Chapter 4- Troy
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The high-pitched beeping was what woke him. He attempted to move his head, but searing pain on his left temple was all he felt. Troy wanted to scream profanities, but it felt as if his rage was chained down, unable to explode, not yet.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The damned beeping persisted. As the simultaneously monotone but somehow also high-pitched beeping assaulted his ears, the memories flooded back to him.
The dam, the Proctors, the hammer and that fucking bitch Madison. His rage grew. He remembered the Indians and how they ruined everything. He needed revenge, he needed blood.
In Troy's youth, his father saw the darkness inside of him, and while he knew it was something to fear and loathe, he also knew it had to be satiated. Every now and again Jeremiah would bring home a small animal from the city, sometimes a rabbit, sometimes a fish, sometimes some stray mongrel.
They all met the same fate. Sometimes Troy would make their deaths' slow, scientific almost. Examining what would happen if he broke a bone here or made an incision there. Sometimes they would be fast, one quick slit to the throat. At the end of the day they died, they would have died anyways, so why should Troy not be the one to carry out the act?
Jake said that Rabbits screamed like humans, but Troy disagreed. The screams were too high pitched, too animalistic, much more than any humans' scream had been.
Troy opened his eyes finally, the world spun around him. He was thirsty, hungry, in pain. It felt as if he had woken up from an especially terrible nap. He attempted to speak but all that exited was a groan.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
"F-fucking.."
He tried to move his arm, but it refused to budge. He slowly and painfully moved his head to look at his wrists. Through the pounding blur he found them tied to the hospital bed with a leather strap, much like that of a belt.
His head wrung and a high pitched ringing, like that of a tinnitus patient, bugged him. Through the ringing a man's voice emerged, "Sorry about the restraints, we just can't take any risks in case you turned. Already lost one doctor to that… and I'm not about to be the next." The gruff voice was that of an American, a calming thought that guaranteed he'd be safer than he would be if he was left to the Mexicans.
"What t-the fuck happened. Where am I?"
"A miracle happened, Troy." The man came into view above Troy, he had dirty blonde hair and he seemed to be in his mid 40s. He had a mustache which gave him the aura of someone who was slimy, someone who would say or do anything to live another day. He opened a bottle of pills, taking two and holding them in his hand.
"Open your mouth. It's Ibuprofen, for your head because I know that must hurt like hell."
The pills slid down his throat as they were washed down with a sip of water. Eddie backed out from Troy's limited point of view and returned with a small handheld mirror.
"I figure I'll prepare you now, I did the best with what I had. You were pretty fucked up when I found you, so just know I worked a miracle in keeping you alive."
The straps were undone from Troy's right wrist as the mirror was handed to him, he slowly moved his wrist. Noticing the red marks that had been left from how tight the leather was strapped down. They were slightly sore, but in comparison to his temple, it felt like nothing.
Bandages were wrapped completely around the left side of Troy's head, they were tight, so tight. His appearance was that he looked like utter hell had been unleashed upon him.
Dark circles surrounded his eyes, even with the prolonged sleep he must have had. His eyes were bloodshot as well, with his left eye still being partially swollen shut. Blood stained the bandages, mostly centered around where his ear would have been, had it not been covered.
As Troy looked at himself, pondering what cruel god would have kept him alive, he heard the click of a walkie-talkie and Eddie speak, almost in a hushed voice. "John, your little pet project is awake. I figure you should be the one to sell him on the club, given you're the orator here."
Pet project? Who does he think I am? I'm not a goddamn guinea pig.
As the doctor returned, he took the mirror back from Troy. The hospital bed began to lift, which shocked Troy. They had electricity here evident by the heart monitors as well, which was something which Troy had accepted would be an extreme luxury at best.
The makeshift surgery room was small, it had all the essentials. A bed, an IV drip, shelves full of various pills and medical supplies, surgical tools with blood still caked on them laid on a paper towel on one of the counters. A now most likely defunct sink sat there as well, dry as a bone.
"Name's Eddie by the way, figured I might as well introduce myself after I put your brain back together."
"Troy Otto." He replied distantly, more focused on what was going to happen to him when John spoke with him.
