Last Son of the War God

by Clay Martin

  LAST SON of the WAR GOD

  CLAY MARTIN

  WildBluePress.com

  LAST SON OF THE WAR GOD published by:

  WILDBLUE PRESS

  P.O. Box 102440

  Denver, Colorado 80250

  Publisher Disclaimer: Any opinions, statements of fact or fiction, descriptions, dialogue, and citations found in this book were provided by the author, and are solely those of the author. The publisher makes no claim as to their veracity or accuracy, and assumes no liability for the content.

  Copyright 2019 by Clayton Martin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  WILDBLUE PRESS is registered at the U.S. Patent and Trademark Offices.

  ISBN 978-1-948239-82-0 Trade Paperback

  ISBN 978-1-948239-83-7 eBook

  Interior Formatting by Elijah Toten

  www.totencreative.com

  LAST SON of the WAR GOD

  For my son Ronin. Most days, I hope he never sees the world the way I do.

  But some days I hope he does, because anything else is a lie.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Notes about the Characters

  CHAPTER ONE

  Bill’s shoulders were starting to sting from the pole across his shoulder, a rough cut of pine with the bark still attached. As always, it was hewn from near where the hunt had ended, quickly. It was amazing how little you noticed the small inconveniences when work was a joy, your blood was up from a righteous chase, ended in a glorious finale. Maybe that was the problem. The hunts had been less and less of a challenge as of recent, which left them feeling hollow. It certainly wasn’t the weight of the prize, that couldn’t be more than 120 pounds, with Dean carrying the back half at that. And it sure as hell wasn’t the distance. They were less than a mile from camp, which was also not unusual. Bill had been certain this one would be different, a hunt that would unleash the primal joy he so relished from his first outings. His first had been like becoming a man, all at once, all over again. Before the eyes of his group, he had proven himself an apt disciple, part of the family, one of them. The rapture he felt from proving himself a member of the tribe had almost been overwhelming. Nothing would ever be the same after that. Bill felt the change deep in his core, and thought at the time it would never pass. The look of approval on the face of the chief had been more important that the words he spoke, a ritual welcoming Bill couldn’t remember a word of. That had been almost five years ago. For a time, he had ridden high. It was like being a different person all of a sudden. An event like this branded the soul. Other men that knew could see it from a mile away. And the drones walking around living a “normal” life couldn’t possibly understand. Bill felt like a titan among men. But like any drug, eventually the dose had less effect. At first he could quickly blink away any thought that the stalks were getting stale. What kind of a soulless creature could think that, high in the White Cloud Mountains? Running down game in the dark woods, only instinct and skill to guide him, choosing the path of a thousand generations of alpha males before him. To be a hunter was to be the chosen from among the race of men, a gift bestowed only on the strongest, fittest and most deserving. He could hear his ancestors crying out with approval as he neared the finish, telling him how the spoils proved he was truly of their line and blood. Still, he felt the pleasure slipping with time. He could see it in the faces of his tribe as well, though none ever spoke it aloud. Bill had tried to change things as well, to bring pride and satisfaction back to the game. As a member of the tribe, all men were expected to use their voice. To hold back one’s tongue was a symbol of being a beta, and there were no beta’s here. No sir. The Chief’s word might be law, but only a coward would hold back his opinion. Bill had never been happier than to hear his latest suggestion receive the full blessing of the Chief, not to mention the raucous applause of his peers. It seemed the hooting and applause would go on forever. “Sheer genius, why had no one ever thought of that before?” they clamored. And for a time, it had brought the lust back to the field. It’s why this little filly tied to the pine tree had a gag in her mouth, and it had worked. Bill reasoned that if you gagged them right after capture, they tended to save more fight for the spoils, and that always made things more fun. Like a kid with a new toy though, the shine had worn off quickly. It did help to make the spoils last longer, but it didn’t do anything for the chase. And these stupid women were so predictable. Every time, they ran straight out of the clearing the camp sat in, left down the hill to the river bottom, refused to cross the stream, and holed up whimpering in the underbrush. The sign they left scurrying into a hidey-hole might as well be a neon sign to hunters like these, and it definitely wasn’t much of a challenge. Bill often wondered if they were actually more scared of spending a night alone in the woods than they were of being caught. Not like the consequences of being caught hadn’t been explained before they were released. Hell, they probably wouldn’t even bother to run without that. It never took more than an hour or two to find them, thought to be honest, the few men they had hunted hadn’t fared much better. Not that they took the spoils from the men. They weren’t faggots. Chief said that men you hunted to prove your warrior prowess, that your skills were stronger. That you could dominate other men was supremely important if you thought yourself truly an Alpha. Women you hunted for the spoils, to share in with your tribal brothers. Always, by ritual, spoils until the sun crested the peak of the mountains, then the feast. Bill would always still enjoy that part, it was later that the empty feeling of the chase would haunt him. That was not okay. The chase was supposed to be the part that earned your reward. A weak chase always meant the reward wouldn’t be as fulfilling. Ah well, he thought as they crossed into the clearing that served as the camp, another season is almost at a close. Dean had suggested that maybe a woman with a child in the equation would try harder, something they might have to explore next year.

