Ultraviolent: Book Six in The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  In less than a mile they paused at the crest of the ridge, alongside a trailhead parking lot with a few bullet-riddled signs explaining the rules. Scattered beer cans, their paint faded by exposure, showed that the parking lot was not just frequented by hikers. It had once been a rest stop for those who considered a twelve-pack and a back road to be a fine evening's entertainment. A pink thong hanging from a tree branch showed that the parking lot might have once been frequented by the occasional hillbilly Casanova in better times.

  "The Channels," Conor said, reading the sign aloud. "Wonder what the hell that means?"

  He pointed to the old gravel road that led up the mountain and toward the geographic feature known as The Channels. They soon came upon a locked yellow pipe gate, but there was ample room to ride around it on the horses. For a little over a half-mile, they continued along the gravel road, passing several other entrances that branched off to the right and must have been the driveways to private cabins. There were No Trespassing signs on those roads. Conor was curious if people were living in the cabins, but not curious enough to risk getting killed over it.

  Eventually, signs directed them off the gravel road and onto a wide dirt trail. The trail was dry now but deep ruts showed that it was probably very wet in the winter.

  "There must be more cabins up there if people drive on this," Barb said.

  "Probably a good spot for hunting."

  They came upon two more cabins along the trail before they swung around another gate and continued on a fire road. The tree canopy was dense at this time of year, yet occasional open patches allowed them to see for great distances in all directions. Sometimes Conor paused, referring to his GPS to get his bearings. Outside of flying in a chopper, he hadn’t been anywhere since the collapse that allowed him to see for such long distances.

  A little more than three miles after leaving the paved road, a branch trail on the left led to The Channels, according to a brown sign.

  Barb gestured at the trail. "You curious at all about what the hell is up here?"

  Conor knew the sweating horses could use a break. "Sure. Let's go."

  They had to dismount to lead the horses through the low rhododendron canopy that sheltered the trail. Even walking, it took them less than five minutes to reach their destination. There was a disintegrating shack of some sort on the right and a tall fire tower rising from the rocky crest.

  "That old shack must have belonged to whoever was stationed at this tower," Conor said. "They used to man these things in the summer, back in the old days. They had radios so they could warn the forest service if they saw smoke."

  "I wonder if we can climb that thing."

  "Galvanized steel construction," Conor said. "It's plenty strong but I wouldn't trust those wooden steps. I think my fat ass will enjoy the view from down here."

  "Wish we had something like this back at the compound. We're plenty high enough but there's too much forest around us to get this kind of view."

  "Maybe I'll build us a tower one day. Once I can get materials again, that is."

  "And if we still have a compound," Barb added.

  The Channels, according to a sign posted nearby, was a network of channels within a rock face that were similar to caves, except open on the top. They'd been formed over three hundred million years ago when the Appalachian Mountains were jutting out of the sea and wave action eroded the passages into the rock. Indeed, as Conor and Barb explored the unique feature, there were pockets of sand trapped between the rocks.

  "This place is neat," Conor said. "I've never seen anything like it. It gives you a sense of geological time. Of how long the Earth has been here and how short your time upon it is."

  "Yeah, it's cool." Barb sounded nowhere near as interested as Conor. "I'd be more interested in climbing around on these rocks. Looks like a good place to train."

  "Always with the training," Conor mumbled. "Sometimes you should stop and take stock of the world around you. Use that imagination."

  "Be glad I train like I do. I may need my strength if I have to save your ass."

  "Training is a good thing, Barb. I'm glad you train, but it doesn't hurt to take in the majesty of the world sometimes either. Be in awe of the things around you."

  "I'm in awe of the things around me right now. I'm in awe of the way that getting older has made you fixate on your mortality. You're starting to sound like some hippie spouting off about the Mad Mick's place in the big old scheme of things. It grates on my nerves. Maybe with your future job prospects in question, you can become a guru or some shit like that."

  Rather than scoffing at the idea, Conor seemed to seriously consider it. "You might be onto something. I like the sound of that. Instead of the Mad Mick, I could become the Mad Maharishi. I could teach yoga or something."

  Barb brayed with laughter. "Oh, I can see that now. The world's first yoga with weapons school. You could do sessions on stretching while wearing ghillie suits or meditating with your AK-47. Or maybe how to maintain a state of mindfulness while you slit throats and crack skulls."

  Conor waved her off. "Always with the sarcasm, daughter. Let's get our horses and get out of here."

  Barb snickered to herself as they led the horses back down the short spur trail and mounted up. Every time Conor shot her a hard look she'd laugh even harder.

  "What's so bloody funny?" he demanded.

  "Oh nothing," she chirped, choking down her laughter.

  They got on another fire road and every few minutes Conor was stopping to study the surface of the trail beneath them. Finally, he pointed out what kept grabbing his attention. "That's bear scat."

  Barb suddenly looked concerned. "It's all over the damn place!"

  "Exactly my point. Stay alert."

  Several times they heard crashing in the underbrush that made them reach for weapons, but they never laid eyes on what created the noise. The horses became skittish, which made Conor think they'd caught the scent of a bear.

