Page 1 of Property of Anchor

Chapter One

Anchor

Skull Island came alive after sunset.

It came alive in the very real, very loud way that only a haunted house and ghost boat tour run by a motorcycle club could—screams, boat horns, the smell of kettle corn, and the sound of fake chains dragging across wooden floors.

From the main dock to the haunted house perched near the edge of the bluff, every inch of the north side of the island was crawling with wide-eyed visitors and fake blood.Fog machines hissed.Chainsaws roared.Actors in torn clothing lunged at teenagers who were more excited to record it on their phones than to actually be scared.

And me?I was doing crowd control with a cup of stale coffee and a front-row view of the chaos.

The haunted house stood like an old Gothic manor, all faux weathered wood, black wrought iron accents, and windows that flickered with timed LED candlelight.Behind it, tucked further back into the trees, was our real home: the clubhouse.

Long, low, and built like a fortress, the clubhouse stretched out behind the haunted house in a rough L-shape under the cover of trees.The center of the building was the common area, a massive open space with a bar, couches, a pool table, and our Church room where club meetings went down.To the left of that were six bedrooms, mine included.To the right?Seven more.Every patch holder on the island lived there, and every one of us worked the business.

Kings of Anarchy, Michigan Chapter.

We ran Skull Island.The haunted house.The ghost boat tours.The money that rolled in.All of it.Ours.

This was our territory.Our kingdom.Our show.

And every night, we gave the people exactly what they came for.

“Anchor!”

I looked up from my spot near the dock entrance.Skull, my Vice President, approached with his usual scowl and a fresh streak of stage blood across his jaw.

“We’re short three actors on the boat rotation,” he said.“Pull got hung up at the front gate breaking up some fight, and Wannabe’s still puking from whatever mystery meat he ate for lunch.”

“Send Lost in his place,” I said.“And tell Bob to fill in until we get through the first round.”

“Copy that.”Skull peeled off, already barking orders at anyone within earshot.

I took another sip of my coffee and scanned the dock.The members of the club were the vital moving parts of the island, but we also had about fifteen actors and workers that made the island run smoothly.They did their job of scaring visitors, and then they were off the island, too.

Three boats were loading now with full tours, packed with tourists from out of town.Each one would cruise across the narrow stretch of water toward the far end of the island while the island history and a ghost story played through speakers.Over there, we had a full-scale ghost town set up.Broken saloons.Collapsing mine shafts.Actors dressed as everything from colonial ghosts to feral mutants lurked in the shadows, ready to terrify anyone who stepped off the boat.

They’d walk the path through the ghost town and come back wide-eyed and screaming.

It was all fake.

And all profitable.

I turned to head back up toward the haunted house and stopped short at the sound of awkward giggling.My eyes tracked the noise until I spotted two teenagers, probably sixteen or seventeen, groping each other like they’d just discovered skin for the first time.

They were backed up next to one of the garbage cans behind the snack stand, half-hidden in the shadows, hands under shirts and lips locked in some sloppy tangle.

I sighed.

“Alright, break it up,” I called out and walked toward them.

The girl jumped and let out a squeak.The boy turned red instantly as he adjusted his jeans and tried to look innocent.

“This ain’t that kind of tour,” I said and crossed my arms.“You want to play adult, do it somewhere other than next to the dumpster.”

“S-sorry,” the boy stammered.

They nodded quickly and scurried off into the crowd.

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