Chapter 61

Bandits

June 10th, 2026

Inside of an open-aired abandoned warehouse, Mark Kelly Jr. sat on his makeshift ‘throne’—a sofa chair, that had been placed on a dais of dirt and bricks. Mark was constantly scanning his surroundings. Luckily the structure he was in provided some measure of protection from the elements and the unsavory men. He had men posted at intervals patrolling the building. They snaked around the steel beams that supported the metal structure, steadily observing the hundreds of thugs milling around outside.

Only those who were members of his ‘personal’ gang were allowed to be anywhere near him. That was the simple reality. All around were enemies. It was the nature of being part of a group of escaped convicts. Mark paid particularly close attention to those who spoke honeyed words, attempting to get close to him. They thought they had fooled him, but he noticed their looks of contempt when he wasn't looking their way.

It was a constant struggle to keep everyone in line, and Mark knew that everyone hadn’t stayed because of a sense of goodwill. Some weren't satisfied with being followers or members of a powerful gang. No, they entertained pretentious desires. They wanted Mark dead. But Mark wasn’t going to die. He was intent on it. He was no longer a gang leader. No, Mark was a Warlord now.

When society collapsed, breaking out of the penitentiary had been a simple matter. Even though some groups decided to head out alone, most had remained together. However, nothing was straightforward. The prison had held nearly two-hundred and fifty prisoners. With only a few dozen men leaving, the remaining two-hundred had stayed behind, deciding to take their chances under Mark’s gang of thieves, murderers, and misfits. For now, Mark's authority was absolute. His gang, the "Crimson Mob", was known for its brutality. The intelligent listened, while the ambitious plotted.

In this post-apocalyptic society, resources and authority were ripe for the taking. Only the first movers would be able to consolidate their power in this lawless wastes. That’s exactly what Mark had been doing over the past several weeks—consolidating.

During that time, dozens more had joined his growing tribe of brutes, and as they raided, they had begun capturing and enslaving dozens more. Why do menial tasks yourself, when you could have slaves—or thralls—do it all for you? It helped keep his followers in line at least. Without law and order, the world was ripe for conquest, and he had free reign over the entire area.

At least, he did. Until his men had noticed the military elements showing up in the region.

It had put everyone on edge. Which was dangerous. Discomfort bred discontent. With Mark's position, it would have been easy for them to blame him for their problems. It provided a sense of precariousness to his authority, his power. Yet, it also presented an opportunity.

He had to show them that he was untouchable, that he was stronger than the remnants of the nation that had locked them away.

So he took out a few small military convoys. With the power of this so-called "system", it had been remarkably easy to ambush them and catch them off-guard. He lost a few men, but what he had received in turn was entirely worth it.

With the sudden acquisition of military goods, Mark's gang was growing stronger than he had possibly imagined. There was simply no comparison between military-grade weapons and the firearms he had found during his first trivial raids. Yet, Mark was growing paranoid.

They had captured one of the soldiers during one of their raids. As it turned out, even a hardened military veteran would spew information like a faucet if tortured long enough. Mark wasn't happy with what he heard.

Apparently, the convoys he had raided weren't there by chance. The military was moving into the region in full force, and it was only a matter of time before Mark's gang and the army clashed. But, if he ran, Mark knew that he would no longer be able to hold his "tribe" together. He wasn't about to relinquish his power that easily, and especially not without a fight.

To Mark's great pleasure though, just this morning a man had stumbled upon his camp, claiming he had valuable info that may just solve Mark's most immediate problems. And all he asked for was to join his gang.

In front of him, the malnourished man begged. His head to the ground. His mismatched, tattered suit providing evidence of the hardships the man had recently faced. His hair was matted, and he reeked of garbage. Mark had half a mind to just throw the man on a stake and be done with it. He had recently discovered the wonders a public display of brutality did in keeping people in line.

But one thing stopped him. At least, for now.

“They’re in Shrewsbury, near the cemetery! They have supplies!” the man groveled, clearly desperate to get on Mark's good side. Mark somewhat sympathized. Had Mark been in his position—wandering the desolate landscape surrounding Worcester for nearly two weeks—then perhaps he'd have done the same. But, he wasn't. So he could care less.

“You’d sell out the very people who saved your life?” Mark menacingly smirked, as he pulled his lips back and displayed his canine teeth.

“I owe them nothing," he replied.

“And you’re sure that’s where the military is?” Mark asked once again, as he leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.

The man nodded vehemently, “There’s no doubt.”

"Splendid. But, be warned, if you're lying, I'm sure you can imagine the consequences," Mark laughed as he drew the man's attention to the ten-foot wooden stakes posted just outside the warehouse. Both of which currently held host to Mark's two most recent victims—teenage delinquents who thought they could steal from Mark's food supply.

The mere sight of their entrails drooping along the exterior of the massive wooden stakes caused the man in front of him to gag.

Mark enjoyed his discomfort. It was amazing what a desperate man would do. This particular lowlife irritated him though. He had no loyalty, and gave no thought for betraying his benefactors. Even among Mark’s own community of thieves and murderers, there was a sense of honor. What it meant to be a man.

This groveling dog? He possessed none of it. If he honored his request to be allowed inside of the camp, there was no doubt he would eventually turn on Mark and his group. Without honor, without any sense of loyalty, he would be better off dead rather than alive.

And for a former lawyer, he was useless in this world's new reality anyways. Mark had no use for the obsolete laws of a shattered nation.

However, he would still entertain the man for the time being. Once he lived out his usefulness though, he’ll be killed.

A smile slowly emerged upon Mark’s face. To the man in front of him, it may have seemed benign, but to those who knew Mark, the smile was anything but. His lips curled, and his canines showed. Images of crippling the military and sending them packing like dogs, of cementing himself as the regional warlord overtook his mind. Oh, his smile was one of a more sinister nature.

"What's your name?" Mark asked with a somewhat pleasant grin.

The disheveled lawyer, with a slow smile, let out a long-held breath, "Liam, sir."

“Lead us, Liam,” Mark told the man.

With that, a rush of preparations were made, and a good-sized scouting party was organized, spearheaded by none other than the traitorous lawyer. Mark looked smirked as he watched the convoy of "requisitioned" military humvees and trucks move out.

Thomas would soon learn the cost of providing mercy.