As Eddie performed basic medical procedures, such as checking his heart rate, his breathing, his temperature, and changing Troy's bandages, the door opened with a creak at it's hinges.
Two men walked in, one with a cane and one, a bodyguard, with an M-16 assault rifle gripped in his burly arms. The man with the cane had long hair with a goatee and mustache. He had a long face, a disconcerting smile on his mouth was one of the striking features Troy noticed. But the most striking feature that Troy noticed were the jackets the men wore. Biker jackets. The same ones the Proctors had worn at El Bazar, this was further reinforced by a patch on the left breast that red "Proctors… California", with their logo, an aztec-styled skull with two wings, in between the words. On the right breast the word "President" in red lettering struck him.
"Troy Otto," He began, "The great threat that Madison warned me about. The one who hurt her so deeply she was just forced to take matters into her own hands." He paused, walking around, examining the carvings on his cane. The cane was made of polished wood, it had been hand carved with depictions of various skulls, angels, devils, and all sorts of things in between. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend, have you heard that saying before Troy?"
Troy nodded, Troy had only been truly scared only a few times in his life, the most recent and well remembered one was when Nick delved the pair into a horde of walkers in his adrenaline induced state, but John scared him. Not in the way his father or mother had in their screaming matches, and not in the way that Nick had. The fear John inspired was that of a leader, a fear of stepping out of line, a fear of straying from his path. Troy could see how he had become the president of the M.C. His aura was that of a father, always being stronger even when you knew he was not.
"And if that statement is true, I must say we will be good friends. If a man, or a woman, or a group," John put emphasis on his mention of a group, firing up Troy's anger at the Indians, "came into your home, your empire, your Garden of Eden, and attacked it. It's just human nature to fight back. Would you not agree?"
The man was very well spoken. He carried around a sense of confidence, as if he knew everything he was saying was striking a cord with Troy, and clicking in his brain.
"So what are you saying?" Troy questioned, wanting to get to the point of his speech.
"I'm offering you the chance to get back at the woman who attacked you and left you for dead. Through some miracle of our creator, you survived. The way I see it, it's obvious what the cause of your survival was, looking at it through a religious lens at least."
"You want me to hunt down Madison Clark and her family don't you?" Troy asked. Many thoughts ran through his brain as he was given this offer. Maybe John was right, if he managed to stay alive in the face of death itself, maybe his goal was to strike back. Jake would argue that he was just perpetuating the cycle of violence, but Troy had always laughed when his brother would try to speak to him about such a topic. Everything in history was born out of violence, so Troy was just embracing his natural instincts. Troy never saw the reason to fight those instincts, he must have felt them for a reason.
"I don't want you to hunt them down Troy. I want you to join us, join our club, our brotherhood. I want you to assist us in this war."
"They escaped the dam?" Troy interrogated, his last memories had been before the loud blast he had heard when he finally slipped under. He had no idea of what had occurred from then until now.
For a second, John looked angry. "They won the battle, not the war. We found no bodies. We found the bodies of the so-called 'Water Queen' and her servants, but no Americans. It has to be assumed they're out there. Plotting to kill us, to ruin what we're building."
John held his hand out as a peace offering, it was a more aged hand, scars of past fights or injuries covered his hands, almost like a constant reminder.
Troy debated shaking the man's hand. This was a commitment, even Troy knew it. From what media he had consumed growing up on the farm, he knew joining a motorcycle club was a true commitment. He looked towards Eddie, and Troy noticed he was nearly ignoring John. Eddie was cleaning various tools and wiping desks. The bodyguard was staring intently at the conversing pair.
Troy reached out his hand and shook the hand of the Motorcycle Club's president, he wanted to kill Madison, see her head bludgeoned the same way his had been. He wanted to watch her blood run, he had saved her and her family from certain death and this was how they repaid him?
John's face had a look of accomplishment grow across it, "Welcome to the Proctors, Troy Otto. You'll enjoy this life."
The following days had consisted largely of physical therapy in the small isolated room. Troy had been gifted a cane, much less intricate than John's, but regardless he used it to great effect.
