Last Son of the War God

by Clay Martin

  Tim asked a few questions of the stranger before he realized he was acting like a total weirdo. He had come back to town to grab some more beer and some steaks out of Bill’s freezer, and hadn’t planned on talking to anyone. It was so hard, barely twenty-four hours off the hunt, to contain his inner self. Christ, his cock was still sore from his turn at the spoils. He was third in line this time so there was still plenty of fight, and for the first time had stuck it in her ass. God that had been tight. Afterward he had momentary concerns that the other guys might think he was a secret homo, but nobody did. The tribe would never think that of one of their own. He was so turned on by it that he got hard again in time for seconds, before the sun came up. After the feast, the guys had sat around talking about how to improve the chase. Bill had suggested a woman with a child, but Dean thought maybe it was time to recruit another man as prey. Maybe if they put a man with a woman, which would make things more interesting. The talk had gone on long into the night, and by the next morning they were out of beer. Normally they didn’t come back to town during the hunt week, but Chief had said it was okay this time. Maybe he was trying to salvage the experience, knowing that the chase had left the guys a little disappointed. When that stupid bitch Samantha called him, he answered mostly in case she had spotted his truck. Didn’t want to seem like you’re acting weird, answer the phone like a normal person Tim. What she told him was almost too good to be true. Large, fit man, passing through, alone, scouting elk locations for next year. Older truck, no wedding ring. That last bit was probably Samantha’s answer to herself, not like it would have stopped the slut anyways. Sometimes he thought maybe she should come up to the camp. Not a fucking chance, Chief said. No one from around here. Not until we are stronger, not until the Return of Kings is upon them. Then it won’t matter. You can do what you want in town, there will be no need for the camp. But not now, no exceptions. Now here Tim was, looking at this guy like he was fresh meat on the auction block. Get it together man!

  “Sorry, I just came down from camp myself. You forget how to talk to people being out in the woods that long.” Tim said, throwing back a shot of whiskey to calm his nerves.

  “I get that, how long you been out?” Mike responded, still coiled inside waiting for an ambush.

  “Bought a week. Needed a resupply.” Tim smiled, holding up a case of beer cans from the bars cooler.

  “I hear ya there buddy.” Mike smiled back. It was fake as the day is long, but a poker face was one of his strengths. What kind of a twat needed a beer resupply after seven days at a hunt camp? This Tim dude was a strange one, no doubt about that.

  Tim excused himself into the kitchen, and slipped out the back door. This was a golden opportunity he gleamed to himself. The stranger looked reasonably fit, Samantha told him he was in the area scouting elk locations, and wasn’t due back East for weeks. The Bronco in the lot had North Carolina plates, which was a long way from home. Whole lot of miles between here and there for someone to check if he went missing. Decision made, Tim smiled. Alpha males took risks. It’s what they did, how they survived, and only a beta needed a group consensus to act. The boys were in for a surprise tonight!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When Tim came back in, he looked like a different man. Animated, friendly even, he started asking Mike all about himself. Mike stuck to a well-worn cover story about being a recently divorced, out of work construction worker. The conversation felt a little bit like a sloppy elicitation attempt, which made it easy to deflect. Still, Mike was a little on edge. Maybe this was the set up while the goon squad assembled out front. Well, if things got to out of hand, there was always the .45 ACP stuck in his waistband. An XD-S chucking ashtray sized bullets tended to even any odds.

  Tim grew more and more sure of himself by the minute. The answers this stranger was feeding him were a gift from God himself. It seemed he was all alone, off the beaten path, and hadn’t really told anyone where he was. Finding himself, something all these city boy fucks needed to do nowadays it seemed. Drones, all drones, slaving away for a system built on spend and earn, achieve status, be entertained. They weren’t even really alive. It would be the greatest honor of this loser’s life to get to die in a hunt. Hopefully this one at least had enough fire to die well. The few men that they had hunted before had finally whimpered and cowered when eventually cornered. So sad. They couldn’t even really call themselves men. Why not at least die fighting? That would be a worthy death.

  Tim walked to the back of the barroom where Samantha had busied herself cleaning tables, and told her to go ahead and take off. He would close up himself. That had never happened before, but Samantha didn’t want to question it. Tim was acting strange, the new guy Mike was signaling tension in the air, albeit subtly, and she didn’t want to be involved. Not her problem, once she got her purse and headed out the back door. Maybe Tim was about to ax murder this guy, and maybe this guy was about to stuff Tim under the counter. Either way, she wanted to be home and in bed by the time the Sheriff eventually asked what happened. This was definitely a weed kind of night. Smoke a bowl, turn the lights off, and forget this day ever happened.

