In a different story, maybe I take charge earlier. When Bronco said I had to let her starve, I could have been stronger. Told him how Pixie was mine. I needed to save her. He would’ve been disappointed in me, but that happened anyway.
Yeah, in a different story, I make better decisions. Of course, in one version, I likely never take Pixie away from the Village, and she dies. I guess I should be grateful my current story turned out this well.
“The Village belongs to the Executioners now,” Bronco announces as his foot rests on John Marks’s corpse. “You let this piece of shit run things for too long. People suffered and died. Tonight, some of your people were killed trying to save Marks. If any of you believe this man gave a shit, look at his fat gut, and then feel your empty stomachs.”
The people around us are impossible to read. Their miserable faces rarely reveal any emotions. The Volkshalberd believe in stern joy and painful freedom. They chose this life because the outside world is weak, pampered, and fallen.
I’m sure some of them still blame Bronco and the Executioners rather than John, Steph, or themselves. The Volkshalberd believe they’re living a blessed life. And their suffering is a badge of honor.
“We will return tomorrow with more supplies,” Bronco says. “Food, medicine, and gasoline for your generators. Any resistance will be met with violence. Those deaths will be on you.”
At the tree line, a bloodied Conor appears with Gunther. They walk to the center area where Bronco stands. The old man doesn’t look to have much life left in him.
“Will you bring the police to the Village?” Gunther asks Bronco.
My president realizes the old fucker’s game plan. What these people fear more than anything is the boot of the law. Giving them an enemy is as important as offering them food.
“The law doesn’t run Elko,” Bronco says in an icy cold voice. “The Executioners do.”
Nodding, Gunther stumbles as he turns around to look at the others. “Leaders fail and fall. Death comes to us all. The Village must persevere. The Volkshalberd can’t vanish into a fallen world.”
Bronco glances at Lowell, who nods. The old guard—though too weak to stand up against the big false promises of John Marks—still have the pull to keep these people in line. I suspect many of the Volkshalberd would refuse our food if not for Gunther’s words.
Soon, Wyatt drives the small box truck into the Village parking lot. Many of my club brothers stack the boxes filled with nutritional drinks near Gunther. I remain with Bronco, who keeps his foot squarely on John Mark’s ugly face.
“To get you through the night, we’ve brought these,” Lowell explains, handing a bottle to Gunther. “The children can drink them, too. We also brought formula and water for the babies.”
The old man leans forward, forcing Lowell to crouch down to hear what he’s saying. My guess is Gunther is thanking us for saving them from their idiot selves.
“Tomorrow, we’ll do an inventory of people and supplies,” Lowell says after Gunther’s shaking hands open a bottle of nutritional drink.
With lifeless eyes, the Volkshalberd watch the Village’s former male guide finish the bottle. Suddenly, the mood in the community shifts. Desperation overwhelms these people as if they’ve awoken from a daze and realized they’re starving.
Women begin crying. A few scuffles break out as people hurry to find relief for their hunger. Bronco whispers to Lowell how we need to stick around long enough to ensure the stronger members don’t steal shakes from the women and children.
“We’ll have to carry in all the supplies,” he tells Wyatt and Rooster. “These people are too weak to help.”
“What about the dead?” Lowell asks.
Bronco scowls hard at the people around us. “Oh, they’ll deal with that themselves. I want them to feel the weight of every shovelful of dirt they move.”
The next hour is like corralling cats. A few people behave well, accepting their given supplies and returning to their tents. A few others help with the dead, though John’s and Steph’s bodies remain on display. I wouldn’t be surprised if Bronco leaves those fuckers to rot in the sun for a few days.
Most of the Volkshalberd aren’t as cooperative. There is disagreement over who should receive supplies. Some think those too loyal to the Marks family forfeited their right to food. Others believe supplies should go to those more dedicated to the Executioners. Soon, there’s even a bizarre suffering contest, where people fight over who is most hungry and closest to death.
We shut down each argument. Every man, woman, and child receive a shake. Each baby is fed. The families of the assholes we killed enjoy as much as the ones who silently hated Marks.
Bronco will punish people later. The Village will likely see more death. But for tonight, everyone is equal and gets enough calories to tide them over until tomorrow.
After midnight, the Executioners roll out of a sedated community. The trash cans no longer need to drown out the pained cries. Stomachs are full, babies sleep, and bodies are buried. Bronco even lets them toss the Marks siblings together in an unmarked hole.
“This place smells bad enough without those two dissolving into flesh and bone,” he says as we climb into the now-empty box truck.
Soon, my chest and back get stitched up by the club’s doctor at the Minute-Clinic. Though I’ve lost some blood, I refuse to go to the hospital. Bronco looks ready to push the issue, but I think he realizes I need to see Pixie.
After the doctor gets my prescriptions filled, Bronco returns with an SUV to drive me home. Barbie shows up and insists Conor stay overnight. He caught a blade from a crazy bitch screaming Marks’s name. Apparently, she thought the words would act as armor against a bullet to the