The first day after waking he walked only once before collapsing a few steps later. It upset Troy greatly, his legs buckled under his weight of 215 pounds and a mighty 6'2. The next day he walked further, walking slightly outside of the door and into the courtyard. By the third day he felt much more confident, walking all the way to the edge of the bullfighting ring before turning back and returning to the villa that the Proctors had made into their base of operations. A bodyguard accompanied Troy at all times, both for his safety from the Mexicans, but also to make sure he didn't collapse. Troy's anger and rage at his body was the fuel that sufficed him until he returned to his bed. Eddie had told him that night after dinner that John would give him a true introduction to the club the next day.
Troy awoke at around 8:30, the still functioning clock which sat above the door constantly berated him with its incessant ticks. The beeping of his heart monitor had been replaced with the ticking of the clock, at all hours of the day.
The day began with the routine Troy had gotten so used to. Eddie came in and cleaned his wound, he took two ibuprofen, and then he did his physical therapy that Eddie mandated him to do.
This day was different however, the routine stretches and mobility work was interrupted by John's voice. It was the first time Troy had seen him since their first encounter, accompanying him were two men, but they were not the typical bodyguards he had seen around El Bazar. One of the men was a large, rotund man. He had a bearded face with long black hair tied into a bun, gray speckled his hair. The other man was much more fit than the larger man and about ten years younger. He had a completely clean shaven face and short blonde hair. He held a calm and collected demeanor, almost too calm and collected. He seemed far too normal than the other Proctors that Troy had met.
"Rise and shine Troy," John said, almost playfully. "I heard you're ready to get a proper introduction to our humble M.C."
Troy nodded, "As ready as I'll ever be."
He gave another look towards the strangers, he knew both were members of the Proctors, as they both wore their leather jackets proudly.
"Ah my deepest apologies, I didn't introduce my colleagues that accompanied me today." He pointed towards the larger man, "Forgive the pretentiousness of the titles, but that's Jerry, head of arms for El Bazar." John moved his hand over to the smaller man. "And that's Gregory, or Greg, he's the head of diplomatic affairs for us."
Greg stuck out his hand, and in turn Troy shook it. "Gregory Elliot, it's nice to meet you Troy Otto." The man's voice was smooth, almost buttery. As he shook his hand, Troy glanced into his eyes. His eyes were a cold and piercing blue, icy almost.
"And he was a damn good lawyer, for what that's worth nowadays." John added.
The group left the makeshift hospital, passing by various beds of those who were wounded or worse. The sunlight temporarily blinded Troy as they opened the door, the outside being a sight Troy had not truly gotten himself used to.
While Troy had seen the outside of the infirmary and the villa that proctors had set up as a base of operations, he never truly took care to notice and take in his surroundings. The villa sat on a hill east of the bullfighting ring that was El Bazar proper, and from the view one could perfectly see the hustle and bustle of the marketplace.
The crown jewel of the Mexican wasteland was a true sight to behold. In a city that had been abandoned and left to rot, music and uniquely human sounds emitted from the stadium in all directions. With his one good eye, Troy took notice of the fence of the stadium, where a few walkers gathered, sticking their decomposing arms through the openings, with no success in their goals of feasting.
As they walked out of the villa, Troy noticed an orchard of various types of trees and plants. On a few plots Troy noticed people gardening, some were darker-skinned Mexicans while some were as white as any American. By a tree Troy noticed a woman sitting, she was fairer skinned than the others, but still had a noticeably hispanic complexion. She looked to be in her late 30s and wore a tight elegant black dress, which hugged her body to accentuate her figure.
Jerry let out a hardy laugh, slapping Troy on the back, causing him to wince. Jerry exclaimed, "This woman here is gonna become your best friend while you're here!"
John sighed, "That is Señora Jimenez, the finest procurer of pussy in the apocalypse." John looked at Troy, "Tell me, you ever fucked a Mexican Troy?"
This question took Troy aback, the truth was he had never been even slightly intimate with a woman before. When he lived on the ranch, women were an afterthought to Troy, and even warned against by his father. And much less had he considered a Mexican woman to change this for him.
