Gang Up: A Bikerland Novel (2 page)

Old days, gone away now. But Case would start new days, and better times. All he needed was a little luck.

The Family's Compound was a series of squat concrete buildings reinforced with steel and layered over again with lead. A safe place from the ever-oozing radiation of the world outside.

The bar in the Compound, the Mud Pit, was open to pretty much anyone with money. Traders would come in and spend their dime there on the Family’s whores and good moonshine. But anyone who wasn’t Family, or didn’t give the Family good regular money, took their chances by being present. Death was common, and fights more common still.

From just outside the poorly-painted building, Case could hear the reverie. Stories being swapped by old timers and veterans at the near end of their riding time themselves. Lots of swashbuckling bravado being spouted about Brall and the Cauldron by the younger men—each one to a man, almost, being one of Case’s men.

The men were divided up now between belonging to Case and belonging to Troy. Troy had been Titus's second-in-command, and had earned much loyalty from his duty to the Family. And always, there was the talk of his sister, Robin—probably the most beautiful girl in the entirety of the wasteland.

But Case and Troy were at odds to running the family. Case knew it; Troy knew it; everybody knew it. They had to consolidate power soon or else all of Titus's work would be for nothing. The peace was uneasy between the Family and the Cauldron. It rested only on the fact that not a single drop of blood of either side had been shed so far. Not even in bar fights. Brall’s men were disciplined, Case had to give the man that.

The second Case walked inside the Mud Pit, the swarming chatter reduced to a somber rumble. Case pointed to the bartender and ordered everyone up another round on the house—the whole night on Case, as a matter of fact—and there was a cheer went up behind him as he walked to the back.

Troy sat at one end of the bar and Sandra the other. Both blamed one another for Titus’s death, gunned down in the open street. No witnesses—and in the town of Temple, no witnesses only meant that everyone who knew was paid off, loyal, or dead. Temple was too small for no witnesses.

The idea was that Troy had murdered Titus to gain power; or that Sandra had murdered Titus to put her stepson in power, who she had always favored so much. Case rejected both of these hypotheses; too distasteful by half. But Case would have to deal with the dislike between Troy and Sandra, and soon. They weren’t the allies he wanted, but there was a war coming with Brall.

Like Titus always said, you don’t go to war with the army you want. You go to war with the army you have.

––––––––

T
here was a cloud of grief hanging over The Mud Pit, and Robin wanted no part of it. She lived in a cloud of grief. For everyone else to be feeling sad only made her feelings seem all the more disingenuous. But there was no one to talk to—no one who understood, anyway.

Abigail was Robin’s best friend, and her advice wasn’t ever any good.

“Just kill him.” Abigail would say. “I’ve fought off five or six guys like that. No one seemed to mind.”

“You weren’t killing your own clan, though.”

Abigail would grin at that. As if maybe to say—
just give me the chance
.

Across the bar, she saw Troy looking at her again. Eyes roaming up and down her body. Her stepbrother was an enormous brute, thicker almost than he was tall and far too cunning to ever take for granted. If Robin had a little more time, in a year or two, she might have been able to take over for Sandra’s position as auditor, deciding where to send out the Family for loot. And she might have decided to send Troy out into the White Waste, a heavily radiated area blasted by nuclear energy where no one ever returned...

A comforting thought, but not a real one. Troy glanced at her again. Robin caught his glance this time, glaring back at him and then rolling her eyes. He just grinned.

Robin was used to male attention. She was a looker, or so Troy said. So many men said. Blue eyes. Her hair a deep, dark chestnut color and vibrantly thick. Her body was athletic, toned with muscle from the hard-living in the wastes, but she had trouble finding clothes to fit over the impressively large bust she sported. Even now, sitting at the bar after a funeral, her button-up blouse only managed to close just above the line of her nipples, leaving a long line of enticing cleavage open for any prying eyes. Her neck, slender and fair, was like a handle for any of the strong men in the bar to pin and fuck her against the wall until she was begging to be bred for years and years, begging to be relieved of all thoughts of responsibility and worry.

