and though it was obligingly open, there wasn't anything really out of place. No booze or drugs, just a desk whereupon a farewell-world had been penned. Great. Jones went to the fridge, snapping on a pair of latex gloves and opening it without using the handle. Pretty average fare, though the center-cut sirloin rose some suspicions in the woman's mind. Not the most expensive cut of meat, but not cheap either.

Brown eyes spared a look around. Judging by the furniture, the steak was comparatively expensive. She let the fridge shut, and on a hunch, she cracked open the dishwasher. It wasn't hot, but the air was damp and there were still a few drops of wet on the glasses in the top rack. Considerate of the woman to have done the dishes before sailing out the window. Circumstantial, all of it. But still there. Madison frowned.

Madison went to Alexandra's bedroom. A few band posters were stuck to the wall, but there was little else in the way of permanent decoration, though for an apartment that wasn't wholly unusual. The bed itself was unmade, and the nightstand offered up.....well.... a lot. There was a vibrator. A dildo with stick-to-the-shower-wall technology. Double-ended dildo. Bottle of lube. Madison checked the back of another bottle. Silicone cleaner. A pack of AAA batteries. Miss Alexandra Travers made sure to keep her sex toys clean. Clean and well powered.

That.....was.....great. Boy howdy.

Alexandra wasn't repressed, anyway.

Madison grunted then dropped to her knees and rummaged around under the bed, coming up for air when she'd hit paydirt, a brown shoebox in hand. The woman copped a seat on the floor and opened it, carefully taking out bits and pieces of a life lost. Polaroids. A post-it note that said "LOVE U 4EVER!" in swirly pink letters. A small Hello Kitty address book joined the other contents of the box, though judging by the handwriting and the color of the paper, this was an address book from when Miss Travers was probably called "Alley" or "Alex" or "Lexy". Madison took some notes, then put everything back into the box.

No diary.

Nothing was ever easy.

A thorough search of the living room yielded a more grown-up address book. That one Madison bagged and put aside. There wasn't any physical evidence of foul play, just a non-zero amount of evidence that Miss Alexandra Travers had expected to live. When she'd finished up, Madison Jones was a little disheveled but her mind burned bright with suspicion and a growing certainty that the victim hadn't decided to die, unaided.

A place like this would be lucky to have working lights in the stairwells, never mind a hoity toity security features like cameras in the elevators. Madison's mind kept clicking along, noting things between her ears that would (eventually) go in her notebook. Without knowing enough about Alexandra's life, her associates, the everyday rumble and sway that kept people swimming along, there was no way to even begin to put together a list of potentials. Whoever did this, Alexandra hadn't seen them coming. She'd let the murderer in and they'd locked the door on their way back out. Boyfriend? Girlfriend? Hell, even a neighbor?

People who were scared for their lives didn't wear six-inch heels and the cutest clothes a minimum-wage job would buy for a night out. No, Alexandra hadn't seen this coming at all. The box Madison had fished out from under the bed loomed in her mind. That Hello Kitty notebook was starting to bother her more and more. Girl was barely into her twenties, and this was clearly from many years before; what kind of pre-teen-to-teenager had enough names and phone numbers to fill an entire address book?

Madison sighed. A teenager with more friends than she'd had in high school, that was what kind. Not everybody was Solitary McLonelypants, then and now. Some people had more friends than they had fingers. The self-deprecating thought made a small smile quirk across her features as Madison traveled from crime scene to office. The precinct doors opened with a woosh of cigarette smoke, old coffee, the burnt-ink smell of copiers Doing Their Best, carpet-smell from Nixon's day, ground-in grime, gun oil, leather, and BO.

Home.

Peggy Dodson's desk would be her first stop; as the best Administrative Assistant on staff, she was Keeper of Paperwork, Finder of Typos, and Biggest Gossip on the force. She smelled like white-out. Madison bought her butterscotch candy and Peggy never cracked down too hard on getting the paperwork just so. They had an understanding

The older woman looked up with a vaguely worried expression as Madison approached, her styled blond curls showing just a hint of dark root, so firmly held in place by hairspray that they didn't exactly move right when she bobbed her head. Peggy reminded Madison of a slightly-chubby bird, constantly looking up from her work to see what was what, putting on her glasses, letting them hang from her neck by those beaded eye-glass-necklace-things, being generally attracted by any shiny thing at all.

