I haven’t been to a lot of morgues. Hell, I even skipped my uncle Jethro’s funeral because I hate being around those types of things. But as we rolled up short of the old Gem County Morgue, I knew I’d found the place even before we saw the sign.

For some reason, they always tried to make the buildings look old. I guess it was to make people feel like their loved one’s memories, like the building was enduring, but looking at this place didn’t exactly send that message of hope and comfort. No, it was a real dump.

Parts of the walls were molded cement, intended to look like chiseled granite. But, unlike granite, concrete busts up, and there were clearly places where bricks had been replaced with cheaper materials. It was like someone poured concrete into a square form, then when it was mostly dry the slide a stick over the sides to make it look “chiseled.”

If that wasn’t bad enough, they’d tried to paint it all gray to make it match, but paint doesn’t stick to porous stone worth a damn, so it was peeling off in places showing a verity of colors and old graffiti.

Camden leaned between the front seats and peered out the windshield, “was someone using this as a meth house?”

“I don’t know, but if Tony Todd comes out of there in a fur-lined jacket, and bees following him you’ll find me at the Loco Java down the street when you get done playing,” Mogwai added in and then seeing out vacant expressions added, “You know, Candy Man?”

Camden chuffed, then stopped abruptly and raised his hand to point at a patch of graffiti in black that read, “Beware the goats! with an oversized stick figure goat with fangs looming above it.

“I’m more worried about the Chort. Look over there,” he motioned passed the graffiti to a small plaque, “RSMMC” it read in red letters over a green background.

“What the hell is that?” I mumbled.

“Red State Militia, Motorcycle Club. They got taken down a week ago by a rival gang. Looks to me like their club house got taken over by The Chort.”

Mogwai leaned out her window and raised the night vision goggles. While she made a slow surveillance of the place, I couldn’t help but to wonder what we’d walked into. Spooky old Morgue, killer demon wasp, Motorcycle Gang club house, and gods only knew what else.

“Just like we thought. We’ve got Chort,” Mogwai said, as if she read my mind.

Drawing The Judge, I checked the cylinder, and decided to load ball ammo inside of simple .410 buckshot. “How many? The whole gang or just a security detail?”

“I only see two making rounds outside, but I’ve seen at least five bikes, so we are talking ten, at a guess if some of them road on the bitch seat.” Mog chimed in with a little more mirth than warranted.

her smile soured as a low rumbled came from down the road. From our position beside the road, we could see a box van with no identifying marks as it went past, then turned into the morgue. Once parked, one more biker got out of the van and greeted the others with bro-hugs and a lot of shoulder slapping.

“What do we have here?” I asked, but even as I spoke one of them went around to the back of the truck and pulled open the double doors. The stacks of boxes couldn’t have been clearer.

“NiK-L-NiP!”

“Looks like we caught them in the middle of a drug deal,” I said with a frown.

“Why did we come at night again?” Cam asked with a little tremor in his voice.

Mogwai cheerfully pushed her door open, and scooted out of the driver’s seat, “it’s because predators hunt at night!”

“I don’t want to be around any predators, not sober ones, or Chort hopped up on Sweet Wax!” Camden said and stayed right where he was.

“No, stupid. We are the predators. Us,” she tossed up her hands in disgust. “You really aren’t looking at this right,” they continued to banter, but I was more focused on the tools of the trade.

The men continued to joke around, just as relaxed as a Sunday afternoon, while the truck was unloaded. “I think that’s actually just the wax molds. If it was a real drug deal, I don’t think security would be so lax.”

Mog leaned over the steering wheel and raised her optics for a better look. “That would explain why they are not breaking their backs moving the boxes. I bet my Gold Coast Blend that this is where they are manufacturing the Sweet Wax. Then they fill the wax candy bottles and use the bikers to distribute the crap.”

“Yeah buddy, that’s what I’m thinking too. You know, this could be just the cover we are looking for. I’m thinking we jump the bikers, take their delivery and sneak inside,” I grinned foolishly.

“They outnumber us!” Camden whined from the back seat.

For a monster from a warrior tribe, he sure could be cautious, or cowardly, as Mogwai would have put it.

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“There are two guards, the driver, and the co-driver. The co-driver is unloading, we take him out first, then get the other ones to split up and each take on one,” Mog said, with enough confidence and bravado for both.

I nodded as I thought, but Mogwai’s plan was as good as anything I could make up, “okay, we do it. But stealth is going to be the key to this working. If we make too much noise and more of them come out we are screwed!”

Now this is the part where you’d normally expect me to open the trunk, flip of a false bottom, and there would be all manner of weapons all carefully strapped down and organized. Maybe there would be some holy water, or wood stakes would be in there next to a silver crucifix blessed by priest.

Now, I’m not saying that wouldn’t be cool, because, Hell, yes it would be cool, but we were in Mog’s Jeep which was only better that Brenda, my truck, because it had room for a few weapons and passengers. But that space was limited and… let’s face it I don’t have a bunch of cool weapons. Just a few guns, and what Felix could hook us up with, like night vision and laser pointers.

Pulling out my old green army issued laundry bag, I dumped the stuff I had in the backseat next to Camden.

“What’s all this crap?” Camden said with a frown.

“I got a few additions to my normal arsenal.” I said as Camden picked my baseball bat.

With an appraising eye, he looked it up and down, then read off the embossed white words at the fat end. “Genuine-Louisville Slugger- Made in the U.S.A.”

“Yup, that right there is a classic. It’s a 34-inch Maple bat weighing in at the Dick’s Sporting Goods show room at 31 oz,” I shot him a sly wink.

“It’s hot pink.”

Shrugging, I hefted the bat and choked up a little for emphasis. “Cool, right? Let me tell you it got looks back when I played softball. I might have corked it with a bit of extra weight, so I figured it will do some damage if I need to clock someone.”

“No Softball, or Jeep jokes!” Mogwai said as she poked her head around my side.

Camden sighed a little, “That thing is little more than a kid’s toy used at little league games. You’d have to be gifted to do any real damage against a hyper-vigilant crack head, man goat.”

“Well, they never called me, you know, ‘Gifted’ but I scored at those games a few times,” I stepped back and extended the bat like I had in the old days.

“You’re not gifted! You’re a middle-aged bounty hunter whose has had no real exercise besides chasing criminals for the past four years!” Cam stated.

I kind of wanted to slap him for that whole, ‘middle aged,’ comment, but honestly, I wasn’t really sure was wrong about my current physical stamina. I mean who runs or pushes ups once they leave the military? I sure as hell didn’t, but I sure didn’t run around talking about it.

“Wait? How do you know all that?” I asked, feeling my upper lip tug up into a scowl.

A confused look came across Camden’s fuzzy face, and for a second, he just sat there looking between Mogwai and me like a Labrador, watching two people sharing a bowl of popcorn, but Mogwai was already tired of his yammering, and picked up the ditch torch.

“What’s this? Is it in case something tears off Camden’s leg?” Mogwai hobbled around for a second like she had a cane in her hand.

“It does kinda look like an old man’s cane, but no, that’s a ditch burner. It runs off a bottle of propane, but I just had the small gas stove bottle, so it won’t last long. Might be easier to handle than running around with the big old tank though,” I shrugged.

“I kicked up some paper wasps last summer and this puppy was pretty effective, so I figured,” I shrugged again, as Camden made a sound that sounded like he was coughing up a hairball.

“The flame on that only reaches out about eight inches. That’s not even close to long enough to do the job!” he said and crossed his arms.

Mogwai laughed and grabbed for the green propane cylinder, “Is that eight inches like on a ruler, or eight inches like, when you’re trying to impress a girl?”

“For Fuck’s sake you two! I guess it’s a good thing I have my guns, I just thought you might want something,” I said putting emphasis on the word something, because neither of them where touch my guns.

“DIBS on the Witch Burner!” Mogwai called, as she attempted to screw the gas cylinder onto the torch.

Camden looked at Mogwai, then at the bat, “oh no way! You can’t expect me to use a neon pink wood softball bat?”

“Mogwai did call dibs,” I said, taking on the tone of voice of a fair and completely reasonable and unbiased mediator. Camden, however, was still looking between Mogwai and the bat like at any minute someone would change their mind.

“Oh, come on! When we met, I was using a gas lance! It only make’s since for me to have the torch,” Camden whined.

“Look it here, my man, it’s a bat, and you’re the big bad sasquatch. I mean, sure it’s pink, but you’ve handled a few pink sticks in your life, I bet you could put a real hurting on someone with that thing. Heck, I bet you even have a skill level in it.”

Camden did a doubled take, not sure which part to be offended by then settled on avoiding the pink stick comment. “Why? Is it because my people are wild savages who fight with makeshift clubs?” he said, looking completely offended as he gripped the bat perfectly.

“Now, now, I am not saying that,” I said and thought about it a second. “I mean you do have experience in it, right?”

Camden deflated a little and nodded, “sure, blunt force weapons are kind of our thing,” he admitted then kicked at a rock absently, “I just wish I had time to put some barbed wire around it, or nails or something.”

“Next time you’ll come prepared now, won’t you?” I asked and shrugged out of my jacket so I could slip on my shoulder rig.

“Me?” Camden barked, but I ignored his incredulous look.

For a moment, I tried to untangle the darn thing. For some reason, the holster always seems to get twisted around so the straps lay wrong, but after a minute I got it slipped on and buckled across my ribs. I always felt like I was being harnessed into something when I put that thing on, and I always swore I’d get something that didn’t make me look like I was putting myself on display.

“It’s like Laura Croft meets Michelle Rodriguez,” Camden mumbled and looking up I realize both of them were staring at me.

“Bad ass bitch, incarnate,” Mog mumbled.

“Oh, get your eyes off my, er…biscuits, you dirty little perv!” I growled and turned away, but Mogwai was already cuffing Camden’s ear even though she wasn’t exactly a passive observer either.

“No wonder you have a -1 to melee, those things have to get in the way,” Camden said as he ducked away from Mogwai.

“Oh, hell, don’t be an ass!” I admonished Camden and put my field jacket back on.

“I bet back in your softball days not a lot of guys got past second base,” he continued then yelled, “Ow, Mogwai stop hitting me with the torch!”

“Stop being so, so...You!” Mogwai huffed and hit him again.

Once more I let them scuffle, but this time my eyes landed on the stone building, and a dread crept up my spine.

“Are we really going to do this?” I asked almost to myself.

Behind me a rock popped under someone’s foot, and turning I saw Mogwai torch in hand, and Camden with the pink bat held over his right shoulder. “Yeah, we have to,” Mog said with resolve.

“Okay, then,” I paused as I took in a deep breath of the cool night air, and scent damp rich earth, “We got this!”