And she knew it. A Family girl knew exactly what her place was, or else.

Titus had taken a soft spot for Robin. Protected her for all the years that Troy had wanted to fuck her brutally and invoke his right of clan on her body. But now Titus was dead.

The right of clan was taken from time to time to ensure that a family’s bloodline was protected. It would never result in marriage—that was strictly forbidden. Families, even stepsisters and stepbrothers, could not be allowed to intermingle. After the Long War had devastated so much of the population—Robin had heard estimates as high as ninety-five percent of everyone just being gone—the humans left had a population to rebuild. That couldn’t happen well by intermixing self-same bloodlines through marriage.

But. A bloodline could be continued, if it was small enough and its clan felt threatened, by invoking the right of clans, whereupon a stepfather could take a stepdaughter, or a stepbrother a stepsister, solely to get them pregnant.

Robin knew that Troy jerked off to just such a thought. She knew it because he told her almost every day, that sick grin on his face.

She had lived in fear. Now, with Titus dead, she lived in terror.

Case walked across the bar and spoke to his stepmother, Sandra, and then across the other way and spoke with Troy.

Sandra was a small woman with deeply tanned skin. Nearing forty, she was almost the oldest of any woman that Robin had seen in her life. Easily the oldest who looked as good as she did. Her hair, dark and full, still retained some shine, and her skin had not yet developed overmuch the telltale wrinkles from years of radiation exposure. She stayed inside as much as she could and lived easy, ensuring to only eat the crops nearby which had been crafted with safe conditions. It was an expensive way to live, to be sure, but the wife of the Family’s leader could afford it.

Titus had run the overall decisions of the Family. Who to attack. Who to trade with. Where to fortify and where to retreat. The Family’s region was nearly the size of the entire Texan panhandle, with several towns under their purview, and all of their strength relied on Titus’s clear decision making. But it had been Sandra who ensured that warriors were fed, that supplies were delivered, and yes, that women were passed out equally. Warriors had to be taken care of with plenty of fresh, willing pussy.

Any man in the Family could take any woman he wanted. But Sandra, as the Matron, held final say as to whether a woman would be able to be married in. A woman had to have the right mix, she would say, of eagerness and submission. Knowing how to anticipate her man’s needs. Knowing how to cook for him, to clean for him, to keep the home free of filth and distasteful activities.

A rider for the Family could spend weeks or sometimes even months away on business, protecting their home. How awful it would be for him, then, to return to his haven and find it ill-kept. A woman had to know her place, and Sandra kept all the girls in line. Looking pretty, smiling amiably, never talking back. Robin believed all of this with her heart and soul. She burned inside to some day be a good wife for a strong, sure man who could lead her around, fuck her rotten, breed her stupid until she was drooling out praises and mindlessly sucking on his cock for hours at a time.

That Abigail got away with doing absolutely none of that must have driven Sandra wild, but Titus had favored the girl and treated her like a son, even though she was not his natural daughter. He’d always wanted two boys, he would say, taking Abigail and Case out on some hunt or raid.

Case, Sandra, Abigail and Troy walked to the back room, the conference room. Robin watched them go past and then turned back to the bar, ordering another beer.

“No,” said Sandra. “Inside.”

“What?”

“You may as well get used to it now. There’s no stopping it.”

This surprised Robin. She ran the numbers for the gang’s legitimate businesses—Titus had always wanted her to be the face of their public side. She was a chameleon—able to slide effortlessly between the leather-and-denim world of The Mud Pit and the suits-and-skirts land of the rich traders who came in from Dallas, a bustling metropolis which was still standing from all accounts (if, of course, rather drastically reduced in size and population from the Long War). From the brutally primal warrior men of the Family, she was afforded, if not respect, at least deference in matters of money.

But now Titus was dead.

And Troy was alive and well—her stepbrother, so hulking and terrifying. Eyes always on her. Waiting to have her alone with him in the house. Maybe in charge soon, if Case didn't edge him out. Or kill him.