"Hiya Peggy. I'm going to need some forms." Madison said, both greeting and familiarity in her voice. As the older woman shuffled papers, taking one from a file-holder here, another from a drawer there, she smiled at Detective Jones.

"I heard you got the jumper. How did it go?" Peggy asked.

"I'm not listing it as a suicide, actually." Madison's attention drifted back to the growing stack of paper in front of her, and her lips curled in a very brief, very sad smile. "Miss Alexandra Travers is one of mine. Or she will be, anyway." She nodded at the papers as though welcoming an unexpected guest before looking back at Peggy's eager eyes. "I got room for one more on my docket."

"What?!" Peggy exclaimed with more-than-average fascination. "Detective Hanks said it was an obvious jumper."

Madison's eyebrows raised to the ceiling at the tone in the woman's voice, and she shook her head firmly.

"The place was staged. They got the big strokes but missed everything else. More than enough to class as a homicide." After chewing on her bottom lip for a moment, Madison spoke again, mostly to herself. "Anything staged will feel like watching a play or a scene from a movie. But for something like this, killers forget their vics are people, not props. They'll never be able to catch everything. Dead men tell plenty of tales; just gotta know how to listen."

Madison gave Peggy a nod of thanks before going to her desk to do the really glamorous part of the job: paperwork.

Whoever did this, it was premeditated. Bad part of town like that, Alexandra Travers made one or more enemies in high places. There was enough involved in posing that crime scene that it would have taken money. It made Madison wonder who Alexandra had pissed off. By and large, it was easier to pay someone to go away than to pay for a hit, which meant that whatever she knew, it was dangerous.... Or whoever she'd pissed off, it was personal. Madison Jones would bet fifty bucks the place wouldn't have prints, maybe not even hair, but people's lives were a tapestry. Even when someone cut a person out of the picture, the threads didn't go away.

Find a thread and pull.

As Detective Madison Jones dug into the paperwork and began thumbing through the few items she'd taken from Alexandra's life and death..... Peggy Dodson's face fell into something hard and cold, and she plucked her cell phone from her bright magenta purse.

It was time to make sure that whatever dominoes Detective Jones wanted to tip over would stay firmly in place.

Pity.

Peggy really liked the butterscotch candies.

"What?!" Madison exclaimed, halfway rising from her seat before a glare from her boss settled her ass back downwards.

"I said: you are dropping this." Chief Brigman was a mid-fifties bear of a man, tall and broad and barrel chested, and if muscle tone had waned a little over his years behind a desk, he was still more than capable of giving a solid right hook, a trait she'd seen in action as recently as a few months ago. "She was a suicide. Let. It. Go."

"You've read my notes, there's circumstantial evidence! There's more than enough to classi-" The woman protested, this time rising from her seat and gesturing with no small passion towards the file on her supervisor's desk.

"There's no arrest at the end of this rainbow. You've been working this case for three months, Jones. Three. No prints, no hair, no witnesses, no signs of a break-in, no signs of struggle on the girl, this is it. You are done, you understand me?"

"I've taken on other cases! My workload hasn't slacked, I'm still giving you arrest slips, aren't I? Alexandra Trav-"

"I've heard of your workload! Pulling all nighters? Slamming back energy drinks like they were nothing? I need you sharp, not chasing imaginary killers down imaginary rabbit holes, you READ me?"

Madison chewed on the inside of her cheek to keep from saying anything she'd regret, instead choosing to give Chief Brigman a single, short nod. Anger smoldered in her gaze, but it remained as a contained heat, glowing embers rather than the conflagration of her future career.

"Good. Now file this one away proper and get back to work." He growled, matching Detective Jones' temper with ease.

Was this worth her badge?

