near those industrial places, about a couple miles down. We saw ‘em while we were in the boat. Big yellow camp, think they called it “Fishing Around” or something like that, had a flag. You can’t see it from the highway.”
“Thank you,” Zach called. “You don’t know what this means to us.”
“If they’re taking women, I don’t want them anywhere near this area. If you do find them, take them out, make sure they can’t come back here, we only want to worry about the infected.”
“Will do,” I called as we backed away. I wasn’t going to turn my back on this kid no matter how friendly he seemed.
“Leave the MREs on the sidewalk and y’all go on. We’re neighbors and all, but I think this was enough conversation for one day.”
“Thanks, man, really.” I placed the MREs on the sidewalk and then got back in the truck. We had a fishing camp to find. Like now.
Fourteen | Dumb Cagers & Apocalypse Meth Cookers
ALEXIS
Ugly One and Two had obviously made this trek before. They knew the back ways and how to avoid the large packs of Z’s that prowled the streets. It also helped that the streets were mostly clear of cars and debris. New Orleans resembled a ghost town.
As we pushed deeper into the city there were a few vehicles sporadically parked across the streets as if the occupants had just jumped out and run off. Some still held their occupants, the windows rolled up, their decomposed faces pressed against the glass as their mouths slowly opened and closed. It was reassuring that they were unable to work something as simple as a door handle, but pitiful in the same sense. Whatever lived within these creatures, whatever fueled their damned existence–their driving hunger, it was relegated for an eternity within the confines of their cars. Changed, in a violent act, but still so normal as they sat forever behind the wheel, wearing the same clothes they died in.
It took only a few minutes to make it onto Robert E. Lee Boulevard and cross into the City Park area, finally coming to a stop when we reached the Orleans Avenue Canal. There were large bastions full of sand blocking the road, placed strategically so you couldn’t drive a vehicle over the bridge. Two guards stood with rifles raised, coming to attention as U2 and U1 raised their hands out of the window.
“We got girls for trade,” U2 called out the window.
“That you, Phil? You got those girls you were talking about earlier?” one of the guards called.
“Yeah, we got ‘em in the back, pretty little things, you give us safe passage?”
“Yeah, Spider’ll take ya in,” U1 and U2 got out of the car and they both went to the back doors, yanking them open. It was the quickest I had seen them move. They were scared of these bikers.
U2 grabbed me, yanking me out of the car. I didn’t have shoes on and I scuffed my toes as he pushed me forward. My dress was pushed up and my hair was in my face, I must look like a hot mess. I hadn’t looked in the mirror in a long time, but it was likely I also sported a few bruises and scrapes from my tussles with these winners that were selling me. Hopefully it drove their asking price way down. I didn’t want these fuckers making much off of me.
“Move it, girlie.” He pushed me forward and a cold blast of air hit me. I wished I could wrap my hands around myself, but they were still tied together.
“Those cuffs really needed?” one of the guards asked as he walked up and eyed me. He was wearing leather and an ornately decorated jacket with typical motorcycle club patches on it. He was an older man, bearded, with a bit of a paunch and a flush to his cheeks and swell of the nose that spoke of alcoholism and substance abuse.
“This one here is a spitfire, she took out Henry and Frank,” U2 said.
The biker laughed so hard that I thought he might fall over. It was one of those big belly laughs that had him bending over and gasping for breath. If I wasn’t so
“Thank you,” Zach called. “You don’t know what this means to us.”
“If they’re taking women, I don’t want them anywhere near this area. If you do find them, take them out, make sure they can’t come back here, we only want to worry about the infected.”
“Will do,” I called as we backed away. I wasn’t going to turn my back on this kid no matter how friendly he seemed.
“Leave the MREs on the sidewalk and y’all go on. We’re neighbors and all, but I think this was enough conversation for one day.”
“Thanks, man, really.” I placed the MREs on the sidewalk and then got back in the truck. We had a fishing camp to find. Like now.
Fourteen | Dumb Cagers & Apocalypse Meth Cookers
ALEXIS
Ugly One and Two had obviously made this trek before. They knew the back ways and how to avoid the large packs of Z’s that prowled the streets. It also helped that the streets were mostly clear of cars and debris. New Orleans resembled a ghost town.
As we pushed deeper into the city there were a few vehicles sporadically parked across the streets as if the occupants had just jumped out and run off. Some still held their occupants, the windows rolled up, their decomposed faces pressed against the glass as their mouths slowly opened and closed. It was reassuring that they were unable to work something as simple as a door handle, but pitiful in the same sense. Whatever lived within these creatures, whatever fueled their damned existence–their driving hunger, it was relegated for an eternity within the confines of their cars. Changed, in a violent act, but still so normal as they sat forever behind the wheel, wearing the same clothes they died in.
It took only a few minutes to make it onto Robert E. Lee Boulevard and cross into the City Park area, finally coming to a stop when we reached the Orleans Avenue Canal. There were large bastions full of sand blocking the road, placed strategically so you couldn’t drive a vehicle over the bridge. Two guards stood with rifles raised, coming to attention as U2 and U1 raised their hands out of the window.
“We got girls for trade,” U2 called out the window.
“That you, Phil? You got those girls you were talking about earlier?” one of the guards called.
“Yeah, we got ‘em in the back, pretty little things, you give us safe passage?”
“Yeah, Spider’ll take ya in,” U1 and U2 got out of the car and they both went to the back doors, yanking them open. It was the quickest I had seen them move. They were scared of these bikers.
U2 grabbed me, yanking me out of the car. I didn’t have shoes on and I scuffed my toes as he pushed me forward. My dress was pushed up and my hair was in my face, I must look like a hot mess. I hadn’t looked in the mirror in a long time, but it was likely I also sported a few bruises and scrapes from my tussles with these winners that were selling me. Hopefully it drove their asking price way down. I didn’t want these fuckers making much off of me.
“Move it, girlie.” He pushed me forward and a cold blast of air hit me. I wished I could wrap my hands around myself, but they were still tied together.
“Those cuffs really needed?” one of the guards asked as he walked up and eyed me. He was wearing leather and an ornately decorated jacket with typical motorcycle club patches on it. He was an older man, bearded, with a bit of a paunch and a flush to his cheeks and swell of the nose that spoke of alcoholism and substance abuse.
“This one here is a spitfire, she took out Henry and Frank,” U2 said.
The biker laughed so hard that I thought he might fall over. It was one of those big belly laughs that had him bending over and gasping for breath. If I wasn’t so
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