by Mark Dawson
Ten feet ahead of them, where the light from the window was almost swallowed by the darkness of the wood, were Michael Callow, Tom Chandler, and Mallory Stanton. Chandler was straddling her, his knees pressing down onto her arms at the elbows. Callow was crouched down behind them, trying to grab hold of her flailing legs. He was laughing, telling her to take it easy, that it would be better if she relaxed and just took what was coming to her. “Hell,” Milton heard him call out, “you might even enjoy it.”
Milton felt a sensation, like a switch flicking in his head.
Old memories opened up, a past life that he had tried to bury but couldn’t.
He went back to the RV and went inside.
The light he had seen from the window was in the main living area, a small standard lamp on the table that was bright enough for him to see all the way to the driver’s seat to his right and then a little way to his left, to the back. The toilet door was closed. The main bedroom was at the rear, and that door was closed, too, with a crack of light visible beneath the door. He went to the galley. A pan of scrambled eggs was burning on the stove. Two slices of toast poked out of the toaster.
There was a dirty kitchen knife in the sink. Milton took it.
MORRIS FINCH led the way to the spot where old man Stanton had parked his Winnebago before he had drunk himself into his early grave. A Ford Explorer was in the road before the gate, blocking the way ahead.
Finch pulled up and stepped out of the van.
“What the hell?” he said, gesturing to the Explorer. “That’s not their car.”
Lundquist lowered his window. “No.”
“Want me to go around it?”
“No.”
He opened the door and stepped outside, the rain swamping across him. He reached back inside and grabbed his rifle. Finch looked across at him expectantly. Lundquist pointed back to the rear of the van. “Get her out and bring her down there with you.”
He skirted the Explorer and descended the hollow. He went around Leland Mulligan’s pickup, the lights still on, shining down onto the Winnebago and Mallory Stanton’s Pontiac. There was enough illumination for him to see Michael and the others around the back of the RV, standing in two loose groups between it and the front of the trees. The first group, nearest to Lundquist, had four people in it. He recognised Leland from his uniform and Arthur Stanton from his bulk. Stanton’s wrists were cuffed.
Michael and Tom Chandler were twenty feet farther on, nearly at the fringe of the wood, dim in the faint glow from the lights. He saw Mallory Stanton on the ground, pinned down beneath Chandler, and Michael struggling to hold her legs still.
An angry rebuke came to his lips. He had known they were not to be trusted. He had given them something simple to do, collect two kids, take them to the farm, and they did this. He should never have trusted them. Was this the discipline the army taught its soldiers these days? No wonder the country was in the state it was in. It wouldn’t stand, not for men under his command.
He tightened his grip on the wet barrel of the rifle and was about to start down towards them when he looked back at the RV and saw the figure of a man emerging stealthily from the open door.
He dropped to a crouch.
The man pressed up tight against the side of the RV and edged along to the corner.
Milton.
He had a knife in his hand.
MILTON STEPPED back into the rain. He made his way along the side of the RV to the corner. He peeked out again. The group of four nearest to him were still turned away. They were watching the second group. Sellar and Sturgess were holding Arty up, forcing him to watch what was about to happen to his sister. Milton heard a whoop of excitement and then the sound of encouragement.
Milton lost himself in red mist. It fell over him, deep and blinding. He worked hard to keep it away, tied it down somewhere at the back of his brain where he could try to forget about it. He never could forget it, though, not properly, and it didn’t take very much for him to summon it again.
Like now.
He held the knife loosely in his fist, left the cover of the RV, and made straight for the larger group.
Arty Stanton bucked hard and forced Sturgess to let go of him. The man was spun around, just enough to see Milton walking straight at him through the pouring rain.
“Fuck,” he said.
Milton kept coming.
“Michael!”
Callow had secured Mallory’s ankles, his shoulders braced as he pressed her feet down onto the ground, and he didn’t turn around.
Sturgess took a half step back, unsure whether he should stand his ground or run.
“Michael!”
Sturgess looked down and saw the knife.
Milton drove it all the way up to the hilt, the blade buried in the soft folds of flesh above the boy’s belt buckle, and then tore it up to his ribcage and left it there.
The young cop who Milton didn’t recognise had seen what had just happened.
His fingers fumbled for his pistol.
Milton closed the distance between them in three paces, took him by the shoulders, and swept his legs. The man went down, landing square on his shoulder blades, and Milton drove his left fist into his gut, winding him.
Down by the trees, Callow grasped Mallory’s legs and turned his head to the abrupt commotion.
Milton reached down to the cop’s belt and tore his pistol from his holster.
Callow saw what was happening, fear replacing the cruelty in his face.
He let go of Mallory’s legs, and she gave an almighty buck, Tom Chandler barely able to hold her down.
Eric Sellar let go of Arty and took a step towards Milton, raising his fist.
Milton shot him in the face.
Sellar toppled backwards and thumped down onto the grass.
Sturgess stumbled over to him, his hand fixed around the hilt of the knife.