Connor sat there for a beat too long, debating whether or not to throw her badge in her boss' face and giving him a proper piece of her mind. It would take her career and run it through a woodchipper (and might get her charged with assault depending how hard she chucked it), but oh it was tempting. Stiffly, slowly, the woman straightened and walked out. She didn't even slam the door. Was it worth her badge? No..... that wasn't the right question. This wasn't an 'it'. This was Alexandra Travers. Was finding Alexandra Travers' killer worth her badge?

Maybe, yeah.

Detective Madison Jones sat back down at her desk, putting her elbows on the peeling 'wood' and lacing her fingers before settling her lips on the curve of her thumbs. Did she have enough to do this on her own? Maybe. Mahogany eyes darted back and forth, searching the middle distance for answers that had heretofore eluded her and finding the way-down, bone-deep answers as to what limits she had in place, what she was willing to risk. Vacant blue eyes stared back at her.

Yeah....... Alexandra Travers was worth it. Madison couldn't save the kid's life, but she could find whoever did this and..... and..... and then what?

With a deep exhalation that came from somewhere below her solar plexus, Madison unlaced her hands and raked them through her hair. The Fallen Angels. More specifically, the Fallen Angels clubhouse. If she was going to do this on her own time, she needed a place where nobody would question her presence or methods.

Fine. Alone, then.

FLASHBACK - PART 4

It had to be around here somewhere. That fucking card. Where did he put it? It wasn’t in his wallet, it wasn’t in his pockets - he checked every pair of pants he owned, because he couldn’t remember what he’d worn to the courthouse that day. It wasn’t on the little table by the front door where he always tossed his keys and other random shit in his pockets. Where the fuck could it be?

Fish had just about turned his house upside-down looking for the card his attorney had given him, until he finally found it: in the basement, in the laundry room sink, half burned. He had no memory of burning it. Had Tonya done this? Was it just another example of her trying to fuck him over?

Or maybe he had, while drunk. Who even knows. He sure as shit doesn’t remember a lot of what he does while drunk.

Peeling the card off the bottom of the sink, he blew on it to get rid of the ashy bits clinging to the thick paper. Part of the meeting times and the website address was burned away, but that didn’t matter - he didn’t own a computer, let alone have an internet connection. All he needed was the address.

There would be a meeting tonight, just after dinnertime, from what he could tell. Nothing was stopping him from going. He still had his truck, gas money, and his license. He didn’t work evenings. Tonya wasn’t around to bitch at him for anything. Prez made it pretty clear he wasn’t needed for anything until he was healed and had his head screwed on straight.

If nothing was stopping him, why the hell did the idea of walking out that door and driving to that meeting feel so impossible?

Fish sat down, feeling the hard unfinished cement floor beneath his thin frame. It made him pause, then he flattened his right palm against the floor.

Cold. Cold and hard.

The memory came and went in a flash. Cold, snow-covered asphalt. He was laying on it that evening, feeling it seep through his open jacket. It made his skin hurt, and made his body feel numb.

Sucking in a breath, Fish took his hand off the cement floor and ran it through his hair instead.

If he was going anywhere tonight, he needed to shower first.




“Congratulations, Fish.” Louis handed the coin to Fish, a huge grin on his face. Fish never thought he’d get to this moment, and wasn’t sure what to expect to feel. He took the coin - it felt oddly heavy in his hand - and turned it over, looking at the large “5” on it.

“Five years sober. A hell of an accomplishment, Fish.” Louis folded his hands atop the table, having not yet even unwrapped his burger. Fish, on the other hand, had already dug well into his fries and taken two bites out of his burger - partially out of nerves, and partially because he was damned hungry. It was late, well past dinner time - the sun was already down and the parking lot outside the burger joint half-empty.

Picking up their drinks - Louis, a Pepsi, and Fish, a chocolate shake - they toasted to the occasion.

“One of the better dates I’ve been on in years.” Fish joked after he swallowed a mouthful of fries. Louis sat back and chuckled.

“Well shit, lucky me. Don’t tell my wife, she might get jealous.” He finally started to peel the foil wrapper off his burger. “Any idea how you’ll celebrate?”

“I do, actually.” Fish wiped his hands off on a napkin before reaching into his pocket, pulling out an advertisement clipped out of the newspaper. He unfolded it and held it out for Louis. It was an ad for a July 4th sale at the nearest motorcycle dealership.

