Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
TARYN
Beck and I had been walking for a while, using back roads to avoid towns as it started to get dark.
We came upon a roadside bar that had seen better days. It was lit up, the front door slightly ajar, and I could hear loud music and conversation from inside.
Beck put an arm in front of my chest, stopping me in my tracks. He’d gone quiet, and his gaze was narrowed in on the group of bikes parked in front.
I followed his gaze.
And there it was.
His motorcycle sat dead center, the key still in the ignition.
“Is that—” I started.
“Yes,” he said, already moving toward it. “Wait here.”
Not likely. I stayed on his heels, heart pounding.
Beck glared at me but kept moving.
He approached cautiously and slowly backed the bike up, pushing it closer to the road. He swung his leg over the seat and motioned for me to get on.
I didn’t hesitate. As soon as I was secure, with my arms wrapped around his waist, he cranked it up, and we were gone. The tires were spitting gravel as we tore back onto the road.
I had maybe two minutes to breathe before I noticed headlights. “We’ve got company.”
“Fuck.” Beck’s back went rigid beneath my hands, his speed staying steady.
“Who are they?”
“The Beasts of Prey. The assholes probably recognized my bike back at the diner.” He cursed again.
“I’m assuming they’re not friends?” I sighed.
He huffed, “Not fucking hardly.”
Beck slowed suddenly when we came upon an SUV that sat sideways across both lanes. He swore under his breath and stopped, scanning for another way around.
That’s when the figure stepped out of the trees.
He moved in a strangely disjointed way, and his clothes were torn and bloody. Another figure joined him… then another.
Beck didn’t hesitate.
He swung the bike sideways and put himself between them and me, shoving me off behind the wrecked SUV.
“Stay down,” he ordered, already moving.
I reached for my pack, fingers brushing the familiar weight inside, but Beck was already engaging—boot slamming into one of the infected’s chest, sending it sprawling. Another rushed him, teeth snapping.
Gunshots cracked the air.
The bikers following us had dismounted now, shouting, and firing, chaos coming from every direction. For this moment in time, it didn’t matter who hated who—we were all just trying to stay alive.
An infected got past Beck and lunged for me.
I raised my pack and swung violently, catching it on the side of the head. It went down hard.
A large redheaded biker shot the infected in the head, then proceeded to kill the other two.
“Behind you!” I screamed at Beck, who was still busy with the infected.
He turned—
But it was too late.
Red shot the infected, and another man grabbed Beck from behind, dragging him back even as he fought like a madman. He would have gotten free, but the redheaded man suddenly jammed a gun under his chin.
“Enough,” the man growled. “If you want the cheerleader to keep breathing, you stop now.”
Beck froze. Every muscle in his body went rigid, fury rolling off him in waves I could feel from where I stood.
I carefully reached into my bag for my gun, but I felt an arm reach around me, jerking the bag out of my hand before I could grasp it.
“I don’t think so, Buffy.” The sudden waft of body odor almost made me gag.
I turned and saw a huge man, at least six and a half feet tall, smirking at me with yellow teeth, holding my bag in one hand and my arm in the other.
“Keep your fucking hands off her.” Beck snarled between gritted teeth.
The giant just laughed and pulled me closer. We were surrounded, with the first man still holding a gun under Beck’s chin.
“Calm down, little Reaper.” The man with the gun grinned.
He must be blind, calling Beck ‘little’ anything. He was shorter than Beck by at least a head.
“Fuck you, Red,” Beck said, his eyes never leaving my face.
His name really was ‘Red.’ How cliché.
“No need for violence. We just want to talk.” Red winked at me.
The guy holding my arm bent his head close to my ear. “We weren’t expecting to capture us a pretty cheerleader.” He flicked at my skirt as I felt his fetid breath on the side of my face.
“Get the fuck away from me,” I demanded as I jerked out of his grip and punched him in the nuts, ignoring my inner monologue from a few seconds earlier.
He grunted and let go of me, falling to the ground.
“You shouldn’t have done that, little girl.” Red laughed. “Big George ain’t going to take kindly to that.”
Before I could reply, the third guy backhanded me across the face. “No bitch is going to disrespect my brother like that.”
My head fell back on my shoulders, but I recovered quickly and glared at him. I could taste blood on my lips and feel my right eye beginning to swell.
Beck screamed in rage, “I’m going to kill you!”
Big George rose to his feet, breathing hard, and grabbed my arm, still holding his nuts with one hand.
“I like it when a woman fights,” he said, then licked the blood from the corner of my mouth. “As soon as I kill the boy, you can kiss ‘em better.”
