Read Online Rednecks Who Shoot Zombies on the Next Geraldo by Marc Paoletti, Chris Lacher - Free Book Online Page A

broadly. “Yer new home, dipshit. Should I continue?”
    Tom stared at him.
    “I’ll take that as a yes. Strongholds like this one here were formerly used ta train special teams of commandos to seek and destroy deadheads. But then the politicians got hold of ‘em and they went belly up. Now they’re just full of rednecks and weekend warriors that the government hires ta run halfway houses for pieces of shit like you—end’a story.”
    “Up yours,” Tom said.
    The bus slid to a stop in front of the main gate. A guard appeared on the rampart overhead. He was tall and thin, wore a soiled red baseball cap and munched on a sandwich. He had an AR-15 slung over his shoulder. He turned and whistled at the men watching from the search towers. The gate cracked in two and ground slowly inward. The bus jostled into the complex.
    The prison, formidable from the front, looked much less so from the inside. The present wall, once tall and majestic, had gaping holes where the concrete blocks had succumbed to age and neglect. The gaps had been patched haphazardly with the rusted chassis of cars and old pickup trucks bound together with mounds of rusted concertina wire. Scattered piles of stony debris lay overgrown with black moss. The yard surrounding the administration building was home to a bone yard of antiquated armored vehicles. Broken down hulks of tanks, half-tracks and armored cars sat scattered about like rotting teeth, their olive drab coloring and U.S. Army insignias long since faded. Three mechanics dressed in soiled gray jumpsuits with one of the hulks. Automatic weapons lay against their toolboxes.
    The bus driver parked in front of the administration building. Still using the intercom, he said, “Okay—jus’ head on in that building there and follow the arrows on the floor and they’ll check you in, good and proper.”
    Tom got up. He walked the length of the bus, flipped off the driver, and stepped outside. He felt his feet sink to the shins in the black mud.
    One of the mechanics, cheek straining from a wad of chew, spat brown syrup in Tom’s direction.  
    “Hey, tough guy,” he chuckled derisively for his friends, “you’re in for a real show, bud.”
    Tom ignored him and continued inside. He followed a clique of faded yellow arrows, which led to an office.  
    Someone was reclining in a chair behind a metal desk, but Tom wasn’t sure if it was male or female. A nameplate read MUSS. Thick-rimmed glasses were perched on a boxer’s nose, a cigar stub was wedged between wet, ruby lips. Short, dark hair covered a round head that was set flush to a pair of hunched shoulders. The breasts could have been the result of encroaching obesity. Tiny, black eyes were pressed into a round, puffy face. Doughy hands clutched a clipboard. Muss didn’t look up.
    “Aggravated assault, armed robbery, grand theft auto. Hell, boy, if you had nigger-lynchin’ here this would be the perfect resume.” Muss laughed robustly.  
    Tom stayed quiet.
    Muss shifted in the chair, tried a different approach. “Yer pappy ran this place for three years, did you know that, boy? Yeah—you’re startin’ to see the connection here, now, huh? When the army decided to bail outta places like this, when they realized they were losin’ too much money, yer pappy promised he’d retire his commission and stay on here with us. That would’ve been the most selfless thing a commander could do for his men. But the truth was,” Muss snorted, “he was planning on leaving us behind—jus’ takin’ all the money we had left and leavin’ for greener pastures, the fucknut.”
    Muss stood up, came around the front of the desk and said, “Yer pappy was one hell of a soldier—and a hell of a thief. He cleaned us out. So I guess shit don’t fall far from a dog’s ass, now does it, Junior?”
    “My dad was an asshole. So are you. Least he wasn’t stupid, too—“
    Muss punched Tom in the stomach. Tom doubled over.
    “No need to be rude, Junior.