Louis looked rather surprised as he looked the clipping over, handing it back. “Really? You’re getting another bike? I thought you’d given up riding after your accident.”

Fish shook his head. “Nah, not for good anyway. Yeah, that first year or so I was still spooked. But what I really needed to do was get my head back on straight again. Get off the booze, get off the painkillers. Get out of debt, too.” He snorted. “Still working on that last one, but it's manageable now. I’m making good money again.” He took another bite out of his burger.

“Oh yeah? That’s awesome. The detailing business is picking up?” Louis sipped at his pop, sliding his fries over towards Fish. Even if Louis was twice Fish’s size, he couldn’t eat nearly as much as the skinny long-haired man across from him. That man was a vacuum.

“Oh yeah.” Fish echoed. “Been pretty crazy busy lately. Lotta new customers, and summer’s always busy. People are brushing off their bikes and suddenly thinking about all the work they want done.”

That part was a lie. Yes, there was an alright amount of legitimate work to be done. But the bulk of his money? Nah, that was questionably sourced. Guns and drugs - not for him, but sold to others. People were hungry for violence and an escape, and Fish was all too happy to profit from this fucked up world.

Fish called it payback and getting what was due to him.

It was probably just a case of his lesson not being learned.

BeyondDandy smookie NanLia Good_Morels Fluffy-Kat Tool Safton Miaow Aegis

CLUBHOUSE

Footsteps trickled down the narrow pink-lit hallway. Neon signs hung from the rafters, as flickering lighted signs welcomed its patrons into the warm embrace of sex laborers. Moans escaped the crease of the occupied rooms while women stood on the frame of those vacant in sensual lingerie - winking and clawing at the customers that walked past them. Casey was being escorted by two armed guards down this very hall. He was not entertained by the hints of these women, but more concerned with what stood behind the final door at the end of his walk. Two large red doors with golden handles set before him, behind them, answer to the Fallen Angel’s questionable future.

“Through there,” ordered one of the guards with a heavy Russian accent. Casey faced the man, chin tilted up at the towering giant. He lifted his hands which were clasped in chains upon his arrival and scowled for release. The soldier swung his rifle over to his back in annoyance, letting the weapon hang over his broad shoulder. With gloved paws, he drew a silver key from one of his plate-carrier pockets and injected it into the lock to uncuff Casey. “Through there!” he repeated himself with a growling tone and an irritated stare as chains clashed against the carpet at their feet. Casey returned the gaze before opening the doors and walking in.

Three thudding bangs clashed against the steel bars of inmate 4155’s cell. Casey’s eyes shot open as the guard announced he had a visitor and unlocked the box. Casey let out a relieved exhale as he sat up on his cardboard mattress and let his feet dangle over to touch the iced pavement below. He felt a needle-like sensation as his toes touched the floor, sending his spine into a nervous shiver. He tried to escape it by releasing the crick in his neck and bending his arm over his head as he groaned. He found himself on his feet shortly after, putting on a pair of socks and fixing his sheets. Gathering himself, he stepped over the stainless steel sink next to the shitter, noticing the tally marks on the wall that were yet to reach halfway through his sentence. Looking himself over in the plastic mirror bolted onto the white brick walls, he sighed at his reflection.

A bruise ran over his left orbital wall, from the end of his eyebrow to the top of his cheek. It had a brownish-red hue that hid the open cut over his eyelid like a shadow. Over the other eye closer to his temple were two butterfly bandaids trying to hold together a deep gash that had since dried out but remained on the brink of reopening. His knuckles were busted, small cuts engrained to his skin like the board of a tic-tac-toe game. His fingernails were full of grime, dried blood under most of them - that of which was not his and brand new. Casey washed his hands in the sink, digging under his fingertips with the sharp end of his toothbrush. He brushed his teeth with that same tool and wiped his face with a small rag before getting dressed. He looked at his reflection once more, the number 4155 patched to his chest like a tattoo. With a tisk of his lips, he left the cell towards the visitor's room.