I gagged then, but he just laughed.
“We’ll see who kills who, fucker!” Beck gritted out between clenched teeth.
“This is what’s going to happen,” Red said as George and his brother tied my hands behind my back. “You’re going to get on your bike and follow us. If you try to run, I’m going to give the girl to Big George.”
Big George groaned. “Please run, little Reaper.”
Beck stayed silent, his eyes filled with death, his gaze never leaving George.
“Do you understand?” Red growled, any trace of the earlier playfulness gone.
“I understand,” Beck growled, low.
“Someone wants another shot at you,” Red smirked. The playfulness returned to his voice. “This time we’ll make sure the results are different.”
This man was obviously insane.
The man who had hit me jerked me away from Big George and put me on his motorcycle in front of him.
He leaned close, “Don’t piss me off. I have no problem feeding you to the crazies.”
“I wanted to ride with her, Bubba.” Big George pouted.
“Too fucking bad. I don’t need you distracted right now.” Bubba told George.
He huffed but didn’t argue further. I, for one, was glad I wasn’t riding with George. I’d take an asshole over a rapist any day.
The men got on their bikes, Beck included.
We peeled out, and I noticed the guy I was riding with, Bubba, was sweating heavily. I could feel the heat coming off him, and every so often, he would shiver slightly, as if he had chills.
Shit. This wasn’t good.
I glanced to the side and saw Beck riding as close as possible, his eyes on the man behind me.
He’d noticed what I had.
Neither of us knew what the hell this was. But what I did know was that the first sign of change was flu-like symptoms.
So far, Beck and I seemed okay, but who knew how long that would last. I shook my head. No sense in worrying about that until we found a way to get the hell away from these men.
We rode until the road turned to dirt. The clubhouse squatted at the end of it—low, wide, and built of concrete. Fencing ringed the property, tall and thick, topped with wire that glinted dully in the fading light.
The Beast of Prey patch was painted across the front wall in black and rust-red, wings spread wide, talons outstretched.
They cut the engines, and the silence pressed in hard.
Beck dismounted and started toward me right as Red jerked his arms behind his back and secured them with two zip ties. “Ah, ah, ah, little Reaper. Not quite yet.”
The man I’d ridden with swayed as he grabbed me, his fingers digging in just a little too tightly. “Seems I’m not feeling too well. You'd better stay close.”
He leaned on me heavily as we walked toward the doors.
“I’m going to cut you into little pieces,” Beck mumbled in a voice that was filled with rage as he stared at my swelling face. “You’ll regret ever touching her.”
Red slapped Bubba on the back. “Maybe the Prez will let you fight him after Park takes his shot.”
Big George laughed, “Bubba don’t want none of that.”
“Fuck off,” Bubba squeezed my arm even tighter.
They steered us through heavy steel doors that groaned as they opened. The inside smelled like booze, sweat, and something sour underneath it all. The floor was stained dark in places, with God only knew what.
A few people looked up as we entered. Most were too busy drinking and partying to care.
One man leaned against the far wall, pale and glassy-eyed, knuckles split and bleeding where he’d punched something hard. His gaze slid to Beck and stuck there, lips parting in a gap-toothed smile.
“Well, look who just walked in,” he laughed. “Johnny’s little killer.”
I loved how they kept calling him little. Beck was barely shorter than Big George.
Low laughter echoed through the room.
A man stepped forward, clearly in charge.
He was older than the rest of them, the kind of age that didn’t soften but sharpened.
Gray threaded through his beard in uneven streaks, thick and kept short.
His face was cut from hard angles—scar tissue tugging one side of his mouth down just enough to give his face a permanent frown.
He wore a cut—a sleeveless leather biker jacket—broken in so thoroughly it moved like it was attached to his skin. The Beasts of Prey patch spread across the back, wings flared, talons bared. ‘President’ stitched in blocky letters above it.
“Hello, there, Beck. How’s your father?” His voice sounded almost hoarse.
“He’s going to be pissed when he finds out you brought me here as your prisoner. You know we have a treaty.” Beck stared him down, no fear in his face at all.
The old guy laughed, “Cut him loose, Red.”
Red hesitated.
“I said, cut him loose.” He growled in demand, all laughter gone from his face.
Red took a knife out of his pocket and did what he asked.
“Now, you’re not a prisoner. Just a cherished guest.” He patted Beck on the back. “Do you want a drink?”
Beck immediately grabbed me from Bubba and tilted my head back to look at my face.