God, wasn't
that
a lovely thought? Big, strong Case, strangling Troy to death. Maybe Robin could cheer him on while it happened.

Not that she would, of course. It was just a fantasy. Troy had fucked with her life for far too long to not fantasize about such things.

They stepped inside the conference room and circled around. Overhead was a long hanging light, the sort that went over a pool table. Pre-war pictures of dogs and landscapes were on the wall. Robin sat in one corner. Abigail sat next to Case, and Troy far down the table on one end. Sandra sat across from him, glaring coldly.

“There’s a problem here and we’ve got to sort it,” said Case.

“I don’t see a problem at all,” said Troy. The rubber lining around the table squealed and shifted in his hands.

Case gave him a look. “I want us to find some agreement amenable to both of us, all right? We’ve got to get along. Otherwise those Cauldron bastards will run right over us.”

Troy had something else smart to say, Robin could tell. But he swallowed the remark and nodded.

“Okay,” said Case. “We need to bring our families together. Titus talked about it all the time. You had your loyalty to him. All the work you two did for one another.”

“He was my blood.”

“And I’m not. And I know that. But I know you respect blood. And I know as much as you want other things, you don’t want war with the good men you’ve fought with. And you don’t want the Cauldron to ruin everything we’ve made.”

“You been thinking hard, boy. But you’re dead wrong if you thinking you walk out here in charge.”

“I’m proposing a joint rule. Everyone on the council gets a vote, and we each get a veto. That way, we aren’t stepping on each other’s toes.”

Titus had, beneath his own rule, set up a council of sorts of veteran riders and even women. Well, one woman—Sandra. But he had let it slip that he wanted Robin on the council in the future.

Case let that simmer for a minute.

“And?” Troy's posture languid, unimpressed.

“And,” said Case, “you’re to mate Sandra. After a year passes.”

Troy snorted. “A year?”

“She’s got to show mourning. Otherwise all the boys, they’ll get ideas about what happened. Not me, you understand. I know you’re clean as—”

The chair banged as it hit the wall. “If you think for a
minute
those boys will suspect me—”

“People suspect any old thing, Troy! But only if you let them. You wait a year. You’ll have the biggest estate in the region under your control.”

Part of being the boss was owning the most land.

“And what do
you
get out of that, huh? Pimping out your mother like that? Who are you mating to?”

Robin gulped. She had already put it together. It was simple addition, really—and these men had just reduced her to a number for acquisition.

Case turned right to her. “Robin.”

––––––––

T
he shopkeeper was old and small, nearly fifty in a land that tolerated almost no one over thirty. His skin hung loose on his bones and his hair was all whittled and white. Abigail, smiling, picked up a long gold chain with a curious small jeweled pendant. It was not pretty—nothing really was pretty anymore, unless you were talking about Temple women—but it was nice enough.

“That’s seven.”

“Seven?” Abigail shook her head.

“...Six?”

If she wanted, she could easily flirt with the shopkeeper and convince him to just give her the jewelry. She had done so before, with other traders, before she learned of the greater power she possessed by being in the Family. But Abigail was a beautiful woman—even in the town of Temple, known all across the Texan region for holding some of the most gorgeous women left in the world. Her body was stacked with huge 36E breasts, her waist narrow, her hair golden and long. Bright ice blue eyes shone out from her almost unreal beauty, her entire face capable of melting men to pieces with a simple little pout.

But she did not pout—she smiled, small and cruel. She had done this before.

“Why don’t we go to my brother, and let him decide how much it ought to be?”

Sweat ran down the shopkeeper’s brow. He knew the score. He had, most likely, known before Robin even walked inside. But it was just occurring to him now how screwed he really was.

The shopkeeper shook his head quick. “N-no. That’s all right. You know what? Why don’t you take it?”

“Just take it? I couldn’t leave you with nothing.”

“Oh, then...half of one? Then...”

Abigail’s smile was dead inside; she waited for the shopkeeper to notice.

“No,” he said again. “No, no. My gift to you.”

Abigail knew how to live in the world as it was, now. Her father had taught her history.