The doors behind him were shut by another set of guards inside the room. Casey looked over his shoulder and kept himself alert as to everything going on around him - especially the armed guards in uniform. As the click of the deadbolt locked the door into place, Casey returned to face the woman sitting a few feet from him in the elegant nubuck chair. Her long spider-like legs were crossed, knees covered by the length of a flower-printed black dress. She held an orange book in her hands - The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho. It was most likely one of many books from the cabinets that covered every inch of the walls. Hundreds of them were neatly stacked and well-maintained, not a single visible speck of dust. The elder lady wore a white blouse with wavy-loose sleeves that cut off at the shoulder and a bright pearl necklace that hung tightly around her collarbone. Her red lipstick stuck out and the angel wing eyeliner was a fashion sense outside of her time. Her name was Katherine Marinov, formally known as Madame Marinov, head of the Russian mafia, Bratva.

“Welcome, molodoy paren’ (young lad).”

The guard shoved Casey’s shoulders down into his seat. The man cursed under his breath and glowered at the guard's back as he walked away. He returned his attention forward to see his mother sitting on the other side of the glass - dried tears already engraved on her pink-flushed cheeks. She drew a handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose before picking up the phone to her left and placing its handset to her ear.

Casey grabbed the phone on his end, reluctantly. Slowly it drew near his right ear as he braced himself to hear his mother’s voice for the first time in months. “Are you okay?” she inquired. Casey gulped at the sweet and tender sound of her voice. He felt his palms moisten and his heartbeat irregular. His eyes started to water, so his free hand moved to cover them quickly and pat them dry. “I’m okay,” he responded under the protection of his hand. This was the first time in months that someone had come to visit him, this reaction was not unexpected - Casey simply thought he could have hid it better. Wiping his face and taking a deep breath, the son looked into his mother's eyes. The woman was full of concern as her eyes drifted to his cuts and bruises.

“How is Jen?” He asked her, instantly deterring his eyes to the table below him and preparing for her response. He felt a rush of pain in his chest when the question left his lips and immediate regret for asking. It had been two years since the incident. Jennifer had come to visit him once in the beginning but had not stopped to see him since their divorce. All this time, despite his actions, Casey still loved her.

“She’s okay. She’s getting through it.” Casey looked back up towards his mom, nodding at her answer as he sniffed away the emotions that wished to flood him. Paying attention, Casey realized she looked older than the last time he had seen her. The bags under her eyes appeared darker as though she had not been sleeping. Her hands showed symptoms of returning eczema and shook rhythmically at times. She simply looked tired and defeated. “I asked your father to help,” she suddenly disclosed with an assertive tone. Casey’s expression quickly changed. His good eye widened as his brow raised towards his hairline. He sat in silence, questioning why her mother would do such a thing. His jaw had seemingly dropped and was forced to swallow the disgust that was about to spill from his mouth.

“I don’t need his help.”

Invited to sit, Casey found himself a seat before Madame Marinov. The two faced each other, Marinov’s smile growing at an undisclosed thought that crossed her mind. She shook it off with a chuckle as Casey refused to acknowledge her charm. From the countertop next to her, she lifted the blunt that balanced over her ashtray and brought it to her mouth. “Where is your father?” Marinov asked as she squeezed the Dutch between her lips and sucked a cloud into her mouth.

“He’s on other business,” Casey stated sharply, not trying to dive into unnecessary chatter, but instead wishing to get to the meat of things. Marinov released the stick and opened her lips to blow out a puff of smoke. She gestured it towards Casey and offered him a lick, which he denied. “Edgar Clay sent us here to retrieve his daughter, Genevive. My men and I came unarmed as a sign of respect to-“

Marinov’s palm shot up into the air to silence the biker. Her face shriveled with irritation, a frown forming where her smile used to be. She smashed her blunt on its ashtray, the sizzle audible over the silence that grew between the two individuals. Marinov then clapped twice and her eyes darted towards the doors. Casey rose abruptly to his feet as the two armed guards started towards them. “Oh relax!” Marinov expressed, the smile blooming back between her cheeks. “Don’t be nervous,” she added as one of the two guards walked up to hand her a small electronic tablet. Marinov gave the guards a nod and released them back to their post, which put Casey at ease to sit back down.

