Masters of Mayhem

by Franklin Horton

  Doc Marty laughed at Conor’s tirade but at the same time he was listening. After his laughter died away he processed those words for a long time. He tossed the words about in his head like a thoughtful writer twirling a pen in his fingers.

  "Tell me something, Conor. In a world of teachers, town drunks, and all the little roles that people fill in society, where do men like you and I fit in? I've always seen myself as a dentist but lately I feel like I’m fooling myself. I'm not so sure if I’m a dentist or an angel of death pretending to be a dentist. What are you?"

  There was no hesitation in Conor's voice at all. He knew the answer.

  "Some days I’m the tinker. Some days I’m the bloody fucking butcher."

  14

  Men shifted nervously from foot to foot. Restless horses were tied to everything a rein could be wrapped around, whether it was a bridge railing or a car mirror. Bryan stood on the hood of a white Mercedes convertible, his muddy feet caked with gravel that screeched as it dug into the pristine paint. He was lost in thought, mired in the convolutions of his own mind. His army surrounded him, waiting expectantly, knowing that he was preparing to speak to them but uncertain how long it might take him to find his bearings. They were prepared to wait. They had nothing else.

  From his vantage point on the car Bryan could see the dead, decomposing, and desiccated remainder of the army he had sent off from Douthat Farms. It had just been a few weeks ago but seemed so much more distant in time. In his attempt to grasp at the waning dream of Douthat Farms, he launched his current mission, which held promise until today. Now he had lost more men and much of their supplies. He was fully aware of what his troops were probably thinking. They were most certainly ready to revolt or to simply fade off into the mountains like the men who stole their wagon. This was a pivotal moment. This was where he won them or lost them.

  Bryan cleared his throat and held up a hand to get the men's attention, though he already had it. None were even speaking between themselves. He raised his head dramatically and looked through the crowd, engaging the eyes of each man. This was between him and each of them. It was a pact.

  "First, I want to apologize to you for being an inferior leader at times. I know you question the decisions I make. I know many of you are here against your will. Some of you even witnessed family members dying at my hand as I callously stole you without concern for whether I won your hearts and minds. That was naïve and shortsighted. I humble myself before you today asking your forgiveness, for a second chance at finishing what we so valiantly commenced."

  Bryan swept his arms and gestured at the bridge they stood on. “It’s fitting that we stand where we do. This very bridge represents both a physical and metaphorical crossing point. We will step off this bridge in a few minutes and it will be a new day for this effort. For this army. On one side of this bridge, the side we just came from, is who we used to be. When we step off it, we step off as something different. We step off it as new men. As men bound together with a single vision and a solitary purpose."

  Bryan stopped. He took a sip of water from a bottle and looked around. They were still his. "I'm sure you all know that in losing the wagon we lost all the food, except for what you carried on yourselves to eat on the trail. We lost the tents, the tarps, and many of you lost your sleeping gear. Somewhere men are going through our gear and celebrating their bounty. They are laughing at our loss and the injustice they served upon us. We could go after them but I could lose more of you. We’re not doing that. We will take our vengeance in a different manner."

  Bryan pointed across the bridge, to the town they had not yet entered. "I don't know exactly what's over there, but it’s yours." He gestured at his men as if he were displaying a buffet spread before them.

  "You enter that town as an army and you take what you want. You take guns. You take food. You take anything we might need. If anyone challenges you, you have my blessing to kill them. When you're certain you've cleared a house, you may burn it. I ask that you remember one thing. When you came into this army, whether you came of your own volition or whether I persuaded you under duress, whether you were volunteer or conscript, know that you are from this point forward all equal soldiers in my army. What you take today is yours to keep. It is only a taste of the personal wealth and riches that will be yours at the end of this campaign if you continue to ride with me."

  Bryan gesticulated at the town again, stabbing his finger furiously. "That right there is the point where our new life starts. Wherever we go, whenever people fail to give us the respect we deserve, it is to that town right there that we will point. It will not be Douthat Farms upon which we build our future. We will build it on the ashes of today."

  Bryan looked from man to man again, making sure they understood. Within that glance was a covenant, a promise that he wanted each man to recognize was directed toward him individually. When his eyes left the last man, Bryan swept an arm toward the town like he was welcoming an old friend into his home.

  “All yours, boys. Go get’em.”

  15

  When Conor and Doc Marty reached the valley bottom on the west side of Jewell Ridge they placed the first of their signs. Conor nailed it to a tree where anyone travelling on the road would be likely to see it. He’d constructed a stencil so that he could make each sign with spray paint instead of having to hand letter it. The sign read This Community Protected By and below that was a picture of a shamrock with the letters “MM” inside it.

  “The Mad Mick?” Doc Marty asked.

  Conor nodded. “If strangers think an area is protected by a crazy man you’d think that might have a bit of a deterrent effect. Eventually, if locals will accept a little organization and agree to take part in the effort, my hope is that MM will come to stand for Mountain Militia.”

  “Or Masters of Mayhem,” Doc Marty said, running other possibilities through his head.

  Conor smiled. “I like that. Has a ring to it.”