Milton fired again, the shot blasting a gory void in Sturgess’ face. He tripped over Sellar and fell down onto his backside, dead before he hit the ground.
“Drop your weapon!”
Milton turned to look across the hollow at Michael Callow. The boy had drawn a pistol, yanked Mallory to her feet, and jammed the muzzle up against her temple.
Milton breathed in and out, regulating his pulse. “Are you all right, Mallory?”
She nodded, her larynx bobbing up and down in her throat. Her eyes were wide with terror.
“She ain’t fine!” Callow called back. “You look here, son. She’s far from fucking fine. Put that gun down now. Right now.”
Milton ignored him. “Arty, are you all right?”
“They want to hurt Mallory,” he said, still struggling with the cuffs.
“They’re not going to hurt her,” he said, loud enough for Callow and Chandler to hear him. “No one is going to hurt either of you.”
“You’re not listening!” Callow shouted. “You don’t put that gun down and I’ll blow her brains out.”
“And what will you do then, Michael?”
Milton started to walk across to them.
“Stay where you are!”
“What are you going to do when you’ve shot her?”
Milton held his aim steady. He had two choices: Chandler was standing in the open, an easy shot, but taking him out now would probably spook Callow into firing. He couldn’t risk it. The second choice, the harder choice, was to take the shot at Callow.
Mallory was slight, much smaller than the man behind her, and she only offered a partial shield for him to hide behind. Milton had a good view of part of his head, his right shoulder, and his right leg. He was fifteen feet away, the light was poor, and the rain was in his eyes.
None of those factors helped his accuracy.
He assessed.
Sixty percent. He would make the shot more times than he missed it.
He held his arm steady and adjusted his aim.
Callow was panicking now. He pulled Mallory closer to his chest and started t
o back away to the trees.
“I’m not bluffing.”
Milton breathed: in and out, in and out.
“Drop that fucking gun!”
Milton’s finger tightened around the trigger.
CRACK.
The bullet struck him in the left arm just as he heard the report of the rifle from behind him. The impact sent him stumbling forward two paces, his gun arm jerking up for balance and his right hand opening involuntarily, dropping the gun. Pain raced up his arm and into his shoulder, a great bellow of it that dropped him down to the ground just as a second shot whistled above his head. His instincts took over and, ignoring the shriek of agony, he rolled away to his right. A third shot slammed into the earth just ahead of him, throwing muddy sod into his face. He scrambled for grip, his boots sliding on wet grass as he pushed off and threw himself behind the RV, out of sight of whoever it was who had shot at him from the other side of the hollow.
Callow was on the same side of the RV as he was, though.
He shoved Mallory away from him, took aim, and fired.
Milton ducked.
The window above him shattered, glass falling down onto him.
He ran to the driver’s door, praying it was unlocked.
If it wasn’t, Callow was going to have a clear shot at him.
MICHAEL CALLOW aimed and fired, but he was too hyped up, and the shot went high again, popping the window of the door as Milton yanked it open. He forced himself to draw a deep breath and took aim for a third time, but Milton hurled himself inside the open driver’s door and shut it again before he could get the shot off.
“Fuck!”
He looked back up the slope beyond their pickup and saw a figure jogging down the hill at them. He passed through the headlights, and Callow saw that it was his father, a rifle in his arms, the muzzle pointing forwards.
Mallory was on the grass, trying to get to her feet. Chandler intercepted her, wrapped her in his arms, and hauled her off the ground and away to the side.
Michael’s eyes were drawn to the two bodies on the ground. Eric was still. Reggie’s leg twitched, up and down, up and down. They were dead or as good as dead. Milton had taken them out.
Milton.
He swung the gun back to the RV, trying to remember how many times he had fired and how many shots were left in the magazine.
“Where is he?” his father yelled out over the drumbeat of the rain. Michael realised that the old man wouldn’t have been able to see as Milton had thrown himself inside.
“In there.”
“Did I hit him?”
“In the arm.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Dammit, Michael.”
Callow grit his teeth in frustration. “I was—”
“Keep him penned in,” Lundquist shouted out. “I’ve got this side.”
Callow pounded his fist against his thigh. All he wanted to do was impress the old man, but whatever he did, it seemed he always fell short.
“Leland, Morris is parked at the top. Go and help him bring Flowers down here and get a rifle from the van while you’re at it.”
“What about him?” he said, pointing at Arthur.
“Chandler, if that boy moves, you shoot his sister and then you shoot him.”
“Mallory!” Arthur cried out.
“Don’t move, Arty,” the girl called back. “Do as they say, you understand?”
Michael flicked his eyes to the side again and watched as his father walked slowly down the final slope into the bowl of the hollow. He had the rifle raised now, pointing at the RV.
“Milton,” he yelled out. “You’ve got nowhere to go. You hear me? Come out and get this over with. Maybe the girl and her brother don’t need to get hurt.”
Michael gripped his pistol tight. He took a step forwards and took dead aim at the open doorway. If Milton came out that way, he was going to plug him.
“Milton!” his father called out again.