The old woman stared into the tablet, squinting as her finger clicked on the touchscreen. She was forced to put on her reading glasses to search for what Casey and the Angels had come down to collect. “Ah!” she aired, upon firing the needle in the haystack. “There she is,” she announced, turning the tablet for Casey to see Genevieve in one of the rooms reserved for her ladies. His eyes narrowed on the screen, but couldn’t make out any specifics - though was glad the girl appeared unharmed. Concerned at the realization that Marinov had cameras in the room, Casey started to explore the corners of the room he was in. He noticed two red dots on each end of the ceiling - he was being recorded. Madame Marinov turned the tablet back towards herself and looked amused. “It looks like one of your Angels just stepped into the room with her, hm.”

Casey dismissed her comment. “Madame Marinov. We are here to take Genevive back to her father. We came unarmed as a sign of respect to you and our years of business. What will it take for you to let me take her back with us?” Swallowing his pride, Casey knew he was at her mercy. It had been a gamble to come to their weapons supplier with no weapons themselves but hoped the years the Angels had worked with Bratva was enough to grant them immunity.

“I can’t do it without him son. I don’t have the money! Lawyers are expensive, I had to sell the house to pay for it. I’m broke, Casey!” his mom disclosed with labored breaths. She had turned red from her chest up. She started to break out in nervous hives, scratching at her neck as though she were using again, which made Casey question her current state.

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” Casey responded coldly as his eyes averted hers. He looked over his shoulder at the guard near the door and nodded towards him. “I’m done here,” he stated as he hung up the phone and sat up from his chair. His mother sat up too, tears forming in the tip of her eyes.

“Casey!” she yelled from the other side of the mirror. All of the visitors and inmates turned to stare at the duo. “Don’t do this!” she pleaded, hoping he wouldn’t hold her actions against her - she was simply trying to help. As tears rushed down her face and fell to her knees in prayer, Casey put his hands behind his back. The guard put cuffs around his wrist and started to guide him towards the exit door. Casey turned for one final look at his mom, not knowing it would be the last time he would lay eyes on her.

“A group of men have stolen one of my cargo trucks on its way north of the border. You can understand how this is a problem for me. If you can handle this situation, I will consider giving you Genevieve,” Marinov counseled. Her face had gone neutral, it had become difficult to read her expressions. She abruptly leaned over her chair and dug into the purse that had been next to her this entire time. From it, she withdrew a folded piece of fabric. From its ends, she drew it open to take a look at its markings. Casey could not make anything out of it, but Marinov crunched it up in her fist and extended her hand for Casey to come near and retrieve it.

Casey swallowed as he stood from his seat, walked up to Madame Marvinov, and took the fabric from her hand. “One of my men made it out alive and returned with this,” she revealed in a soft tone, giving the VP time to realize how fucked his situation had just gotten. Casey clenched his teeth with shut lips and looked defeated when he opened the fabric and looked at what was stitched on in writing. The white-washed black piece of cloth must have been from someone’s shirt. He looked back up at Marinov and realized a large smile forming on her face with suddenly broke into a burst of malicious laughter.

Knowing Casey and the club did not have a choice, she stood from her chair and showed her incredible stature. "Make sure you show that to your father..."

—- A few days later

An electric buzz filled the bathroom walls as steam exuded out the door into the bedroom. Casey ran the battery-filled trimmer from his the tip of his forehead to the back of his neck. Over and back he went as hair fell rained over the clan sink and bathroom floor. He looked himself over in the mirror as he shaped his hairline around his ear and later cleaned his beard to match. He dressed in a pair of black jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, a denim jacket he buttoned up to the neck, his favorite set of brown boots, and his winged leather vest before leaving the room and stepping into the bar area of the clubhouse.

“Elvis, Prospect, with me,” Casey ordered, calling on Jenkins and Kallie to follow. The club was quiet as of late. Many of their members led by Fish had gone on a mission to deliver generators to an undisclosed location in Wisconsin. Seibei Han, a known Yakuza officer from New York had called upon the Angels for the job. Hank and Han went back more years than he and Marinov, so denying the job was impossible. Seibei said the fate of humanity could be in their hands - only god knew what that meant.

