Thelma & the RMBC find their Haven

Thelma revved her Harley's engine, the sound echoing through the empty highway. The gang had been riding hard for hours, and the roar of their bikes was their only distraction from the horror that had engulfed the world. A week into the outbreak, Nightfall was overrun by the undead, forcing them to leave or join the infected.

Drake Skelly pulled up beside Thelma, his bike rumbling to a stop. "Where to now, boss?" he asked, his voice gruff, eyes scanning the horizon.

"We need a place to hole up," Thelma said as she bit into the end of her cigar. "Somewhere secure. Can't keep moving forever. I'm too goddamn old for this."

Thelma was small in stature, but her presence was not. At forty-five, she was the undisputed leader of the Red Mamba Biker Club, her cherry blond hair and sharp-angled nose giving her the look of a hawk. She pulled her bandana down, exposing the tattoo of a red snake coiled around her left arm; the inked fangs bared in a perpetual snarl.

"A truck stop's up ahead," Knuckles said, pointing down the road with a massive hand adorned with spiked brass knuckles. "Might be some supplies there."

Thelma nodded, kicking her bike into gear. "Let's check it out."

They rode in formation, the rumble of their engines the only sound in the otherwise dead landscape. As they approached the truck stop, Thelma saw a cluster of zombies milling about, their decayed forms stumbling aimlessly. She signaled for the gang to slow down and dismount.

Drake reached for his shotgun, but Thelma stopped him with a sharp look. "No guns. We do this by hand."

"But—"

"No arguments," Thelma said, cutting him off. "We don't know how many more of these things are out there. Save your ammo for when it really counts."

Drake grumbled but complied, slinging the shotgun back over his shoulder. The rest of the gang followed suit, drawing an assortment of melee weapons. Knuckles cracked his namesake brass knuckles, and a grin spread across his tattooed face. Tammy, a wiry woman with a tear tattoo under her eye, hefted a baseball bat studded with nails. Brick, a bald man with a long red beard giving him the appearance of a pirate, gripped a fire axe in his hands.

Thelma drew her own weapon, a curved machete she had picked up during a raid on a sporting goods store. The blade was worn but sharp and felt relatively lightweight in her hand.

"Spread out," Thelma shouted. "Take them down, and make sure they stay down."

The gang fanned out, moving through the parking lot like a seasoned unit. The first zombie lurched toward Tammy, its rotting arms outstretched. She swung the bat with a grunt, the nails embedding themselves in the creature's skull with a sickening crunch. The zombie crumpled to the ground, twitching as its life drained from its body.

Knuckles took on two at once, and his fists blurred as he delivered bone-shattering blows to their heads. Each strike landed with a wet thud, and the zombies fell like ragdolls, their skulls caved in by the force of his punches.

Thelma stayed towards the back of the group, hobbling slightly. Her left leg was wrapped in an ace bandage, which she hid beneath her jeans. She didn't want the others to know about her injuries. Like in the animal kingdom, the pack picked out any signs of weakness.

As the first zombie came at her, Thelma's machete cleaved through rotted flesh and bone. She sliced through the neck of the zombie, its head rolling away like a grotesque ball. Another came at her from the side, and she ducked under its clumsy swipe and drove the blade up into its jaw and through its skull.

Drake joined her, wielding a crowbar with brutal efficiency. He hooked the end of the bar around a zombie's neck, yanking it off balance before bringing the metal down on its head with a crack. Thelma gave him a quick nod of approval and cleaned her blade on the shirt of one of the dead infected.

Within minutes, the truck stop was littered with the corpses of the undead, their blood seeping into the cracked pavement. Thelma stepped back towards her Harley and scanned the area for any signs of movement.

"Clear," she shouted, and the rest of the gang echoed her report.

Drake wiped the sweat from his brow, his chest heaving. "This place isn't going to last us long," he said, plucking a few hairs off the end of his crowbar. "We need somewhere better. Somewhere we can fortify."

Thelma nodded in agreement. "Let's scavenge what we can and move on. Keep your eyes peeled for anything useful."

They spent the next hour combing through the truck stop, turning over shelves and breaking into locked cabinets. They found some canned food, a few bottles of water, and a half-empty box of medical supplies—nothing that would last them more than a few days. Thelma grimaced, the pit in her stomach growing.

"This isn't enough," she muttered to herself.

They returned to their bikes, strapping their meager haul to the back of their saddlebags. The sun was starting to dip lower in the sky, and night brought a whole slew of trouble. Thelma knew she was in charge of this group and had to keep them safe. She had to find a place for her gang, a place where they could ride out this nightmare.

As they continued down the road, a few hours passed uneventfully. Thelma's mind raced the whole time, considering and discarding potential locations. But it wasn't until they rounded a bend that she saw a towering Ferris wheel jutting into the sky, the rusty metal gleaming in the fading light.

"Funride Amusement Park," Tammy read aloud from a sign by the road. "Looks abandoned."

Thelma pulled over, and the rest of the gang followed. They stared at the park, its gates wide open, and the once cheerful colors faded and peeled. The rides loomed ahead, their mechanical parts creaking in the wind.

"This could work," Drake said, his voice thoughtful. "Plenty of space, and we can fortify the gates. It's isolated, too."

Thelma narrowed her eyes, scanning the area. "Could be more of those things inside," she said. "But it's worth checking out."

She dismounted her bike and approached the gate, her machete ready. The rest of the gang followed with their weapons drawn. They stepped through the entrance, their boots crunching on the gravel path.

The park was surreal—a twisted parody of joy and laughter. The Tilt-A-Whirl had collapsed, its metal frame jutting out at odd angles. A thick smear of dried blood stained the ground in front of a Balloon-and-Dart game. Concession stands were either ripped apart or boarded up. Some had graffiti scrawled over them, and several tags read Silverthorne Militia. The roller coaster tracks twisted through the park like a giant serpent, disappearing into the distance.

Thelma turned to address her biker gang. "We clear this place out, and it's ours."

The gang exchanged glances. She could see them smiling, but something was hidden behind her eyes. Maybe it was fear, but none of them would show it. They knew the risks but also the reward—a safe haven in a world gone mad.

"Let's do it," Knuckles said, cracking his knuckles for emphasis.

They spread out, moving through the park like they already owned it. Thelma took the lead, her senses on high alert. Every creak of metal, every rustle of leaves set her nerves on edge. They had to be thorough and ensure no infected were left to threaten their new home.

As they moved deeper into the park, Thelma felt a strange sense of unease. The place was too quiet, too still. But she pushed the thought aside, focusing on the task at hand. They needed this place and would take it—no matter the cost.

Hours later, as the last undead fell, Thelma stood at the gates, looking out over the now-silent amusement park. Her gang had done it. They had claimed the park, their new fortress in a world overrun by the dead.