  CHAPTER TWO

  50 miles away, Goose Neck, Idaho

  Mike rolled off state road 56 onto Main Street of Goose Neck as the sun was setting. The Black Bronco’s tires kicking up puddles as he pulled into the only bar in town. It had been a long drive from North Carolina, and starting with a hangover hadn’t helped much. Long, but enjoyable, Mike felt free for the first time in his cloudy memory. Free to take in the scenery, free for the drive to take as long as he wanted, no worries about what he ate or how much he smoked. The reason he had come here meant none of that mattered for once. In some ways, Mike couldn’t fathom the hand he had been dealt. Once a rising star, his career went up in puff o
f smoke seemingly overnight. Forced out in an early retirement, he had no chance of ever returning to that life. A bottle-a-day habit had played some part in that, but the writing had already been on the wall by then. And turns out, men like Mike should never have to spend so much time in their own heads. The demons of early success dashed on the rocks of injury hurt, more than most people would ever know. Not a lot of careers depended so much on physical capability, but he suspected pro athletes cut down by impairment in their prime would probably understand the most. It soon became apparent that Mike’s marriage had largely been held together by his paycheck, with an entirely predictable but messy divorce soon ensuing. Two years down the line now, Mike was broke, broken, drunk, and out of shape. A long winding path of alcohol-fueled failures at new business and success with whores merged with a train wreck of self-loathing and lack of purpose. Credit cards were almost maxed, finances a state of chaos at best, and all of his relationships were an unmitigated disaster. Jesus Christ, he thought, the women that fell for the new Mike were all fucking insane. In his 35 years on planet Earth, he had never in his wildest dreams imagined such a bunch of lunatics could escape the asylum. It had been fun, but not worth the price against his decaying soul. As the months dragged by, Mike slowly felt himself sliding into the abyss. Some days he would turn his phone off, and distantly stare from the balcony of his filthy apartment for hours, chain smoking. It felt like his brain was turning inside out, like a stranger was in his body. No matter how long it took him to come to, he could count on dozens of missed calls and accusatory texts from across the country. At least one would undoubtedly be threatening to hold her breath until she passed out if he didn’t respond RIGHT NOW.

  One day, like the clouds parting, a moment of clarity. An epiphany burst through his addled mind. True enlightenment. Mike understood why so many men from his world ended up as suicides. Their numbers were high, but actually skewed to the positive if you knew the inside information. The official count didn’t include heroin overdoses and drunk driving fatalities, or anything of the like. But the boys from the club all understood. None of that was by accident, at least not fully. Mike had come close himself, one of the only times he had felt truly alive since his fall from grace. Almost too drunk to walk, racing a borrowed mini cooper around the mountains of Kentucky, tires squealing without a care in the world. It had been exhilarating, pushing the little car well beyond its limits, zero thought for the potential consequences. And he had been truly afraid later when he woke up in a stranger’s hotel room. His intellectual mind knew that was a sure way to get killed, even sober and in daylight. Just ask James Dean. But his spirit just didn’t care. It felt like being locked in a cage with a sleeping tiger. You knew it was a matter of time, but there was nothing to be done to avoid it.

  Mike stepped out of the Bronco on stiff legs and stretched for a moment in the parking lot. Today had been a long drive up through Montana and Wyoming. Twelve straight hours behind the wheel of a 90’s model 4x4 was hard on the body, but this region of the country was what he had come out to see. Almost twenty years ago Mike had lived for a while in Wyoming, and the beauty of the West had left an impression. Many times over those two decades since he left, all he had wished for was to go back, live out his remaining days. Maybe part of his subconscious thought that being back here would jar him from his task, but his conscious brain just wanted to see it one more time. Without thinking he had driven all the way from Sheridan, up through Missoula, and all the way into Idaho. Why not Idaho? He’d never seen it, now was as good a time as any. Mike fully planned on spending a couple of relaxing days in the woods, finding a beautiful vista to watch the sun come up one morning, and then sticking his 10mm in his mouth. Maybe that would quiet the demons inside he couldn’t drown with cheap whiskey.

  The inside of the bar looked like every other run down shithole west of the Mississippi. Wire spools for tables, mismatched chairs that looked easy to break over some other drunk redneck’s head, neon signs from ad campaigns for beer and liquor from decades in the past, sawdust on the floor to soak up the occasional blood from Friday nights when the farmers and ranch boys both got paid. A long bar on one wall with cheap stools and a cheaper gold flake mirror in the back. A light blue haze, and Mike was happy to see, glass ashtrays piled high near the bottles on display. The West, the last free place on Earth. The woman behind the bar was sizing him up with the look of small town bartenders the world over. Half disdain for strangers, half a look of welcome for anything remotely exotic. In a place where nothing changed for years on end, a stranger might as well be bringing news from Mars. With men, the disdain for strangers part was usually stronger, until you over tipped them once or twice. With women, the exotic stranger part tended to be stronger, but not by much. That could work out in his favor too. One nice thing about living a new life, his personal skills in deception and cunning were responsible for a lot of his problems. But they still had their uses. Lead me not into temptation, he thought, I can find the way myself.

