Live (NOLA Zombie Book 3) by Gillian Zane Page B
Authors: Gillian Zane
Tags: Zombies & Romance
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the fact that they only allowed the MC guys to carry. It was a good thing for me anyway; soldier versus citizen would be very easy to spot if the bad guys wore patches declaring their bad-guy-ness.
The truck pulled into a back lot that wasn’t part of the fenced area and there didn’t seem to be anyone guarding this area. U1 and U2 pulled us from the back of the truck and pushed us forward toward what was once the grocery store. There was an armed guard at the entrance to the building, but he moved aside when Spider gave him some sort of hand signal.
“Senior’s gonna want to see this haul, he in his office?” Spider asked the guard, who just nodded an affirmative as we pushed past.
I used to shop at this grocery when I lived in the area. It was one of those fancy ones, with everything organic and wine tastings on the weekends. Now it was the church of an outlaw biker gang, specializing in human trafficking. The grocery, which was once pristine and posh, had been cleared out and was now peppered with hastily thrown up “rooms” which were only shelves with tarps draped between them. It looked like a bunch of Boy Scouts had made forts. Silly, but in reality each one was home to another biker, and every biker meant a potential threat.
Senior’s “office” was a raised area that had once been customer service. There were glass walls that cut it off from the main area and it looked like they had strung up bed sheets to give him privacy when he needed it. Right now they were pulled to the side and who I assumed was the man in question, sat like a king looking down at his domain. He was seated in front of the office on the high counter that was set up around the glass area. A few leather-clad bikers surrounded him, pouring shots and smoking cigarettes, talking loudly as one scantily clad girl acted like everything they said was the funniest thing ever, pouring them something out of a jug and sashaying around in nothing but a pair of panties and a tiny crop tee.
Everyone turned when we walked in, all eyes on me and the evil traitor next to me. I tried to take in my surroundings without looking like I was scoping out the place, but I had to play it cool like I was useless, innocent, and not a threat. The cash registers and checkout lanes were still in place, but everything else was ripped out and moved around. The store was set up differently than most grocery stores. The lanes faced an empty wall and forced consumers to go either left or right to exit the store. There was access to both parking lots of the shopping mall, east, and west, with doors placed at both sides of the store. The back lot, or west lot, was the one that they hadn’t gated and was only a few lanes of parking spots that led into a residential area. The east lot was the gated area, a large expanse that fed other stores and could be accessed from two major roads.
The west door would be the easiest point of exit if I managed to get around the crew inside the store. They should have gated the back lot also, but they were using it for quick access to vehicles, which were parked along the back wall of the store. Their laziness would work out well in the long game, or so I hoped. I felt a tingling of hope take residence in my gut. I could get out of here .
“Whatcha have here?” asked the man that was clearly the leader, judging by his confidence and how the other bikers seemed to orbit him. He jumped off of the counter, his boots making a loud thump on the linoleum floor. He strode quickly over to us to inspect the new arrivals. He had a patch on his right shoulder that proclaimed him President and 100% Southern Clan which confirmed his dictatorship role. I didn’t know much about motorcycle clubs, but I knew enough to recognize some of his patches. The 1% patch on his vest declared his club in the outlaw group, which was usually tied to criminal activity and at the very least misogynist and often racist behavior. Like that
The truck pulled into a back lot that wasn’t part of the fenced area and there didn’t seem to be anyone guarding this area. U1 and U2 pulled us from the back of the truck and pushed us forward toward what was once the grocery store. There was an armed guard at the entrance to the building, but he moved aside when Spider gave him some sort of hand signal.
“Senior’s gonna want to see this haul, he in his office?” Spider asked the guard, who just nodded an affirmative as we pushed past.
I used to shop at this grocery when I lived in the area. It was one of those fancy ones, with everything organic and wine tastings on the weekends. Now it was the church of an outlaw biker gang, specializing in human trafficking. The grocery, which was once pristine and posh, had been cleared out and was now peppered with hastily thrown up “rooms” which were only shelves with tarps draped between them. It looked like a bunch of Boy Scouts had made forts. Silly, but in reality each one was home to another biker, and every biker meant a potential threat.
Senior’s “office” was a raised area that had once been customer service. There were glass walls that cut it off from the main area and it looked like they had strung up bed sheets to give him privacy when he needed it. Right now they were pulled to the side and who I assumed was the man in question, sat like a king looking down at his domain. He was seated in front of the office on the high counter that was set up around the glass area. A few leather-clad bikers surrounded him, pouring shots and smoking cigarettes, talking loudly as one scantily clad girl acted like everything they said was the funniest thing ever, pouring them something out of a jug and sashaying around in nothing but a pair of panties and a tiny crop tee.
Everyone turned when we walked in, all eyes on me and the evil traitor next to me. I tried to take in my surroundings without looking like I was scoping out the place, but I had to play it cool like I was useless, innocent, and not a threat. The cash registers and checkout lanes were still in place, but everything else was ripped out and moved around. The store was set up differently than most grocery stores. The lanes faced an empty wall and forced consumers to go either left or right to exit the store. There was access to both parking lots of the shopping mall, east, and west, with doors placed at both sides of the store. The back lot, or west lot, was the one that they hadn’t gated and was only a few lanes of parking spots that led into a residential area. The east lot was the gated area, a large expanse that fed other stores and could be accessed from two major roads.
The west door would be the easiest point of exit if I managed to get around the crew inside the store. They should have gated the back lot also, but they were using it for quick access to vehicles, which were parked along the back wall of the store. Their laziness would work out well in the long game, or so I hoped. I felt a tingling of hope take residence in my gut. I could get out of here .
“Whatcha have here?” asked the man that was clearly the leader, judging by his confidence and how the other bikers seemed to orbit him. He jumped off of the counter, his boots making a loud thump on the linoleum floor. He strode quickly over to us to inspect the new arrivals. He had a patch on his right shoulder that proclaimed him President and 100% Southern Clan which confirmed his dictatorship role. I didn’t know much about motorcycle clubs, but I knew enough to recognize some of his patches. The 1% patch on his vest declared his club in the outlaw group, which was usually tied to criminal activity and at the very least misogynist and often racist behavior. Like that
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