  “I figured you might,” Doc Marty said. “The Mad Mick wasn’t the only name you had in the business. Sometimes it was the Master of Mayhem.”

  “Nobody ever told me about that one. It’s a shame. I’d have worn it proudly.”

  “I think you scared most people. They were afraid to point out they had nicknames for you. They were worried about what might happen to them. Like poking the bear or something.”

  Conor smiled innocently. “What? Angel like me? Bollocks.”

  Conor regarded his handiwork then remounted his horse. There were more signs to put up. He also had the stencil and some spray paint with him so he could apply the same message to wrecked cars, bridges, road signs, or anything else he damn well pleased. They got moving and Conor kept his hatchet at hand. At frequent intervals, when a prominent and highly visible tree presented itself, Conor walked his horse up to it and hacked his MM symbol into it.

  “More Masters of Mayhem?” Doc Marty asked.

  Conor nodded. “It’s simple but should convey the message. I have people all over the area doing this as well. The idea is to make the mark so prevalent that people won’t be able to miss it. I’ve also encouraged people to spread an embellished version of what happened when we rescued Barb. I’m hoping the legend and the mark can work together to create a deterrent. It’s in the early stages but that’s the plan. Maybe psych out the enemy before we have to draw blood.”

  “I’d be glad to provide a testimonial for anyone uncertain of whether you’re truly a crazy bastard,” Doc Marty offered.

  “I’ll take that under consideration.”

  “How much longer we doing this? I’m not used to riding a horse. This saddle is getting the best of me.”

  Conor wouldn’t admit that his first trip on horseback had been painful too. He still held a grudge over Helsinki and wasn’t about to have any sympathy for Doc Marty until he had the opportunity to exact some revenge. Maybe then they could start over and be real friends again. For now, the specter of that night in Helsinki overshadowed everything.<
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  “A few more stops. I’m giving some of these signs to my friend Johnny Jacks for he and his son to put up around the community. They know the area better. Other than that, all you and I are responsible for is carving MM symbols wherever we think they’d be seen.”

  “Then lead the way but next time remind me to bring a pillow.”

  Conor frowned. “You do know, don’t you, that any impression you’re a badass pretty much goes out the window if you’re so tender you have to ride around on a pillow.”

  “Let me worry about my own public relations.”

  Johnny’s house was several miles from the base of the ridge. They rode along a scenic river where blue herons squawked with the abrasive cry of movie pterodactyls as they took flight. They saw a bear drinking on the opposite shore of the river, but it startled when it caught sight of the riders and disappeared into the underbrush. They passed a local high school, long shut down, and turned into a community center, where the residents voted and the elderly fought over bingo games. They passed timeworn stores closed for decades and so engulfed by kudzu that they were only visible in winter when their framework protruded from the web of bare vines.

  They turned at an intersection and, as they rode, the narrow river bottom opened up into land better suited for agriculture. It was ridiculously steep but there were some pastures created by hills that rolled gently at the top instead of terminating in knife-edge ridges. It was a rare mercy granted to the gritty folks who built a life in these confined valleys, allowing a determined farmer to graze, raise tobacco, and squeeze a few bales of hay out of the unforgiving landscape. It was a severe environment, ill-suited for those afraid to lift a finger or break a sweat.

  “That’s his farm there,” Conor said as a twist in the road opened a partial vista before them. In summer they would not have been able to see the farm from this distance. Without leaves, the well-ordered farm stood out in stark contrast to the wilds that bordered it.

  It took them nearly forty more minutes to reach the farm, following roads that curved like an injured snake, rising and falling like corrugated tin. The bright red gate that greeted visitors was usually closed but stood open. Conor paused there and held an arm up to Doc Marty.

  “There’s a dog. He usually sounds the alarm when folks show up.”

  The absence of the dog, the open gate, were setting off alarms for Conor. He didn’t know Johnny Jacks well but he’d seen enough to understand the man was a creature of habit. Like Conor himself, he did things a particular way every time. Conor understood that meticulousness and he’d noticed it in everything the man did. People like that didn’t leave gates open.

  He scanned the visible areas of the farm, the barn, and the house. He was startled by a burst of movement to his right and Doc Marty shot off, galloping clumsily.

  “What the fuck?” Conor mumbled.

  He wanted to call after the man but didn’t want to attract any more attention than they may already be drawing. They had no clue what was going on here but Doc Marty was no idiot. If he took off, there was a reason.

  Conor kicked his horse into a run and soon caught sight of what drew Doc Marty’s attention. It was a body.

  A moving body.

  Doc Marty dismounted by the barn, nearly falling in the process, and fought to untie his pack from behind the saddle. He was dropping down by the body when Conor reached him. He was by Doc Marty’s side in a second, rifle at the ready. He studied the bloody face, the saturated clothing, and the full head of white hair.

  “That’s Johnny Jacks,” Conor said. “Is he still alive?”

  “I saw him move,” Doc Marty said, ripping Johnny’s shirt open. “He’s still alive but he’s shot all to hell.”

  “Damn it!” Conor spat. “Do what you can. I need to secure the scene.”

  Conor broke the cover of the barn, crouched low, and sprinted for the house. He flattened himself against the wall, circling it first. Listening. Watching.

  He found blood on the back steps, drops and rivulets splattered on the concrete. There was no body visible. It could be victim blood or attacker blood. It could be Johnny’s blood because he’d damn well lost enough of it.

  Inside the house, Conor found Johnny’s wife dead on the couch. She’d been shot at close range. One bullet passed through her hand before striking her in the chest and a second caught her in the neck. Blood drenched the couch. There were bloody boot prints all over the spotless oak floors but there was no telling whose blood it was. There seemed to be plenty to go around.

  He stalked out the back door, angry and disgusted. There was no sign of Jason, nor of his wife. It occurred to Conor that she may be hiding. He called out to her.

  “Hello! My name is Conor! I’m a friend. I was here with Johnny and Jason when the men came to buy horses. If you’re hiding here, I can take you to safety. I can help you.”

  There was no answer. Conor gave the house a cursory search, checking the closets and all the other places he thought a young woman may hide in an emergency. He doubled back to each door and checked the bloody footprints a second time. He found none that seemed to be the size of a woman’s foot. That told him nothing. She might have run out before the chaos, before the blood was flowing. She may have escaped out a window.

  She may have been carried out over an attacker’s shoulder.

  Conor shook the thought from his head. He was no stranger to death and gore but he’d liked this man and his family. He saw Johnny as someone he could depend on in the future. Someone with skills, good advice, and wisdom tempered by years of life experience. He didn’t know if the man would live or die but the best thing he could do for him now was to figure out what happened to his family.

  He made several loops around the house, increasingly wider, looking for blood, bodies, or any signs. From the corner of his eye, Conor could see Doc Marty working furiously on the bleeding man. At times he slumped, a posture of futility and impotence, the posture of a man whose best efforts were just not good enough, then he’d find the strength to dive back in. Conor couldn’t focus on that now. He had to find Jason and his wife. They could still be alive somewhere, though Conor had no reason to hold out hope for that.

  Returning to the barn, he found Jason lying in a muddy drainage ditch. Conor jumped into the ditch, setting his rifle on the ground beside him. He dropped a hand to the man’s neck and found a pulse. He slid his hand under the smaller man’s armpits and wrestled him out of the ditch.

  Conor was no medic but he knew the basics of combat lifesaving, the shit they teach you in hopes you can keep yourself or a teammate alive until help arrives. He straightened Jason out and gave him a cursory examination. He thought he’d been shot in the head at first because there was so much blood. It turned out that a flap of his scalp had peeled from what must have been a wicked blow to the head.

  He checked the airway and found a mouthful of shattered teeth behind smashed lips. Conor raked a finger through Jason’s mouth and scooped out the chips of his teeth and a clot of blood that could have run down from his broken nose. Jason coughed. Conor got to his feet and slung his weapon back around his neck. He took the man’s arm and dragged him to the front of the barn.

  “Fuck, another one?” Doc Marty asked. “I’m not sure I can do anything with this one.”

  “You got this,” Conor said. “How can I help?”

  Doc Marty wiped his forehead with a bloody sleeve. He’d gloved up and spread his trauma kit beside him. He was pouring sweat. “I have tourniquets on to stop the bleeding. Most of the gunshots were peripheral. There’s one to his left side that’s still bleeding a little. I’m going to have to dig in and get that bullet out. If it’s nicked anything serious, he’s fucked. I’m not a surgeon.”

  “You’re doing fine.”

  “It’s not fine!” Doc Marty shouted. “I can’t leave the tourniquets on forever. I’m going to have to loosen them one by one and deal with the bleeding. If he’s lost too much, he’s pretty well screwed. I haven’t
even had a chance to check out the other guy. Who knows what he needs at this point?”

  “What can I do?”

  “You really want to know?” Doc Marty asked, taking his eyes from Johnny for the first time. “Help me get him in the house, then you get back to the compound and bring us some gear. I have a field surgical kit. I’ll need antibiotics and IV setups.”

  “I thought you weren’t a surgeon?”

  “I’m about to learn,” Doc Marty replied.

  They moved Johnny first since his condition was the most delicate. They put him in his own bed. Conor was glad the man was unconscious and didn’t have to see his wife’s body in such an unbecoming condition.

  “Where do you want Jason?” Conor asked.

  “Let’s put him in the same bed. I can’t be running back and forth all over the house.”

  The men hustled outside and quickly carried Jason in, laying him in the bed by his dad.

  “They did a number on this poor boy,” Doc Marty said.

  Conor didn’t reply. He was disgusted by the situation. It was probably over something as simple as livestock. This sweet family of four had been attacked for a few cows and horses.

  “Welcome home, Doc. This is the kind of shit we’ve been dealing with since things went south.”

  Doc Marty shook his head in disgust. “Where’s the aid? Where’s the rebuilding? Where’s the fucking government?”

  “It’s not here,” Conor replied. “Been a while since you’ve been in the shit, hasn’t it?”