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When they were gone I walked over to where they’d been and stood for a while in the cool shadows. Baskerville came over and sat nearby, watching the path the men had taken. He didn’t like them worth a damn, that was obvious.
One thing occurred to me. Something that the librarian, Abigail, said. I couldn’t recall the exact words, but she’d mentioned gangs of rovers.
That clicked with a bit of information from way back before the End, when I was a cop in Baltimore. There was a biker gang known as the Rovers. They were a real bad bunch, too. Well known for violence and brutality on a scale that made other gangs steer clear. There was even a case once where seven members of the Warriors, another biker gang, had been murdered in a drug deal gone bad. The right hand of each of the murdered bikers was missing and never found. The detectives working that case concluded the hands were taken as trophies.
Trophies. Like ears, noses, and scalps?
Could Abigail have been referring to a specific group rather than making a general comment? If so, were these boys part of that old gang? Too many things lined up all at once for me to dismiss the possibility, and that included my own gut instinct.
Which meant they were probably bad guys after all.
Even so, they hadn’t killed those people in the clearing. So . . . what in the wide blue fuck was going on out here? I glanced at the peach-stuccoed walls, with the incompetent security and the strange goings on in the nearby clearing. I did not believe for one second that Mr. Church was in Happy Valley.
All sorts of emotions warred inside my head and heart.
I clicked my tongue for Baskerville and together we faded into the woods. We’d found people. Now we wanted answers. And maybe we both wanted some blood, too. Seemed about the right time for that.
— 23 —
DAHLIA AND THE PACK
Dahlia found Church cleaning up the equipment after a training session. Neeko and some of the others were limping off to recover from a grueling combat drill. Church turned before she could call his name and stood waiting, frowning as she came close.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Dahlia was winded and had to take a moment to catch her breath. The extra weight she carried helped her in fighting, but it was not her friend in a flat run through the woods. Sweat streamed down her face and throat, and her clothes were pasted to her.
“Tra—Trash,” she gasped.
Church glanced around to make sure no one else was close, then guided her to a pair of camp chairs. She thumped down in hers and gratefully accepted a canteen. After three gulps her throat felt less raw.
“Tell me,” said Church, and she did. The frown he wore deepened as she described the men Trash was with. When she was done he had her go through it again, slowing down, describing everything in minute detail. By now she was used to this. Church was all about the details. What he called “deep intelligence.”
When she was done he sat back in his chair and was quiet for a moment, then he nodded slowly. “I expected them to come this way soon, but I thought we’d have at least another month.”
“Wait . . . you know those guys?”
“Not specifically,” said Church, “but I know of them. They called themselves the Rovers. The core group used to be a biker gang.”
“Sure,” she said, “I heard about them. On the news, I mean . . . before. They were always in trouble for something. Drugs, I think.”
“Drugs were a big part of their activities,” agreed Church. “They also trafficked in arms. Gun, explosives. Civilian and military grade. Selling to other gangs, to organized crime outfits, and to militia groups from Pennsylvania to Mississippi.”
“They sound like a bunch of assholes.”
“What they are,” said Church, “are extremely dangerous. They are organized, ruthless, and efficient. The fact that they don’t have working motorcycles anymore does not decrease the threat they pose. If anything, it increases it because it makes them more localized. And it has turned them into scavengers as well as predators. Call it a locust mentality. They have been attacking settlements, camps, and refugee centers. I’ve seen what they leave behind.” He paused and looked into the forest as if he could see the Rovers. “They are the reason I’ve been training the Pack so aggressively. Fighting the dead is bad, but doing so requires a smaller skill set and it is, as you often put it, ‘rinse and repeat.’ The dead don’t learn from experience. The Rovers do. And they are both merciless and unforgiving.”
And Trash is with them . . . ” breathed Dahlia. “Oh, god . . . ”
“You said that he pointed in the direction of this camp?”
She nodded. Tears stung her eyes, but she tried not to let them fall. She didn’t want to cry. Not for Trash. Not if he had joined a group like that. And yet . . . maybe he didn’t know who they were. Or how bad they were. Maybe they tricked him somehow.
“Dahlia,” said Church, and she looked at him. His eyes, even mostly hidden behind the tinted lenses, were intense. “Listen to me,” he said in a voice that was kind but not soft. “I know you love Trash. You’ve never said as much, but trust me when I say that I know the look of heartbreak. You’ve been very brave because you’re the leader of your Pack, but I know that you’re hurting. And I know that you’re holding hope inside. You want Trash and the others to come back to the Pack. To come back to you.”
She brushed at her eyes but did not trust herself to actually reply. He nodded anyway.
“Trash made his choice. He could have stayed with you and with the Pack. He could have joined what we’re building here, but he chose not to do that. If he has thrown in with the Rovers, then you have to accept the possibility that he is lost.”