  Conor had his GPS hanging around his neck, splitting his attention between the tiny colored screen and the woods around him. Before long he reined his horse to a stop and climbed off. "I think we need to set up camp near here. This is directly above the valley we need to watch."

  "Can't we go lower? All this bear scat has me a little twitchy."

  Conor shook his head. "I don't think so. The satellite maps show some scattered structures at various points along the slope below the ridge. Can't tell if it's barns, hunting cabins, or mobile homes. Maybe all of those things. Until we have more information on which structures are occupied we need to tread carefully."

  Barb booked around doubtfully. "Right now it's what's up here that concerns me more."

  "The horses will let us know if anything gets close. We'll hang our food and get rid of our garbage. We'll be fine."

  "If you say so."

  They led their horses off-trail, wanting to get well clear of it in case any hunters frequented the route. Using stream locations on the map, Conor located a spring that fed the headwaters of a small creek.

  "This is a good spot," he announced. "There's grass for the horses and if we dam this spring it'll create a little basin for them to drink from."

  Finding a place where they could care for the horses was the most difficult aspect of camping along the ridge. Now that they'd found a place where they could sustain the horses, Conor and Barb would have to make do, carving out whatever accommodations for themselves they could come up with. Since there was little in the way of flat ground, they'd both string up the lightweight hammocks they had in their packs. They weren't fancy models enclosed with mosquito netting, but they could rig tarps above them to stay dry if they were caught by a storm.

  They unsaddled the horses, carved out a spot for them to drink, and introduced them to the water. While they drank, Conor hobbled them so they couldn't wander off. Barb used a length of paracord to hang the saddlebags from a tree branch in case a bear came along.

  When the horses were sett
led, Conor reviewed the satellite map on his GPS and picked his next vantage point. "That way." He pointed down and to the left.

  "Steep ridge," Barb noted. "You sure you're going to be able to get back up here after we walk down?"

  "I will if I have no choice." It was an honest response. Climbing steep hills sucked for everyone unless you were someone like Barb, who thrived on physical suffering.

  Once they got moving, the descent reminded Conor of all the things he hated about aging. Despite his level of conditioning, his knees hurt and soon his ankles were complaining too. Eventually, his thigh muscles trembled from the effort of trying to remain stable on the acute angle. At times they were even forced to sidestep, their feet sliding in the thick leaf litter that ranged from dry and crackling on top to a black, rotting mulch underneath.

  Finally, they could see beyond the trees to a high pasture. At the edge of the treeline they located a downed tree that would make an excellent observation post. They used dead branches to rake the leaf matter out. Not only did it make their outpost quieter, it would make it easier to spot any snakes that might try to join them. The hills were thick with copperheads, and the wooded slopes were also home to the occasional timber rattler. Conor wasn't a fan.

  When they'd carved out a good base of operations, they settled in. Barb went for food and water while Conor focused on getting the spotting scope mounted on the lightweight tripod. It was an M151 that Ricardo had sourced for him for a previous operation and allowed him to keep. It was basically a high-end Leupold with a few battlefield-specific features.

  Once he had it set up, he got out his water bottle and a protein bar. He chewed and sipped, scanning the valley below, trying to orient himself. He retrieved the tablet Browning had given him and referenced a map of the valley that someone had annotated, marking the location of various landmarks. The most obvious feature was the centuries-old farmhouse that was labeled as belonging to a family called the Wimmers. A note in parentheses indicated that this family was rumored to not be allied with Jim Powell.

  With this reference point established, the rest of the homes on the map fell into place. Conor didn't know the details of where Browning got his intelligence, but there was a fair bit of detail on which homes were occupied and who was thought to be in them. There was a small home across from the Wimmers, sitting high in an open cattle field. A notation indicated the home belonged to a man named Buddy Baisden who was deceased. The current resident was a man named Lloyd, an outsider to the community who was allied with Jim Powell. Conor examined the home through the spotting scope but saw no signs of life. There was a porch with two rocking chairs, the floor scattered with empty Mason jars. Conor suspected the guy must be into canning food.

  Another home that was close to the Wimmer's house and the Buddy Baisden home had a question mark over it on the map. The notation indicated that it had once been occupied by the county sheriff but was now believed to be vacant. Conor found that interesting. Had the sheriff been allied with the residents of that valley? If so, what made him leave? Under current circumstances, people typically didn't leave a place where they felt safe and comfortable unless they had a much better option available to them. Unless they didn't feel safe or felt that they couldn't go along with what was taking place in their community.

  To the east of that home, there were several large, open fields with sporadic patches of forest. The next home on the map was said to belong to the Bird family, marked as having resided in the valley prior to the collapse. Another note stated that their allegiance to the Powell family was uncertain. That didn't tell Conor much, except that whoever provided the intel for these notes didn't know much about the Birds’ activities.

  To the north of the Birds’ home, perhaps a mile distant, was the property belonging to the target, Jim Powell. Conor studied it intently, frequently moving between the objective of his spotting scope and the labels on his map. He had a detailed narrative on Powell elsewhere in the tablet that gave both factual biographical information and a collection of less reliable rumors and speculation. Conor had read it all several times, but he'd read it again now that he was onsite and could put it all in perspective.

  The primary question on his mind was whether Jim Powell was even alive or not. There were rumors he'd been taken away in a military chopper, but the documents on the tablet said that no agency admitted to having taken him. That didn't mean it hadn't happened though. Conor knew there were rogue operations taking place every day because he'd participated in a significant number of them.

  The notes on the tablet indicated that many of the people in the community were convinced Jim Powell was still alive, while others were certain he was dead. The Wimmer family said they'd talked to him weeks after he was supposedly picked up by a chopper, but no one outside of this valley had been able to confirm a sighting.

  Conor noted a couple of small solar panels outside of Jim Powell's house. It wasn't enough to run an entire house. It looked like a crude system, perhaps cobbled together to run a few lights and charge electronics. He noted that the gutters were channeled into barrels for rainwater collection, but also that there was a cinderblock structure near the home with a small brook running out of it. That had to be a springhouse, a primitive type of refrigeration often found in houses that pre-dated electricity, but this one was of modern construction.

  It made Conor think a bit more about the personality of the man he was hunting. Was he a prepper or some type of survivalist? If he'd prepared in advance for the possibility of living without power, what other preparations had he made? What type of weaponry did he possess? Even more important, was he trained to use them? Was he a skilled gunfighter or one of those men who confused stockpiling ammo with true preparedness?

  The other structures on the property that he took notice of were the barn, a few storage buildings, and a large garden. There was also some type of gathering spot in the backyard of the house that looked more beaten down than the rest of the grassy lawn. There was a firepit surrounded by benches, chairs, and stools.

  In the high grass of the pasture beyond Jim Powell's house, there was a clear trail beaten to the nearest home. It was a small house with vinyl siding and a large garden. He observed a woman working in the garden alongside two other women and several children. The notation on the map simply identified this residence as being occupied by an "unknown female and family" and indicated that she was aligned with Jim Powell.

  South of Jim Powell's place was a mobile home park that was labeled on the map as being empty now. There were also eleven other structures in the valley that had been burned to the ground. They were noted on the map and, one by one, Conor located their charred ruins. There was nothing to explain what had happened to them but there were too many to assume it was accidental, although that didn't necessarily mean Jim Powell and his people had torched them. It could have been a campaign someone else waged against the residents of the valley. It could also have been done by the very residents of those homes. Maybe they decided to leave the valley and didn't want Jim Powell and associates to occupy their homes once they were gone.

  Panning the scope east, Conor located a home off to itself on the south side of the valley road. The map had it labeled as "Weatherman family, residents prior to the collapse" but there was no note as to whether they were affiliated with the Jim Powell group or not. There were a few other scattered homes in the valley that were labeled as "occupant unknown." Conor would have to study the patterns of movement between houses to get a better picture of who was going where and who was spending time with whom. That would answer his questions better than any notes based on rumors and speculation.

  The last house in the valley was a sprawling brick ranch on an enormous farm. Though the home wasn't visible from the shot-up campsite that Barb and Conor had investigated, it was the home nearest to it. Perhaps only half of a mile separated them, but the lay of the land and a forested knoll interrupted the line of sight.

  Behind that house was a barn and,
beyond that, a creek with several chairs set up alongside a gravel beach. It looked like the kind of place where children played and adults might bathe. There was a clothesline in the yard filled with clothing of all sizes from infant to adult. A box truck was parked close to the barn, looking like someone was trying to hide it from anyone who might be passing by on the road.

  Conor consulted the map. The notation was more extensive for this home than for most of them. It said "large extended family affiliated with Jim Powell" and went on to note that they were "well-armed and dangerous." From the sound of that, one of the sources who'd provided the intelligence to Browning's people must have seen or heard of some trouble that involved these folks.

  Having taken in the entirety of their area of operations, Conor sat back from the spotting scope and leaned against a log. He ate his protein bar and rehydrated while he stared off in thought.

  "You figure out where he lives?" Barb asked.

  "I believe so. I know the lay of the land and some of the players now. Next, it's just a matter of figuring out who's on which team and what they're up to."

  Barb raised an eyebrow at him. "That's all there is to it, huh?"

  "You'd rather I just top him and be done with it?"

  "Maybe. It would be the most expeditious approach. We could be home by morning."

  "That's not what Browning asked for and he'd find that approach unacceptable. If he wants an example made of the man, then that's exactly what he wants. Anything else is failure."

  Barb finished her lunch, then retrieved a spotting scope from her pack. Hers was a civilian version of the Leupold tactical spotting scope. It was still fitted with a killflash to prevent the sun from reflecting off the lens but wasn't equipped with a filter to prevent targeting lasers from blinding her. When she had it set up, she focused it on the valley and studied the scene below them.

  "Okay, run me through this, Dad. Tell me what I need to be looking for."