“Can I help you with something?” Conor called from cover.
The men startled at his voice, unaware they were under surveillance. When they finally located Conor behind the massive machine, his rifle scope trained on them, they were even more startled. No one liked being at the receiving end of a firearm.
“We’re looking for Conor,” said the older of the two men.
“Who’s asking?”
“My name is Johnny Jacks. This is my son Jason.”
Conor stood from behind his cover and slung the rifle over his shoulder. He walked to the eight-foot tall rolling gate and drew the string of keys from around his neck. He sorted, then found the correct key to open the padlock. When it was open, he dropped the chain and shoved the gate back on its rollers.
“I’m Conor,” he said, extending a hand to the older man. “I believe I had the pleasure of meeting your wife.”
Johnny swung off the back of his horse and walked around to take Conor’s hand. The older man, tall with thick white hair, smiled warmly and shook Conor’s hand. “You did. That was the day we were out trying to wrangle all our critters back home. It was a hell of a job. I apologize for just now getting back to you but we’ve been too busy to leave home. Then you have to worry about what might happen to your home when you’re gone.”
The younger man slid off his horse and joined them. He shook hands with Conor also. “I’m Jason Jacks. We heard you might be looking for some horses.”
“I was,” Conor said. “I’m actually flush with hooved beasts at the moment.”
“You taking to riding those goats?” Jacks asked with a laugh, pointing at one of Conor’s herd.
Conor shook his head. “No, to be honest there was some trouble. My daughter and some other women from the area were kidnapped. I went after them. By the time I got my daughter back I had more horses than I knew what to do with.”
Johnny nodded, processing. “I heard a little about that. A friend of my wife’s was taken. Glad to hear that you got them all back. If you don’t mind me asking, how did you accomplish that?”
“He may not want to talk about it, Dad,” Jason said.
“You don’t know if you don’t ask,” Johnny replied.
“Hell hath no fury like a vengeful father,” Conor said simply.
Johnny and Jason waited for more but there was nothing. When it was clear Conor wasn’t going to elaborate, Johnny nodded with understanding.
“The only reason I was asking is that I have a few security concerns of my own,” Johnny said.
“What kind?” Conor asked. “I’m in the early stages of forming a militia of sorts. After the kidnapping I thought it might be a good idea for the residents of this community to take a little more proactive approach to safeguarding it. It’s purely voluntary, of course, but the idea is to demonstrate a presence that might act as a deterrent to anyone with bad intentions.”
“My concerns are not necessarily about the bad intentioned,” Johnny said. “I’ve got some strangers wanting to buy horses and I can’t get a read on them. They were kind of shady but they haven’t been threatening. They talk like they want to trade for the horses but I’m a little apprehensive about taking in goods that might have been stolen.”
“Where does the trade stand?” Conor asked.
“They’re supposed to swing by later this afternoon and make a final decision on how many they want. That’s why I wanted to make sure you had horses before they cleaned me out.”
Conor looked at his watch. “I need to grab a few things but how about I follow you to your house and meet these guys?”
Jason looked at his dad. “You think that’s a good idea? It could make us look weak. Like we need backup.”
“No shame in playing it safe,” Conor said. “I’ll just be upfront with them and explain that I heard they were from outside the area. I wanted to get some information on the kind of things they ran into on the road.”
Johnny looked at his son. “No harm in that, is there?”
“Makes sense, I guess,” Jason replied.
“Give me five minutes. I need to gear up and let my daughter know what’s going on. I’ll be right back. If you need to water your horses there’s a trough over there. Just close the gate behind you.”
Conor jogged to the main living quarters but slowed before he went inside. He didn’t want to startle Barb by bursting through the door like a crazy man. He found her in the kitchen dehydrating what was probably the last green peppers and onions of the season. Their poor garden was now a tangled mess of dead and dying plants.
"Barb, sweetie, that Johnny Jacks fellow from across the ridge came by to see if I was interested in some horses."
Barb raised an eyebrow at him. "You told him no, right? I'm not sure we can feed all we have right now."
"I did, but he told me there's a group of strangers who want to trade him for some horses. He says he’s not certain about these characters. I think they're making him a little edgy. I told him I'd come along, both as backup and to ask the strangers what they encountered on the road. It might also give me an opportunity to talk to him about our efforts to improve security in the area. He might have some ideas of how to better reach the people in his side of the county."
"You be careful," she warned.
Conor smiled. "You're starting to sound like me, daughter. All concerned about the bad shit waiting outside the gates."
Barb shrugged as if the comment required no explanation.
“And you, my girl, I prefer you not leave the compound until I'm back. Ragus is here with you. I know he’s not nearly as capable as you are in a fight but he’s a warm body that can hold a gun."
"I’ve got plenty here to keep me busy here. I’ve also got a long list for Ragus."
Conor smiled, sensing just how much Barb enjoyed bossing the boy around.
“What are you smiling at?” Barb asked.
“Nothing. I expect I'll be back tonight barring any crazy turn of events. If I’m not, don’t come looking for me. I’ll be fine.”
