Free Live (NOLA Zombie Book 3) by Gillian Zane Page B

us. Most of them were older, in their forties and fifties and on the heavy side, but not obese. They were all eyeing us like we were the main course.

    My eyes fell on one that was much younger than the rest of the group and was the spitting image of Senior. They were both about six feet tall and had strong features. Senior’s face was covered in a beard, but the younger man was clean-shaven and his hair was dark black, to Senior’s salt and pepper. He wore the Vice-President patch and I could only assume this was the leader’s son and the next in line for the dictatorship. He was eyeing me like I was a new toy he wanted to play with.  

    “Hey, house bitch,” Senior yelled to the girl that had been milling about the men, “Take the scared blonde to the women’s quarters and give her a bunk. Let her know the rules. I’m taking this one for a test drive.” He strode forward and grabbed my arm, pulling me forward.  

    I had thought I might get a little more time. Maybe they would inspect my teeth or something, not jump right into it.  

    Ok. Shit. I couldn’t do this. My legs buckled and he dragged me forward, not caring as I almost fell.

    The men around the table laughed and jeered as their president stepped to the counter with me in tow. He bent down and snorted what I assumed was coke or meth. I had never been into experimentation, so I had little experience with drugs or even drug users. Both my parents were chronic pot smokers, but pot was a far cry from any sort of synthesized narcotic. This was insane.

    He threw his head back and sucked air hard through his nose, rubbing at his face with the hand that wasn’t gripping my arm. Maybe he would drop dead right here? The other men around the counter did the same, leaning over, snorting the drug–as if the leader had to go first and then everyone else could go. They all looked up, eyes now glazed over and high, all but the VP, who stood there smirking at his father. His were the only eyes that weren’t glassy from drug use. His were the only eyes that were watchful and aware.  

    “Get in the room, bitch, I’ll be there shortly.” He pushed me forward, up a few steps and into the office. I did as I was told and went into the little room. It was a mess. There was a double bed pushed in the corner and clothes were strewn all over the place. There were half-empty bottles of bourbon on every available counter space and ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts. There was nowhere to sit but the bed and I didn’t want to touch the sheets. I did notice that there was a door against the back wall and wondered what lay behind that.  

    I didn’t have time to contemplate the door, or work up the nerve to explore. Too soon he was pushing through the door of the office and yanking at the make-shift curtains, plunging the room into darkness. He cursed under his breath and I heard the clattering of something and then a lantern flicked on.  

    “Get undressed. I want to see what I paid five cases of MREs for.” I froze. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to make a break for it, but I knew the other men would be on me before I could make it down the stairs. I also knew I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t submit to this man.  

    “Take your fucking dress off, bitch,” he hollered and moved toward me, his hand raised. He went for the hair, these douchebags loved to yank me around by my hair, the only vanity I had left in this fucked up world. I had let it grow, my long dark locks something I had always been proud of. I was shaving it if I ever got out of this shit.

    He didn’t let me undress on my own. I heard the flick of a switchblade, that unmistakable clicking pop that announced the releasing of the blade. Then he was slicing through the too tight dress. The dress that I had thought covered so little, I now realized covered so much.  

    I was butt-ass naked beneath the dress. The old skank hadn’t even given me a bra. He yanked harder on my hair and I