  “What’ll it be Honey?” She asked in a gravely smokers voice. Samantha was well past her prime, in a job that tended to age one fast anyway. Crows feet were getting harder to cover with makeup, and she felt the sags in her equipment as much as she saw them these days. A girl doesn’t stay 20 forever, and she was pushing twice that. Still, the lights in the bar threw her some favors, and her low cut blouse helped with tips, especially amongst strangers. Nothing was going to change the equation with the locals, not in the little fishpond Goose Neck had become. Too much time had passed, without nearly enough excitement. That was a nice way of saying everyone had already screwed everyone else in town by her age, it’s just how things went. Outside of the occasional jealous husband or cat fight, things stayed largely tame, which also meant the hint of sexual favors wasn’t going to garner any more coins. Strangers, on the other hand; well, a sucker was born every minute.

  “Gin and Tonic, and one of those ash trays if you don’t mind.” Mike had been around enough to know how this game was played. The subtle lean over the counter to put her cleavage on display was as old as the day is long, and usually worked on younger men. A fool and his money were soon parted, and in your 20’s that usually involved tits and no pay off at the end. Mike saw this play out in a thousand seedy little places just like this, and he was a fast learner. The bartender wasn’t unattractive, in a country girl trailer park kind of way. Ten years ago she was probably rolling in enough extra at the end of every night to support a new Camaro and the occasional bump of coke. Time had been tough though. Still, he had nothing better to do tonight. He would drive up into the mountains tomorrow in the daylight, and didn’t ever plan on driving back. Why not play one last hand? Win or lose didn’t really matter, and it’s not like he was concerned about the long-term consequences this time. The spider sat down and began to spin his web. The most dangerous men are always those with nothing to lose.

  Samantha talked to the stranger for over an hour before she made an excuse to step back into the kitchen. He had just asked about a hotel in town, which was both a subtle come on and a key phrase for Samantha. The owner of the bar liked to be informed anytime someone stopped in town longer than it took to get gas. They weren’t much of a tourist destination, and outside of elk season there was rarely a visitor for any length of time. Some Hells Angels had tried to use Goose Neck as a stop for poker runs a few years back, but the Sheriff put a stop to that right quick. Samantha didn’t know why Tim always wanted to know about strangers, but she suspected it was trouble with the law somewhere far from here. Something was off with Tim. She didn’t quite know what, but her female intuition told her something wasn’t normal. He had never said a cross word to her, and had never shown a violent temper. But still, something in his aura flashed “warning, danger” like the markings on a black widow. Something deep in the primate brain told her not to ask too many questions, or try and get too close to him. Scary, but scary like a corpse that had been in the river all winter.
Probably harmless, but the kind of thing you would still think about long after you should be asleep. The stranger in the barroom was a different story altogether. Something felt a little different about him too. Dangerous, but like getting your car too close to the crossing when a freight train went past. Inches away from more violence and fury than you could imagine, but totally safe as long as you didn’t press any further. Tim had the week off, but rules were rules. As she dialed his number, her thoughts floated to what it might be like to ride that particular train.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The bartender came back out of the kitchen and continued to make small talk with him, edging on the mildly flirtatious. How much was an act to dig deeper into his pockets, how much was boredom, and how much was genuine interest was impossible to tell, and largely irrelevant. Mike didn’t really care either way. He was bordering on tipsy, enjoying himself for once, and you play the hand you are dealt. The bar was deserted except for him and Samantha, one of those times of year a Tuesday wouldn’t bring much business. Time passed, and eventually a scruffy looking man came in through the front door, stopping to size the place up before heading around behind the bar. Not a word was said, but the mood changed instantly. Samantha went from flirty to subdued, once in a while even looking at her shoes. The new man introduced himself as Tim, and asked Samantha to see to busing off the tables since they would be closing soon. It was spoken as a question, but there was no doubt it was a command. “Ah fuck, what kind of shit did I just step in?” Mike thought to himself. Boyfriend? Husband, was this a mom and pop shop? Tim was eyeing him from the moment he came in the door, and Mike knew what kind of evaluation it was. He hadn’t been outright hostile, but it definitely felt like being sized up for a fight. Mike was in no mood for that, and felt his moment of action with the bartender slipping through his grasp. This Tim clown had cock blocked the magic, and a fist fight would put the nails in that particular coffin, no doubt. The guy hadn’t made a further aggressive move or statement, but that probably owed more to Mike’s size than anything. Quite a few men had thought they wanted to go down this road in his life, but most of them backed down once they really looked at him. 6’2 and 240 might not be a giant back in Texas, but most places it was enough to quell the storm. At least once it was apparent Mike wasn’t the backing down type, and might even enjoy it if you didn’t. Unless they were already drunk. For some reason, smaller men really liked to fight bigger men after the sauce took them, and it always ended badly. In the back of his mind, Mike actually hoped this clown had phoned some friends, so this would at least be entertaining if it was inevitable. If his night was going to be ruined, he at least wanted it to be worth it.