Masters of Mayhem

by Franklin Horton

  The admonition that the boys not cry was futile. Sobbing, the boys hugged their mother tightly.

  Bryan rolled his eyes. “I don’t have all day. Let’s keep the theatrics to a minimum.” He turned back to his men. “Double them up on one of the spare horses.”

  The woman shoved her children away from her. The two boys held onto each other as they rushed by Bryan in pure desperation. They were at an awkward age where they shunned affection and contact, especially with a sibling. In the wake of their trauma, they reverted to the support of the only thing they had. They helped each other mount the unsaddled horse, the older taking up the reins.

  A gruff command and a boot applied to their horse’s rear flank got them moving and the group departed. They watched their mother until the trees formed a wall between them. Their last glance of her captured her collapsing anew across the chest of her fallen husband. Then it was just the boys again, suddenly part of a new world they didn’t even know of until a few minutes ago. They looked around desperately but there was no support and no comfort to be found.

  At the front of the procession, Bryan addressed a man named Nathan. He’d filled in a lot of the leadership gaps created by the absence of Top Cat and Lester. “You ever hear of the Shining Path?”

  “Only when you mentioned them in the dining hall.” Nathan hadn’t been comfortable with Bryan since the murder of the women, but he thought it an inopportune moment to bring that up considering the amount of killing the normally docile Bryan had been moved to commit recently.

  “Sendero Luminoso,” Bryan said. “They were a guerilla movement in Peru with hardcore traditional communist ideals. They were known for their brutality. The thing I remember about them is that they would go into villages to recruit with the simple philosophy of join or die. You got one chance. If you refused, you were killed. Even though the Shining Path has been crushed for the most part, that one technique always stuck with me.”

  When Bryan said nothing else the silence became awkward and Nathan felt pressured to speak. “It works, I guess.”

  Bryan looked at Nathan with cold eyes. Nathan could see madness swirling in them like cream stirred into coffee. “How could it not? With that technique, we shall build an army.”

  Nathan thought of all the people he would likely see killed. He had been a graduate student in agriculture. He planned on getting a job on a large farm after college and living the pastoral life of a man who worked the land on a daily basis. However, he’d been sucked into Bryan’s vision. For now, the world offered him no better options.

  But could he stomach the killing?

  6

  With the three men being newly acquainted Conor, Jason, and Johnny went through bursts of conversation on the trip to the Jacks’ farm. They talked of general matters until they reached a point in their travels where the trees opened an incredible vista before them and all fell silent in appreciation. With the breathtaking beauty of the view came an awareness that settled on all three men equally. Whether it was the phenomenon known as seasonal affective disorder, brought about by the shortening days, or whether it was just the sense that these three men knew what the coming months might bring, the lighthearted conversation ended abruptly, like music when the stylus was swept from a phonograph. It was amazing how an incredible view could force you to realize just how small you were in the scheme of things and turn your focus inward.

  "So have you guys heard of my efforts to organize people into some sort of defense?" Conor asked.

  "Some," Johnny replied.

  Sensing an affinity with this older man, Conor adopted the approach of pointing out what he suspected were similarities in their way of thinking. "I’ve worked by myself most of my life. I've kept to myself and taken care my own business. My plan was to deal with this whole collapse situation in the same way. My daughter and I would keep to ourselves and stay close to home. We hoped if we didn’t mess with anybody that nobody would mess with us."

  "That was our plan too," Jason said. "So far we’re only batting about fifty percent with that system. We never look for trouble but it still finds us. People are stealing our shit. Some of our neighbors have even reported finding strangers in their houses and barns. My dad was always against carrying guns around inside the house but we’ve taken to doing that now. We don’t see a choice."

  "Minding my own business, or at least the business of my daughter and myself, has not worked well for us either. My daughter was just walking down the road to her friend’s house when she was taken. She's pretty capable too. She's a fighter. Had the odds not been so against her she could probably have taken her attackers. The point is that the whole mess happened because we let bad people get too close."

  "I understand wanting to organize the community but it's a hard time to ask much of people," Johnny said. “People are starving. A lot of them are anyway. They barely have the energy to scavenge for food. We can't exactly be asking them to patrol the countryside."

  "I understand that," Conor said. "About all we’ve done so far is conduct a little psychological warfare. The battle to get those women back was brutal and I'm hoping word of it spread. My people and some of the others have also been systematically carving a double ‘M’ into trees throughout the area. The hope is to eventually associate that symbol with the violence that took place in the battle to get my daughter home. When people see the double ‘M’ mark I want them to know that area is patrolled by the Mad Mick. I'm hoping there might be a deterrent effect."

  "The Mad Mick?" Johnny asked. "That's what you call yourself?"

  Conor shook his head. “My coworkers started it. Either way, the name stuck. At least in certain circles."

  "I thought you were a machinist," Jason said.

  "I am," Conor replied.

  "You have a lot of guns for machinist," Jason said. “If you don’t mind me saying so.”

  Conor laughed. "Maybe you just don't know the right machinists, my friend. Now tell me about these visitors you had."

