I peek out at Pixie, who plays in Bronco’s backyard. Earlier, she learned about washable chalk. Now, Pixie is obsessed with drawing flowers on the back patio.
“We can create a new garden after each rain,” she told me earlier, wide-eyed and breathless with excitement.
As Pixie plays with Bronco’s girls and her siblings in the backyard, I sneak out of the house with my club brothers.
Tonight, my main task is to keep Bronco alive rather than kill anyone. He’s wanted to end John Marks for decades. No doubt, Bronco will kill Steph, too. In a perfect world, he’ll end their bloodline before dawn.
Bronco, Lowell, Drummer, Akron, and I slip through a broken spot in the fencing around the Village. This is the same location Pixie used to sneak out. She also told us about another weak spot near the crops. Conor and his group will enter from that direction.
The darkness hides our movements but also our path. We wear night goggles to see well enough to move through the thorny woods. If the Killing Joes wanted to set up traps, they’d do it closer to where they were hiding. Out here would be wasted effort.
As we arrive near the center of the Village, singing fills the air along with the sound of trash can lids turned into makeshift drums. The celebratory sounds hide our approach but do little to disguise the Volkshalberd’s suffering. Under the racket echo the cries of starving people.
Crouched in the brush, I catch sight of a whimpering woman carrying her limp child. These people won’t last much longer. In fact, the young Volkshalberd hungry for war likely spend much of their days digging graves for their dead elders.
My mind shifts away from the starving people. I don’t think of the assholes needing to die. I only see Bronco in front of me. Even my other club brothers are background noise.
When I used to get high, the world dropped away. Nothing mattered except chasing the dragon for hours. I could be sitting in a burning house without noticing a damn thing.
Tonight, I use a similar single-minded focus. If Bronco goes low, I do, too. If he moves faster, I keep pace. If someone fires at him, my body will shield him. Focused only on keeping him alive, I see nothing else.
“Our bloodlines are strong and pure!” yells a male voice over the racket made by the starving masses. “We are the Volkshalberd! Swords of war! We will not falter!”
Is John Marks rallying his people? When I take off my night goggles to study the well-lit outdoor meeting area, I spot a man not much older than Pixie. He stands facing less than a dozen young men who stare in awe. These are John Marks’s true believers.
“We wallowed in the shadows until he came and restored our honor!” the young man hollers, wearing an unhinged yet joyful smile.
The men cheer with psychotic zeal. They’re pumped for battle. The cries of their fellow Volkshalberd mean nothing. Their mothers, fathers, and siblings are viewed as weak sheep while these psychos see themselves as the wolves. What does that make the Executioners?
Killing them won’t bother me one fucking bit. And letting them live isn’t an option.
After we slaughter the wolves, the Executioners will save the sheep. Supplies are ready to go. Following a small bloodbath, we’ll turn into the fucking Red Cross.
Bronco backs away from the lighted area and into the darkness where he texts Conor. I read over his shoulder how the second team should target these zealots while we’ll focus on Marks likely hiding in the main building.
Back on the move, I notice a woman watching us from her spot on the ground near one of the tents. I have no doubt once she alerts the others, shit will get loud very quickly.
But the woman only looks down at her hands and whimpers. I stop holding my breath. The sheep know they’re heading for the slaughter. What difference does it make who the wolves are?
Moving again, we reach the large building meant to keep the Volkshalberd warm during the worst winters and through dangerous storms. The place is lit up like a fucking shopping mall. A TV commercial plays loudly inside. Near the front door, a well-dressed blonde woman bobs her head to music. Without even seeing the bitch’s face, I’m certain she’s Steph Marks. Besides the young male zealots, no one in this fucking place except the Marks family would have the energy for bouncing.
We’re in position when Wyatt drives a box truck to the front gate. On our signal, he revs the engine and makes a scene.
Ready for battle, the younger Volkshalberd men lift their weapons and chant their messiah’s name.
Invisible in the dark sky, the surveillance drones drop the firecrackers in the same way as the last two nights. The singing and banging end as people scatter at the sound of what they worry is gunfire. The young Volkshalberd swing around with their weapons, unsure where the attack is coming from. Finally, they run for the front gate, where Wyatt continues to make a commotion.
“They’re coming through the gate!” yells a young Volkshalberd as if subconsciously helping our team.
The rest of the Village hurries to their tents. Steph Marks still stands at the doorway of the meeting hall. She doesn’t run and hide. She barely glances at one of the armed guys standing next to her.
Her arrogance reminds me of Lonnie. He thought he was untouchable in Cleveland. Bronco Parrish and the Executioners couldn’t lay a finger on him in his town. Except the Killing Joes didn’t run Cleveland. We controlled a few fucking miles. But Lonnie saw himself as a superior fighter, untouchable against the losers of the world. After all, he had a giant. That’s why his last words after I pulled out my hacksaw were, “You