With that, Conor was off to the ready room. Since he didn't expect this to be a long trip he didn't change his pants and shirt into the BDUs he’d worn when chasing down Barb. He did slip on the plate carrier with full plates, strap on his battle belt, and throw his Go Bag over his shoulder. Since he didn't know the odds of the situation he was walking into, he grabbed a .300 Blackout with burst-fire capability from the weapons rack. He checked that the suppressor was tightly threaded on, then switched the magazines on his plate carrier from 5.56 caliber to .300 Blackout. He did a quick double-check to confirm he had everything he needed. Only then did he slip out of the room and call a second goodbye to his daughter.
He locked the front door behind him, just as he did when Barb was a teenager and he was going out for a few minutes, a habit he had no intention of breaking. Conor jogged by the men at the trough. "I need to saddle my horse and I'll be right with you."
Johnny nodded and smiled. He seemed like a good bloke.
“Ragus!” Conor yelled, spotting the boy adding fresh bedding to the goat shed.
Ragus sprinted over while Conor threw a blanket and saddle onto his horse. It was the same one he’d been riding when he caught up with Barb and her kidnappers. He didn’t know a lot about horses but he’d taken a shine to this one. The animal had behaved as well as he thought a horse could behave and somewhere on that trip the two developed a tolerance for each other.
“What is it?” Ragus asked.
Conor put his Go Bag behind the saddle and tied it on. “I’m going with Johnny Jacks and his son to his farm. I’ll be most of the day and may not get back until late. If I don’t make it home tonight, don’t come looking for me. I’d also prefer you not leave the compound today. Barb’s still not back to a hundred percent.”
“Got it,” Ragus said. “Be careful.”
“Always, my boy. Always,” Conor said, hopping on the horse and nudging it toward the trough.
When he re
ached the men, Johnny and Jason regarded him with curiosity and a touch of amusement.
"What is it? My fly unzipped?"
"You haven’t been riding long, have you?" Jason asked.
Conor shook his head. "No. What gave it away?"
"If you don't mind, why don’t you climb off that horse and let us show you how to saddle one right. It may save you a heap of aggravation one day. It also makes a long ride a lot easier on the horse," Johnny said.
Conor slid off the horse, gesturing that it was all theirs. The men efficiently removed all the tack then replaced it, explaining each step to Conor as they went. He hadn't realized how much he didn't know until seeing the more proficient horsemen demonstrate the proper way to do it all.
"I think your horse will like this better," Johnny said. "It may even keep you from falling off on a hard ride one day."
Conor was grateful for the lesson. There was no shame in being taught to do things the right way, whether it was shooting, fighting, or saddling a horse. No one came into the world knowing everything. Throwing a wrench into the whole matter was the fact that skills that were important a year ago were vastly different from the skills that were important now. Having the right knowledge was always like trying to hit a moving target.
The men saddled up and rode out the gate, Ragus locking it behind them.
“I was noticing all the squirrels up here,” Johnny said. “You ever eat them?”
“Can’t say I have,” Conor admitted.
“When I was a boy, there were a lot of foreigners that showed up in the coal camps because of all the jobs. Hungarians, Italians, and even Irishmen like yourself. My dad had this Hungarian friend he invited over for supper one night. He came with his wife and a couple of kids and we had a big time. I remember this man’s wife asking what the meat was that we were eating because it wasn’t familiar to her. My mom explained it was squirrel.
“‘What is squirrel?’ the Hungarian woman asked in her rudimentary English. My mom told her they were small and furry, with long tails, and that you see them hopping around in the yard, climbing trees and fence posts. She said they were good eating.
“‘Very good,’ the woman told my mom. So a couple of weeks pass, then the Hungarian couple invites all of us over to their house for supper. We go and they have this big spread of food. Some of it was cooked in ways we weren’t used to seeing so it was a big deal. They had Hungarian dishes and this fancy stew that everybody loved. It was pretty good. So my mother compliments the woman on the stew and asks her what it was made with.
“‘It is squirrel,’ the woman told my mom with great pride, and said she caught it herself. My mom asked her how she got it.
“‘I go outside with rifle because I see squirrel hopping around all over the place,’ the woman told my mom. She said when it saw her, it climbed up on a fencepost and looked right at her. It made a ‘squirrel sound’ at her and she shot it.
“They kind of chatter sometimes, my mom said.
“‘No chatter sound,’ the lady told her, the ‘Meeeeooooowww sound.’
“It was then we realized we’d eaten cat stew,” Johnny said. “None of us dared look at each other. We didn’t know what to say.”
“How did it taste?” Conor asked.
“Not like squirrel,” Johnny replied. “It was good until we found out what it was. We were raised to be polite so no one said anything about it but we puked our guts out on the way home. Even my poor mother threw up cat meat in the weeds.”
5
The morning after so abruptly terminating the employment of his slave labor force, Bryan Padowicz and what was left of his army departed Douthat Farms. Most of the men rode horseback, armed with a plethora of scavenged weapons. A covered wagon brought up the rear, stolen from the display at a feed store. Bryan rode in the lead but it was not with the bearing of a general setting out on a glorious campaign. His was the slump-shouldered posture of a bankrupt businessman closing the door on his dreams.