  When the three reached Johnny's farm, the horse buyers had not arrived yet. Both Johnny and Jason’s wives were holed up in the main house, sitting by the windows with guns to watch for any visitors. The first thing Johnny did was wave his hat toward the house and let them know he was back.

  "I hope your wife is watching, Jason," Johnny said. "I’m not sure your mother can tell one man from another at this distance. I love her dearly but both her eyesight and her aim are poor.”

  With time on their hands while they waited for the buyers, Johnny and Jason showed Conor around the main areas of the farm.

  "How many acres do you have?" Conor asked.

  "Over three hundred total. A lot of it’s straight up and down. We keep the trees cut back, which is quite a bit of work, but it keeps the land fit for grazing. There are a couple of decent fields for hay or corn."

  "You have cattle and horses grazing it now?" Conor asked.

  "We used to. Now it’s a gamble to let any stock out of your sight," Jason said. "The fields near the house are mostly eaten down so if we keep stock close we have to supplement them with hay. We don’t want to do that because we’re trying to save what little hay we have for winter. The distant fields have more grass left but we’ve lost cattle in those fields because we can’t watch them as close. Dad is against it but I’m considering taking them to the far pastures and—”

  Johnny’s dog suddenly went ballistic and bolted from where the men were talking.

  “Must be company,” Johnny said, heading back to his horse. “We better go. I don't want anybody to get nervous and shoot him."

  Johnny was already riding off in pursuit of the dog before Jason and Conor remounted their horses.

  After Jason rode off to join his father, Conor paused, lagging behind to double-check that his primary weapon was ready. He did so then slung it over his back. He didn't want to look threatening, like he was brandishing the weapon, but with it on his back he could maneuver it into action quickly if needed. He performed the
same check with his handgun before nudging his horse and joining the other men.

  His delay made him the last to arrive at the party. By the time he reached the gathering in the driveway, Johnny and Jason were already engaged in conversation with a force of nearly two-dozen strangers. Johnny was speaking with a man who must've been a leader, or at least the spokesman, of that group. The man was heavily muscled and even in the cool weather wore a T-shirt that revealed extensive tattooing.

  Conor paid close attention to the tattoos. People often gave away a lot of information with their ink. Sometimes it told the story of imprisonment, military service, or gang affiliation. Nothing in those tattoos revealed anything to Conor at first glance. When he raised his eyes to the man's face he found the man staring at him just as intently.

  "I'm sorry if we left you the impression you needed backup, Mr. Jacks," the man said, his comment directed more at Conor than Johnny.

  "Conor isn't backup," Johnny said. "We don’t require backup. He's a neighbor who was interested in hearing any news of the world that you may bring with you."

  Conor nodded at the man, a greeting intended to defuse the tension that had obviously been dialed up a notch by his appearance and by the tactical gear he wore. "My name is Conor Maguire. I live down the road. Just thought it might be nice to know what is waiting for us out there in the world. We don't get much traffic in these parts. Don’t get a lot of information."

  "I'm Wayne," the stranger replied. "I’m not sure how much useful information we have. We’ve travelled a long way and we’ve seen a few things."

  "If you don't mind me asking, where did you travel from?" Conor asked.

  "Detroit area."

  Jason let out a low whistle. "That's a long damn trip."

  "An ugly one as well, I'm sure," Conor added. "Detroit can be rough in the best of times."

  "And it's far from the best of times," Wayne said.

  "You come all that way on horses?” Conor asked.

  Wayne shook his head. “We had a convoy of vehicles with enough fuel to get us this far. Now we’ve drained the last can and can’t find anymore.”

  “That’s about the state of things,” Conor said. “No one around here can get any either.”

  “That’s why we’re buying horses,” Wayne said. “We were lucky to come across Johnny. He’s apparently known around these parts as the guy to get horses from.”

  Conor held up a hand. "Well, don't let me get in the way of your business. I just wanted to hear if you had any news."

  Wayne nodded. "No, and I've got a lot of men tied up here that could be useful back at camp. I probably need to get this taken care of and get back to things.”

  With no role in the horse trading, Conor hung back a polite distance while Johnny, Jason, and Wayne negotiated. From behind reflective sunglasses, he spent his time assessing the other members of Wayne’s party, certain they were doing the same with him. His initial effort was aimed at determining what type of relationship existed between these men. If he could figure that out he might get a better handle on whether they posed a threat to his community or not. Were they coworkers? Members of the same gang? Neighbors? A bowling club?

  In his line of work, Conor had traveled around the world and seen street gangs in all their various iterations. He’d seen American street gangs, gangs in Central and South America, Asian thugs in Thailand, and brutal Russian gangs that he hoped to never cross paths with again. These guys didn’t give him that type of vibe. They were clearly not a biker gang. Bikers practically wore uniforms and were easily identifiable. There were no visible indications they shared a similar military history or other type of fraternity.

  There was certainly no rule that men only traveled with men like themselves, but it was human nature in tough times to look for the support of those with whom you could share some sort of bond. Unless a person was completely stranded alone on the highway and forced to team up with strangers, he’d be likely to find friends or family he felt safe with. Knowing what bonded these men would help Conor understand them and understand their motivations.

