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itself loose so I could make out where I was. It was one of the many fishing camps that dotted the area. Each one looked alike, so there was no real way to pinpoint my exact location. Fishing camp was putting it lightly though.   These things were huge and palatial with more amenities than you would have at home, the wealthy southern Louisianian’s alternative to a beach house.   I barely glimpsed it, but from what I could tell we hadn’t even left Chef Menteur, which led directly into New Orleans East.   If I could get away, I could easily make it back to the compound.

    He threw me without ceremony into the backseat of a large Cadillac and licked his chapped lips as he looked down at me. The bag had fallen off my head completely and my dress had ridden up when he dumped me on the seat. Without the use of my hands, I was forced to try and wriggle on my side to get it back in place, but it was a useless task.  

    I tried to ignore him. He was just looking.   There was no harm in looking. I could ignore this. I could do this.  

    I glanced over his shoulder to see another man coming down the stairs with Clara draped unceremoniously over his shoulder.   She was dressed in a similar too small and too tight dress. There was a huge bandage wrapped around her thigh and a bright red stain pooled on the white cloth. She was still bleeding, good.  

    The man pushed her a little more gently into the car than the other idiot had with me. I had to scoot quickly out of the way so she wouldn’t sprawl on top of me. I tried to convey all the hate I could muster in my glare as I locked gazes with Ugly Number Two as he peered in the backseat taking in my state of undress. All he did was chuckle, entertained by my defiance.  

    “Now, you girls better get along back there, ain’t no time for another cat fight,” Ugly Number One said. The old hag had called him Clem, but Ugly One was more fitting. He leaned into the car and smiled his broken smile at me, his yellow teeth dripping with what I assumed was chew. Could he be more of a stereotype?

    “You gotta let me go,” Clara whined. “Bring me to the compound. I’ll show you where it is. They’ll pay you for us; they have plenty of food.”

    I kicked out and hit her bad leg making her cry out in pain and begin to sob.   The fucking bitch hadn’t learned her lesson. She was ready to sell out the entire group just to save her sorry ass.

    “You think they’re gonna pay to get your ass back? Maybe just so they can kill you. Keep your fucking mouth shut. You even hint at bringing them to the compound and I’ll kill you before we get there,” I hissed. Clara whimpered and glanced in my direction.   Her eyes were huge and panicked. I almost felt sorry for her, a lmost .

    “She already done told us where ya little compound is, slut. When we get rid of you two, we’ll deal with your men. Bet my words, ya hear?” Ugly Number Two threatened.

    I fell silent, not because I thought these two half-wits and their genius of a mother could take the compound, but I knew they would cause trouble. Fucking Clara, I might just kill her anyway. If I wasn’t headed for the same fate I would almost be gleeful that she was about to get sold as a living, breathing sex toy.

Eleven | Pants on the Ground
    ZACH
    I slept for maybe four hours before I was staring at the top of the bunk, a million scenarios going through my head. I needed a plan, I needed action. I needed to be out there looking for Alexis.  

    With about three hours of night left, I got up and went to my office and began to pace. I was going to wear myself ragged if I didn’t settle down. I had a large office, enough for a desk and a sofa, some bookshelves, and my gun safe. Before Z, I had collected guns and I kept my most prized possessions in this safe. I hadn’t touched it since the shit hit. None of the firearms were practical, an old Belgian Derringer, a vintage Claywood, impractical shit that I thought was important a