The voice that answered from inside the RV was muffled, but still distinct enough. “I’ve got a shotgun. You touch either of them, and I swear to God, I’ll do to all of you what I just did to Sellar and Sturgess.”
“He’s bluffing!” Michael yelled. “He ain’t got shit in there.”
“You sure about that?” his father said.
“I didn’t see no shotgun.”
“But are you sure?”
“I’m not sure—”
“Christ, Michael.”
Callow saw Morris Finch and Leland Mulligan coming down the slope. There was a third figure between them, head lolling between her shoulder blades and her legs dragging behind her as they hauled her along. Looked like the FBI bitch had taken a bit of a beating. Michael grinned at the thought of that, remembering her attitude as she and Milton had shepherded them through the forest and back to Truth. She didn’t have that same attitude right now, did she? Her and Milton, both of them, they were going to be sorry that they had put their noses into the militia’s affairs.
Chapter 22
MILTON PRESSED himself against the foot of the sofa bed that took up one wall of the RV’s salon.
There was no shotgun. He didn’t even have the cop’s pistol.
He had heard Michael Callow, and he was right: he was bluffing.
He was breathing heavily, and every beat of his heart sent a fresh pulse of pain through his body. He took off his jacket, biting his lip as he withdrew his left arm from the sleeve. He looked down at the wound. The sleeve of his sweater was already soaked through with blood, and he could feel the warm stickiness of it as it slid down his ribs to his belt. He had been lucky: his arm had been at his side and, if the bullet had hit just ten inches to the right, it would have punched through his lung. That would have been that.
“Milton,” Morten Lundquist barked out again, “you’re done for, and you know it. Come out, or we’ll shoot that RV up so bad it’ll look like Swiss fucking cheese, you hear me?”
Milton reached up and back until his fingers had wrapped around the curtain. He yanked hard, dragging it off its hooks and gathering it in his lap. He tore the fabric down the middle, wrapped it around his arm, and knotted it as hard as he could. The beige material spotted with blood at once. He held his arm up above his head and reached around with his right hand, his fingers settling on the pressure point and squeezing, trying to restrict the flow of blood. He wouldn’t be able to staunch the bleeding, but maybe he could slow it down until he could treat it properly.
“Milton! I’m going to count to five.”
“You can count to a hundred if you like, Lundquist, it’d make no difference.”
“You’re hit, and you don’t have a weapon.”
“You sure about that?”
“Aw, shit. Take him out!”
Milton covered his head with his right arm as the sound of concentrated gunfire tore up the night. Rounds sliced through the flimsy walls of the RV, perforating the metal and passing through into the night beyond.
He heard Lundquist bark out, and the barrage ceased. Milton scrambled forwards, grabbed the flex that led to the lamp and yanked it out of the wall, plunging the salon into darkness. He knew of two sure ways into and out of the RV: the open door to the side, facing where Lundquist must be, and the closed driver’s door that he had used to get inside. He added the closed passenger side door, hoping it was locked, and, perhaps, another one at the back. He had to cover all of them.
“Fire!”
The gunfire started up again, a roaring blaze of noise.
“That’s enough.”
Someone kept firing.
“I said hold your fire!”
It stopped.
How many shooters?
Milton thought he could detect four different weapons: two rifles and two pistols, but that was little more than a guess. He could be wrong about that.
Lundquist called out again. “You’re outnumbered.”
“Why don’t you come in here and we’ll se
e about that.”
“There are five of us out here, friend. You’re not going anywhere.”
Five: useful information.
Michael Callow, Tom Chandler, Lundquist, and the cop. Who was the fifth?
“And you’re hit, right? I winged you in the arm. I’ll bet you’re losing blood right now. How long you think it’ll take for you to bleed out?”
The light of a flashlight glared through the window and up onto the ceiling of the Winnebago, swinging left and right above his head. Another beam joined it, sweeping in through the open doorway in the side of the Winnebago. Milton shuffled away from it.
“We’ve got your friend from the FBI.”
“She’s not my friend.”
“You want to see her get shot?”
Milton pressed himself against the wall and scoured the inside of the RV for something, anything, that he could use.
A gun, he thought. Mallory said that her father was into guns.
“That’s not clever,” Milton said, stalling them. “If she doesn’t check in with her partner, you’ll bring the whole bureau up here. What are you going to do then?”
Where would she have put them?
“We’re going to pin it all on you, friend. You came into town, and you caused trouble right from the start. The sheriff sent you on your way, and you didn’t like it. You came back and had a brawl in the bar. Plenty of witnesses to that. You got arrested; the sheriff let you out after you cooled off, only you hadn’t cooled off, you came back with a gun and took out the sheriff, the FBI lady when she tried to help him, and those two poor kids who were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Where were they?
There were slide-out drawers beneath the seats in the salon, and he could get to them without getting to his feet. He kept one eye on the open door and slid across to them, opening them, yanking them off their runners, upturning them. Papers, magazines, clothes, shoes, but no weapon.
“Come on, Pops,” Callow said.
“Easy,” Lundquist said.