Awkwardly, Troy shook his head slightly, unsure of what to say. John's face held a slight look of shock for a second, before he laughed. "How the hell do you live in Southern California and you never fuck a Mexican?"
"Don't worry, she'll change all of that for you." Jerry added.
The woman greeted them with a kiss to the cheek when they met with her. She stopped at Troy, giving him a seductive look, which Troy did not reciprocate. Señora Jimenez paused, looking at John.
"Don't worry ma'am, he's a new prospect, he got his brain a little scrambled but he'll pick up on how we do things here."
"A new prospect?" She asked, her eyes looking almost excited at the idea. "Tell me, prospect, what type of girl do you like?"
Troy paused again, he felt uncomfortable at the assertions of sex that were being pushed on him. As he kept up with his silence, the woman continued. "Big girls? Small girls? Morenas? Gueras?" She laughed, as if she found his awkwardness cute. "Don't worry," She placed her hand softly onto his left bicep, "women are all the same. All it takes is the right price and any woman will open their legs for any man."
Greg interjected, saving Troy from the awkwardness of the conversation. "We must get going, we have a lot to show the man and not a lot of time. I hope you'll understand." EVen through his act of kindness, Troy felt off about the man.
Señora Jimenez nodded, giving Troy another look. She reached between her breasts and removed a small coin, she handed it to him. "When you want to see me or one of my girls, just show that coin and ask around, you'll find me amorcito. They always do" She gave him a soft kiss on his right cheek and walked away.
"So she's a pimp?" Troy asked, walking past the gardens and down a paved stone path.
"No, no. I much prefer the term supplier of services. She and her girls give us what we want, and we give them food, shelter, safety. It's all just an equivalent exchange." John explained, Troy noticed that whenever he explained anything he was very expressive with his hands, often flaring them about.
As they arrived at the gate of the villa, John stopped, the rest of the group doing the same. "Before I open this gate I want to tell you our club's goals. There's so much that has been left unexplained and I understand you're confused, this is a lot to take in from the wastes of Tijuana and San Diego. But we're providing safety, comfort, shelter. By this time in 5 years, every city from Tijuana to Brownsville will be flying our flags and wearing our patches. We'll stretch from California to The Gulf and bring law and order back to the world. It's a noble goal, isn't it Troy?"
"It's an ambitious goal, I can tell you that much." Troy responded.
John chuckled. "Believe me I understand, but we have the foundations, we have the means, we have the ability to do this. But people like you are the reason why we will or won't succeed." John motioned for Jerry and the gate was opened. Across the street El Bazar lay, people coming from all directions to trade and receive the Stadium's blessings.
"People like me?" Troy questioned.
"It's not a bad thing I promise. I mean people who are driven and aren't afraid to do the actions needed for the greater good. Those people are needed now more than ever." John replied, walking onto the street. Jerry stood in front as a bodyguard, and Greg in the back. Troy and John were in the center, isolated so they could have their conversation.
"The only thing to fear is fear itself." Troy quoted his father, he never understood what the meaning was, but Jeremiah had said it often when Troy and Jake were young, before the drinking got violent. "But John, I need to ask, how do you know so much about me?
"Before we invaded the dam and your little friend there," John said, the vitriol being evident through his smile, "caused us and you so much pain, we had his sister, hell of a nursing aide," He added. "And she told us everything. Alicia told us everything about the military base, the ranch, the bunker. I knew it was to scare us from you, but she didn't know how much we need someone like you."
Through his plastered smile, Troy could sense the disgust from John's voice. Even if he claimed Troy was necessary, he was still disgusted.
Troy tried to interject and defend himself, but John continued. "So many of our new prospects think our M.C. is a joke and just a way to survive another day. Most of those dumbasses don't last past the first scouting mission before they shoot their own dicks off. But you," John seemed to have a fascination with Troy, and while Troy was slightly uncomfortable, if he could get his revenge with these men, he'd give them his loyalty. "You, you're what we need. I expect you to do great things with us."
"You really want me to join don't you? I've never been this sought after, so it's just strange." Troy questioned.
"We're made up of the broken and the damned, the outcasts of society. I figure someone like you would need this."