  Mike felt his heart sink when Samantha walked past and said goodbye, noticeable without leaving her number or a house key. If not his heart, certainly his libido. Well, that settled that. Tim was removing the only potential witness from the equation; violence was going to ensue. If this was some kind of unrequited crush, or just a your not local are ya boy kind of situation, the result was the same. He was going to try a be a grown up for once, walk away if this was a threaten “or else” party. Not like he was ever any good at taking a step back, but it beat having to shoot everyone if more than two other guys showed up. Or did it? He was here to probably end his life anyway, what difference did three yokels make? But he was also buzzed, which had a tendency to mellow him out. His end was supposed to be peaceful, not a last stand on the receiving end of a posse. Nothing else had been, the universe kind of owed him this one.

  “No offense stranger, but I need to close up. You might drink like a fish, but one customer still isn’t worth keeping the lights on for.” Tim said with his best Baptist caught holding a beer smile.

  “Not a problem, I had best be on my way to.” Mike smiled back. Just a big dumb idiot with no idea what came next. No sir, officer, had no idea how fast I was going.

  “One for the road? How about a shot of your choice” Tim considered just inviting him to the camp since it fit his interest. That would solve the Bronco problem, and the guys would subdue him the second he stepped out of it on principle anyway. But nope, not the way things are done. Tim was too smart for that. If something went wrong, he would be in deep shit. This required a bit more finesse. Besides, if they ended up hurting him bad in the take down, the bonus hunt would be shot. Like hitting a deer with your truck the second you get to your corn pile.

  “How about Crown?” Mike shook the fuzz off. Probably shouldn’t, but one more isn’t going to make much difference for what happens next. He still had his wits about him, this was going to end fast regardless.

  “To the line of Hunters” Tim raised his glass. Mike nodded and swallowed his drink.

  “I’ll walk you out so I can lock up.” Tim said, sliding around the bar and coming even with Mike.

  Fuck, here we go. So the it was the classic, ambush right outside the door. Well, Mike had seen this one before too. The door pushed in from the outside, hinges on the left side. Tim would open the door, ever the gracious host. Stutter step as they approach the threshold, duck the second his first foot crosses the opening, lunging to the right with a hook flying at ball level. A tiny minority of people were left handed, hence the ambush man would likely be on the right. With a little bit of luck, it would be a bat not a 2x4, and the shorter weapon would carry the hitter through the empty door, smashing Tim’s teeth out for good measure.

  Five steps from the door, Mike saw the world start to swim. Four steps
and it all faded to black as he crashed to the floor.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Mike felt himself floating to the surface of consciousness long before his body stirred. His brain was telling him to wake up, but it was hazy, like a whisper across a foggy marsh. The words weren’t quite right, and the direction was far from certain, but the message was getting through. Why was it so hard to open his eyes? The last few years of hangover wake ups might hurt, but they at least snapped him to attention. He tried to move his arms to rub his eyes, but they wouldn’t budge. Oh fuck, was he paralyzed? Did he drive off a cliff or fall down the stairs? His mind cut through the clouds like a suddenly too bright sun, and a refocused pull on his arms told him not only did they not move, but his shoulders were sore. Good sign! Pain beat feeling nothing at all. His thoughts went into overdrive.

  Mike had been born with a super power, albeit one that wasn’t normally very useful. He woke up faster from anesthesia than anyone he knew. Several of the surgeons that had worked on him in the past had commented on it, and it was mostly good for prank or two on the charge nurse, watching to see if you would return to the land of the living. No rhyme or reason, and certainly not due to clean living, but he woke up fast and clear. It was coupled with a larger than normal resistance to pain management drugs, which was less a super power and more a curse. When you have been hurt as bad as he had, and as often, the universe owed you some not feeling time. And like most things you are owed, good luck collecting.

  Hands numb, shoulders sore, arms won’t move. These are problems. Brain seems to be engaging, toes wiggle, and no source of blasting pain yet, that probably means not damaged. Or hurt extremely bad, the kind that is so deep it goes past pain, and straight to probably dying. He moved his head a little side to side and nothing shrieked at him. Good sign. