The thick stench of shit and piss assaults my nose as we creep closer.
Rock pulls his T-shirt up over his nose and motions for me to keep moving.
“This smells like their outhouse,” I grumble.
“Yeah.” He glances around. “Watch where you step.”
“Fucking great.”
Behind me, Murphy gags. “Give me diaper duty over this, any day.”
Rock chuckles, then coughs.
The smell intensifies. My eyes water and beg for mercy.
The door has a board screwed to it to keep it closed. Rock and I flank each side. I reach out and flip the board up. The door screeches open. Heat and stench roll over us in waves.
“Stay there.” Careful not to touch the door, Rock steps over the rusted metal pieces that probably used to be a short staircase and lifts himself into the RV. “Carter?”
Yellow glow from Rock’s flashlight briefly sweeps the interior, revealing the stuff of nightmares.
Murphy slaps my shoulder. “This makes that shitty poor kid camp we went to that one summer seem like a four-star resort.”
I snort at the vague memory. “Yeah, you pissed in the lake every day ’cause you were scared of the latrines.”
“Fuckin’ A, I was. Those asshole counselors kept telling us stories about the toilet monster eating a fat ginger camper every summer.” He shakes his head. “I wasn’t risking it.”
A louder snort of laughter bursts out of me.
Rock jumps out of the RV and slams the door shut. The board falls into place with a quiet thump. “Fuck, that’s disgusting. No one’s in there.”
“Puts ‘filthy biker’ into a whole new perspective,” Murphy says.
“Got that.” Rock sweeps his hand in front of us. “Let’s move to the next one.”
A tall metal container stands in front of us. About the size of a short school bus. It doesn’t have any windows. Just a door with a secure latch at one end.
“Looks like a fuckin’ death trap,” Murphy grumbles. He quietly twists the handle and the door falls open with a rusty sigh. We stand to the sides of the door. When no bullets come flying, Murphy pokes his head inside and shines his flashlight. The light briefly illuminates what looks like a cozy living room. Cozy for a shipping container.
“It’s all one room.” Murphy steps inside. “There’s a bed all the way in the back.”
“Carter?” I call out.
Nothing.
Murphy creeps to the other end and drops to his knees, shining his light under the bed. “Not even a dust bunny.”
“Must be the president’s palace,” Rock mutters, staring at the side of the container. He steps around the corner and I follow. A crudely painted version of the flaming devil the Sons of Satan MC members wear in their center patch fills up the entire space. Orange, red, and black letters spell out S.O.S.
“At least we’re in the right spot,” I say.
Rock shrugs.
Across the field, I make out three shadowy figures checking out a similar shipping crate. “Doesn’t look like Z’s having better luck.”
“No.” Rock’s gaze searches the field. “Let’s hurry. Who knows how long Merlin can keep them.”
Under the cover of the building, I pull out my phone and check for any texts from Merlin. Nothing.