Snake joined the party late, but parties were a customary requirement after such an enormous victory. The staunch employees of Overdog Enterprises deserved to drink and be merry after risking their lives. So, Chef had set aside a great deal of his product for the men of the outpost. Some cocaine and moonshine was all it took for the highwaymen to get wild and red-eyed and loud.
Car radios played old dance music from before the war, the kind with lyrics about sex and booze and any number of inappropriate things that suddenly became much less taboo when society fell apart. The smell of alcohol and sweat and smoke hung in the air, within the wood and steel walls of the outpost.
It was a raucous, medieval affair, far less civilized than the feat Snake had enjoyed a night earlier. Highwaymen chased their bed slaves around, playfully or menacingly, as they gave up control of their senses to thin white powders and moonshine that tasted like piss.
Dancing became fucking the more intoxicated the gang members became, and there was ultimately very little difference between the two. A few fights broke out, as they often do, over who had the right to which beautiful woman. But someone always fell drunk into the dust before anyone could draw a gun.
Even as they partied, smoke curled from the ruined cars outside their walls. Bodies rotted under the veiled moonlight. But the dead were disregarded as the victors howled at the moon, feral with joy and sedated by the toxic allure of booze.
Looking out at his highwaymen, his gang of glorious soldiers, Snake couldn't help be reminded of the old days when nuclear war was fresh in his psyche. The world was just as chaotic then as it seemed in that outpost. Anarchy. Freedom. A world where men like him could be what they were truly meant to be.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," Snake said, standing atop the hood of his bullet-ridden truck. He felt so powerful, like a king on his throne before the courtier who served so diligently. He spotted his son somewhere in the back of the crowd, holding a bottle of shine. His son, who did battle with mercenaries. His son, who killed an enemy of the gang. "I cannot thank you enough for the pain you inflicted on our enemies. And I am pleased to let you know that you will be inflicting far more. The mercs were sent by the so-called free city of Heritage. In a few days, the order will come down and we will be riding west. So, drink and fuck and be the natural men you were always meant to be."
With those words, the Overdogs howled like a pack of rabid hounds who just found a dumpster full of fresh meat. The promise of war was the promise of loot and women and the cathartic violence that ruled their lives. It was everything they wished for from their warlord, and everything they needed.
Snake didn't stay to enjoy the alcohol and Chef's special. He returned to Martha, who was still chained away in the garage and in desperate need of a helping hand.
Warcry did not spend his time in such carnal joy. He didn't snort anything Chef offered him, he didn't take the time to fuck a slave girl. He barely even drank, and frankly was tired enough to fall asleep. But Needle was there, so they slipped off to be alone just over the hill rather than listen to dated pop tunes and watch drunk highwaymen vomit on their naked slaves.
The hill was small and round, not like the steep one from which he had sniped the deserted worker. They slipped around the side, down a beaten path and between some skeletal trees. Nobody even noticed their disappearance through that thick haze of shine and smoke and noise. They could still hear the music and cheering and fighting and fucking from the outpost, but it was a distant white noise.
"Why are we here, sir?" Needle asked in a moment of insubordination. The attitude he'd given those injured highwaymen had put him in a mood where he believed he could speak as he pleased to his superiors.
But Warcry didn't mind. "Because I said so." He lied down in the dust and rested his head on his hands. It had been a long day and he wanted to close his eyes for a bit. The poor slave didn't get such a privilege. "Rub my shoulders, boy."
Needle silently obeyed and started pressing his tired fingers into his master's back. He had no earthly idea what he was doing or if this was the proper way to give a massage. The Crazies had not taught him the ways of the masseuse. It seemed like the kind of thing that they might teach a pleasure slave, but not a physician.
If Warcry's gentle, drunken moans were any indication, he was doing a good job. Between the burning shine and the soothing hands on his shoulders. The world spun, so slowly, so gently, as the shine seeped into the grey matter of his brain.
"I mentioned a reward before," Warcry said, his words slurring a bit.
"Yes, you did, sir," Needle said, kneading into his shoulders. His chains rattled as he words, a constant reminder that he was not free, like the weight around his neck.