"Someone like me?"
John gave him a side eye. Troy knew his response could be taken as rude, but he had never been one to hide his intentions away. "Troy, don't lie to yourself. You're in Mexicali with a hole in your head the size of a tennis ball. The only men more broken than you are the infected."
John was right. He could admit to himself that he didn't have much left, no family, no friends, no home. But had he ever had those things? Troy always thrived in the chaos, and now wouldn't be any different.
The group turned to their right and in front of them was a body shop, the sign read in red paint, "Mecánico". A chain link fence separated the men and an array of motorcycles and other vehicles. Inside of the body shop many men worked on the vehicles, the sounds of metal grinding and power tools emitting their howls surrounded Troy.
"We call this the hanger." Jerry began, removing a hunting knife and firmly planting it in the head of a walker who stumbled too close. "All Proctor military vehicles come through here for repairs, the people who aren't in the club can also get normal vehicles repaired and towed for a price. We also trade some of the vehicles we find, but that's for an especially hefty price."
"Hanger? It just looks like a normal mechanic's shop. Same type of place we'd take my dad's old ford."
John chuckled, the same chuckle he had been doing every time that he wanted to prove to Troy that he knew more than him. "Show him Jerry."
The large man guided Troy through the shop. Opening a door on the side of the shop revealed what could only be described as a legion of motorcycles, all glossy and black in color.
"One day you'll have one of these babies for yourself." Jerry began, lumbering his way towards the bikes. "It's a 2002, a fine piece of work too, real fine." He said, rubbing his hands on the handlebar, almost sensually.
"How many of these bikes do you have?" Troy asked.
"Fifty-two. Some we found just out and around and fixed them up, others we're redistributing from some of our brothers who passed. Either way we have the horsepower to do what we gotta do."
Troy nodded. He had never ridden a motorcycle, his father never saw the use for one so when Troy had asked for a dirt bike for his tenth birthday, he was met with a very public showing of humiliation.
"And this is the basics of your new life with the Proctors. Everything else you'll learn on the job." John had said when they returned.
"And what's the first thing I'm gonna do? How the hell am I gonna be initiated?" Troy asked, a thousand questions filled his mind. The truth was, he had no idea what was going on. The more John showed him, the more confused Troy became.
"Look Troy, calm down. We'll get to it as we get to it. Take things one step at a time," John raised a finger and pointed up at the wounded side of Troy's head. "you're still pretty fucked up. You're still walking with a cane, you're not ready to get an AR and blow some fuckin' brains out yet."
Troy said nothing. He softly shook his head in disbelief. "John, I have no idea what's going on. I'm left for dead in Tijuana, and the next thing I know, I wake up a hundred miles away in Mexicali. Saved by the people who were apparently going to kill us all. I haven't been able to ask anyone, so tell me, what exactly happened at the dam?"
John sighed. "You ask too many damn questions Troy Otto. You want the truth? When we knew the dam was gonna blow, we hightailed it out of there. The ratty kid who tried to blow us up stayed and shit, he was probably blown away in the blast. Eventually we found you, and your mangled body laying out on the side of the river. We were gonna leave you to bleed out, but Jerry saved you. He said he recognized you, and maybe you could be valuable. So we hauled your bleeding corpse back to Mexicali, we expected you to turn on the way. So be goddamn grateful for us, you're only alive because of our mercy." John said, anger flowing out of his voice, the same way it had flown so freely out of his fathers. John seemed to be the kind of man who could switch from anger to happiness with the flip of a switch. Much like Jeremiah Otto Sr. had possessed.
Troy relented under John's command. "I understand." He uttered.
The rest of the week was the same as it had been since he awoke. He would wake up, eat, receive medical treatments from Eddie and do his physical therapy. The days were mind-numbingly boring, occasionally a man or woman would be brought in to be treated, the occasional bullet wound or amputation for a bite, but nothing that piqued Troy's interest.
Troy in the haze of another repetitive day, 4 if he had counted correctly. As he rested in his bed, reading a book about some idiot kid who got lost in the woods, Jerry approached him.
"Think you're ready for a scouting mission?"