  When they agreed upon a price, Jason and several men from the group of strangers rode to a nearby pasture to cut the horses from the herd. Wayne gestured at a man in his crew who held a string of pack horses. He led those horses forward while Johnny slid from his and joined Wayne on the ground. The pair opened saddle bags and examined the goods inside.

  Johnny and Wayne dickered for a little while longer, then finally shook hands. Wayne directed his man to follow Johnny up to the house to drop off the trade goods. That left Wayne and Conor alone there in the driveway.

  After regarding each other in silence for a moment, Wayne nodded toward Conor's gear. "You look like a prepared guy, Conor. You think you're ready for whatever the hell is going on now?"

  Conor understood that the comment wasn't a challenge but more of a probe. "Every man has a past, Wayne. My past required planning and organization. It required being prepared."

  "What kind of past was that?" Wayne asked, his face smile indicating that he knew just how pointed a question that was but he was still going to ask it anyway.

  "Some might call it a sordid past."

  Wayne realized this was a dead-end line of questioning. Conor wasn’t going to tell him anything. “Gotcha. If you told me, you’d have to kill me, right?"

  "Something like that," Conor agreed, his tone leaving a lot of latitude in how the comment might be interpreted. He could have been joking but he could also have been acknowledging that killing was an option still on the table. "As long as we’re asking questions, do you care to share anything about your own recent past? I'm pretty damn good at reading people but I have not nailed you guys down yet."

  Wayne replied with the same slight smile he’d given Conor a moment ago. "You know, if I told you I’d have to kill you."

  Wayne arched uncomfortably as if experiencing a twinge in his back. He did a few stretches, trying to work the kinks out. Conor studied the man’s clothes carefully and saw a clue at the corner of the man's right jeans pocket. The top edge of the pocket was frayed threadbare in a wide strip. Conor knew exactly what caused that.

  "Construction, right?"

  Wayne looked up suddenly and eyed Conor suspiciously. "What makes you think that?"

  Conor pointed at the jeans pocket. "Tape measure."

  Wayne looked down at the place his jeans had worn from wearing a tape measure clipped to the pocket and laughed. "Every damn pair of jeans I've got looks like these."

  "Travel will be a lot slower with horses. If you don’t mind me asking, are you guys moving on or thinking about holing up here for the winter?"

  Wayne stiffened in a way that demonstrated the question touched a nerve. "I guess that’s something I'm not prepared to discuss right now. It’s dangerous to share too much with people you don’t really know."

  "Fair enough," Conor said. "It just pays to know who's in the neighborhood."

  Wayne regarded Conor warily. "Is this where the sheriff tells me to get out of town?"

  Conor shook his head. "Not at all. I’m not sure people would describe me as the sheriff anyway. I was never cut out for that line of work. Law enforcement always had too many rules for my liking. It’s in my nature to go a little unhinged at times and they frown upon that."

  Wayne didn’t have an opportunity to respond to that. Conversation was interrupted by the sound of approaching horses. Johnny was leading the pack. At his side was the man with the pack horses. Behind them was Jason, then the rest of Wayne’s men riding either the horses they’d come with or the new ones they traded for. As that group rode past the men assembled in the driveway, they gave no friendly departing wave as would have been customary in this part of the country. Heads forward, they rode on past.

  Wayne remounted his horse and nudged it closer to Johnny's. He extended a hand, exercising a bit more civility than the rest of his group. “Nice doing business with you, Mr. Jacks. I expect we'll be seeing each ot
her again sometime. You and the family stay safe."

  Johnny shook the man’s hand. “Thanks. I hope your people stay safe too.”

  Wayne looked at Conor and gave him a wary nod. "Something tells me I'll be seeing you again."

  Conor replied with a nod. Wayne spun his horse and galloped off to catch his crew.

  "First people I ever met from Michigan," Jason remarked.

  "What you think?" Johnny said.

  "Bunch of pricks."

  Johnny laughed but Conor was still focused intently on the men riding away, wondering if Wayne was correct in his assessment that the two men would meet again.

  “Conor, you interested in sticking around for dinner?" Johnny asked.

  " I appreciate the offer but I’ve got my daughter and a boy to take care of. I want to get back to them before it gets too late."

  “How about a shot of liquor for the road? I’ve got a few Mason jars aging in the rafters of the barn."

  "Thanks, but I don't drink. I would like to ask you a question before I go. I was going to ask you on the ride over but it slipped my mind."

  "What's that?" Johnny asked.

  "I’ve got the word spreading to people on my side of the mountain about everyone working together to keep things safer. I don't know any folks over on this side of the mountain. Any idea how I might be able to see if people are interested?"

  Johnny scratched his chin while he pondered.

  "Reverend White's church maybe," Jason mentioned. "There’s people there every day.”

  Johnny waved a finger in exclamation. "That's right! He's operating the only organized event taking place in this little valley. Matter of fact, they’ve got a never-ending pot of soup. They started it about a week or two after the disaster. Folks add new stuff every day and anybody in the community that wants to can come by for a bowl in the evening. You have to bring your own cup and folks who are able bring a contribution to add to the pot."

  "You know these folks?" Conor asked.