Pushing the doors of the clubhouse open, a cold breeze swept through. Casey grinned his teeth as he shoved his bare hands in his pockets and started down the steps. He looked up at the gloomy sky and darker clouds that hovered above, hoping they could have a few more days without snow. Walking around the building, Casey approached the large enclosed storage container. He unlocked it from the outside and opened the dual doors to shine light into the dark that resided inside.

Red drops popped against the puddle of blood on the ground. They splashed against the bare feet of their donor. His feet were burned at the soles, skin was deformed by the torturous methods used against him. Bound by ropes to a chair bolted against the surface, the man sat motionless in a painful sleep. He was completely unclothed in a locked metal box with no one else around. His long black hair covered most of his face as his body was slumped forward like a hunchback towards his knees - seemingly trying to conserve as much body heat as possible in these winter months. The sudden shriek of doors opening woke him from his slumber.

As the double doors opened cold air flushed through like a wind tunnel. It struck the man like a freight train and his eyes shot open in shock. He started to shake uncontrollably in the chair, fighting the ropes that confined him. He started to scream and yell, no words just noises - like an animal in pain. However, when the cold circular muzzle of a gun pressed against his forehead, he quickly silenced. Casey looked at him in disgust as he licked his bottom lip and asked his mates to shut the doors.

“My name is Casey Guidry. I am the Vice President of the Fallen Angels. You know why you’re here. I need to know where your men are. If you can give them to me, no more harm will come to you. But if you don’t….” Casey moved his gun away from the man and lifted his chin to see all of the cuts he had suffered from his silence. “…you will suffer a fate worse than death.”

The scared man looked up with his only good eye, the other had been bruised shut and knife cuts surrounded most of his cheeks and forehead - he had already been tormented for days and had not said a word. He took a shallow breath before closing his mouth and chewing at the nothingness inside. He puckered his lips and then spit at Casey. Blood splashed on his black coat, forcing the VP to look down and wipe off the grime from his clothing. He looked up at the man and nodded respectfully, turning to Kallie and Elvis. “Make him talk,” he ordered the duo - walking between them and exiting the container before closing them in with their prey as the prisoner yelled out for Casey to go fuck himself.

Tool Fluffy-Kat
Bullyboy Squad

WISCONSIN

Madison, Wisconsin was a desolate, frozen landscape that stretched forever in front of the Fallen Angel’s cramped box truck. The absolute lack of movement in all directions as the crew passed buildings, streets, lakes, and empty lots full of nothing but hard snow and harder ice made the city feel like it was some other disaster that had decimated the town, not just the dead rising.

The truck had zipped along Highway 18 headed west until the highway inexplicably turned into Highway 14, for no other reason than that the Wisconsin Department of Transportation felt like renumbering highways kept things fresh. It was a long drive that started chilly but bearable, until it got downright frozen. The start of the new season was heralded by a cold snap, and the crew was Goddamn lucky that the box truck had a good heater in it. That, plus multiple bodies in a small space helped some. The group took turns driving, every few hours pulling off to switch drivers, take a piss, stretch, and otherwise get the blood flowing again. Between passengers catching catnaps when they could, and the solemn weight of what the world had become on their shoulders, the drive was punctuated by long stretches of silence. An uneventful drive was welcome, but unsettling.

Carefully navigating the icy exit onto South Midvale Boulevard and heading north, the truck passed a school. ‘Cherokee Heights Middle School’, proclaimed the sign along the road. This was a blue part of the state, so the sign was devoid of any racially-insensitive mascot one might have expected. There was a single humanoid-shaped figure standing in what once had to have been a soccer field; staring blindly forward, tangled up in the net, hanging there with the only motion a slow turn of its head as the box truck passed.

“Alright everyone, wake up. We’re almost there. In theory.” Fish announced, tapping his thumbs on the wheel. He glanced up in the rearview mirror just as the netted undead disappeared into the distance, its rotting empty sockets still likely turned towards the sound of the noise.