Bryan had a master plan for this place. In fact, he'd stolen a wall map of the entire park from the ranger's office and sketched his master plan directly upon it. As he left his farm, bruised but hopefully not broken, only Bryan saw the ghosts of those unattained dreams. There was the hydroelectric station he envisioned at the edge of the lake. There was the cluster of larger, better-built green houses with natural irrigation, wood heat, and solar lighting that could provide his whole organization with fresh food for themselves and for local commerce.
There was the permaculture area where they would cultivate fruit and nut trees that would feed them year after year with minimal labor. There were the dormitories he would have built for their workers and the jail he would have constructed for those who refused to get with the program. For more egregious felons, there would be a gallows. For minor offenses, such as fraternizing with the prisoners or drunkenness, there would be a set of wooden stocks where the prisoner could be locked neck and wrists on public display. There, he or she would be subject to the ridicule and physical abuse of their peers.
At the exit to the camp, where visitors were greeted by the same type of welcome sign that adorned every state park in the Virginia system, Bryan had envisioned a more grandiose display. He wanted tall stone towers with guard posts atop them. There would be a heavy wooden gate with wrought iron strap hinges befitting a medieval village. A sign above the door would read Douthat Farms.
When he passed that welcome sign for what might have been the last time, Bryan released a sigh so deep he was certain a part of his soul divested his body and rode away upon his exhalation. In releasing that sigh, he also released himself from his mourning. He would not allow himself the distraction beyond this point in the journey. He would either come back stronger, a leader with a larger army and the labor he needed, or he would die gloriously charging into battle.
Though he had not considered it until this point, it occurred to him there even existed a third option, that he might take the land of his enemies and rebuild his vision elsewhere, rechristening it with the new name. With his skills, with his vision, he could do that. After all, flexibility and adapting to the current conditions was the basis of his entire philosophy.
Barely three miles from the front gate, Bryan and his party encountered their first strangers. They appeared to be a local family, standing on the riverbank, trying to catch their dinner. A line of fishing poles ran along the bank, laying in the forked crotch of sticks stabbed into the sandy soil. A man and woman in their fifties had been watching the tips of the poles for any movement until they heard the approaching riders. Now the couple watched Bryan and his men with the same wary anticipation with which they observed their fishing poles.
Two teenage boys of high school age were digging in the bank with sharp sticks, searching for worms and anything else they might use for bait. They too were frozen in their labors, watching the riders as the riders watched them. Bryan broke from his procession and rode closer.
There was nowhere for the family to hide, nowhere to run. Perhaps they were armed, but in the face of greater odds did not tip their hand. Bryan addressed the woman as she was the only one not directly impacted by his actions. He was not searching for women on this day. He spent no time preparing a formal recruitment speech. He would speak from the heart and hope his enthusiasm made people eager to be part of his crusade.
"Pardon me, miss, but may I trouble you on a matter of grave importance? My compatriots and I are on a quest of epic proportions. Unfortunately, our force has been decimated by a conspiracy of circumstances beyond our control. Our success is only guaranteed by restocking the coffers and replacing what has been lost. I was hoping I could relieve you of your manpower."
The man at her side was overweight and garbed in a massive pair of bibbed overalls that gaped at his sides. He leaned forward and spat between his feet. “If your fancy words are a way of asking for our boys, you ain’t taking them. Having their help around the house is about the only thing helping us get by.
"
Bryan smiled in a way that belied the little tolerance he had for people who told him no in any form or fashion. "Sir, I was not addressing you, but I do believe you may have misunderstood me. My recruitment efforts were not just directed toward the younger and more physically fit members of your party. At this point in our journey, my standards are so broad as to include someone like yourself who has long since moved beyond your optimal fighting weight. Even taking that into consideration, you are still a warm body who could sit atop a horse and wield a firearm. As such, you are of use to me. All I require from you is a yes or no answer as to whether you are up for the task or not."
The man’s expression curled into a wary snarl. "Hell no."
Bryan sighed. "Very well then." He promptly drew his Colt 1911 and shot the man dead center of his sternum.
The man toppled, fell, and twitched amidst audible gasps from the remaining members of his family. They rushed to his side but got not a single word from the blood-flecked lips of the dying man. In seconds he was gone. Clutching his warm body, all eyes moved back to Bryan.
Bryan smiled. "As you may have surmised by this point in our interaction, there is but one chance. Survival depends on your immediate answer and that this answer be to my liking. I’ll give you one more chance and ask again. Might I take leave of your manpower?"
With that request hanging in the air, Bryan moved the pistol toward the older of the two boys.
"Take them! Take them!" the woman bellowed and sobbed, collapsing onto her dead husband.
Bryan knew what she was thinking, that she could not watch another loved one die. Her grief meant nothing to him but her cooperation did. Bryan holstered the pistol. "Very well then. Glad to see you figured out the rules.”
The woman rose and hugged her children, both of them larger than her, nearly as large as grown men. “Go with this man. Don’t give him any reason to kill you. I love you very much and we’ll see each other again. I know it. Now don’t you cry. Just do what he tells you.”
Masters of Mayhem Page 3