This part of town was sprawling residential developments, with streets that alternated between neat grids and winding curves. They had plotted this route out well in advance, including alternates, which would help them avoid getting lost in winding neighborhoods. They stuck mostly to the highway, only having to take detours twice to avoid impassible pile-ups. From this point, it was mostly a straight shot - follow Midvale up to University Avenue, real close to Lake Mendota, and follow it east until they got to the University of Wisconsin Health campus.

Fish slowed the box truck down as they approached what was going to be their turn - the intersections of University, Ridge Street, and Marshall Court. Unfortunately, this was also where the railroad crossed through town - and as their luck would have it, a train blocked the crossing entirely. An engine car and six boxcars, lined up neatly, sat still as ice on the tracks. The train hadn’t derailed - it almost looked intentional the way it stopped right there.

“Motherfucking train.” Fish muttered under his breath, reaching over to Kit in the passenger seat to take the map from him. Make that three detours. He flipped the map over, found their location, and studied it for a moment.

“Next turn off, University Bay Drive.” Fish announced, handing the map back to Kit. This part of the neighborhood had turned into commercial space - small quaint stores, great for walking along the street window-shopping before hitting the very American strip mall. So far, no signs of life - but unnervingly, no signs of the dead here. Somehow that was even more uncomfortable.

They followed the road further east, coming upon a green-painted pedestrian walkway stretching over the busy four-lane road and train tracks. The bridge originally served to unite one side of the campus with the other so students could safely cross. Now, the bridge served as the gateway to one of the last remaining beacons of hope for humanity.

Concrete barriers were set up as roadblocks below the bridge, narrowing the entrance down to just one lane. Armed guards - a group dressed in a mix of police gear, military fatigues, and jeans and puffer jackets - stood atop the bridge. They were heavily armed and meant business. Fish slowed the box truck as it rumbled over the railroad tracks and up to the blockade, their precious cargo in back rattling and clunking a little from the uneven terrain.

The guards atop the bridge didn’t move from their posts, but all of them did take aim at the box truck. Fish scowled - but that was to be expected. They were warned ahead of time what they’d come up on.

A man dressed in military fatigues with an oversized parka on, hood up with furry fringe encircling his face, climbed out of a makeshift guard’s shack at the base of the bridge. Lowering the scarf down from his face, he approached Fish’s door, motioning for him to roll the window down. Fish complied.

“Business?” The guard asked, straight to the point.

“Delivery. Courtesy of Seibei Han. Merry Christmas.” Fish responded, just as dryly. It wasn’t anywhere near Christmas, and these weren’t exactly presents gifted out of the kindness of Fallen Angel hearts. The guard took a brief look at everyone seated inside, nodded at Fish, then stepped away, motioning for him to drive through. Only once the man had stepped away did the guards up on the bridge lower their weapons. Fish carefully navigated his way between the concrete barriers, up the rest of the length of the road, and then turned left.

The building they were looking for was the first building now on their right. A long building, roughly a city block long, three stories high and full of floor-to-ceiling glass windows on the top two floors. There was no signage on the building save for a single blue cross in a circle spray painted on the brick facade, right next to the entrance to the building’s parking garage. Two more guards stood watch at the garage’s entrance, and upon seeing the box truck roll near, one of them stepped in to heft the garage door up and motion them through.

The sudden shift from daylight - gray and oppressive as the sky was - to darkness of a parking garage made Fish turn on his headlights and squint. No point in going far though - the garage was nearly empty save for a few military trucks parked on the opposite end, near a doorway. With expert precision, Fish rolled into the garage forward into a row of parking spots, backed up and turned the truck’s rear end towards the interior doors, and backed up the length of the garage until they were close to the interior entrance into the rest of the building.

“Alright, here we are. University of Wisconsin’s Prevention Research Center, now playing host to the Center for Disease Control.” Fish put the truck in park and shut off the engine.

“Don’t touch anything, you might catch some weird shit. Now - lets see if we gotta unload these generators ourselves or if they have grunts to do the lifting for us.” Fish popped open his door and stepped out into the cold, dark garage.

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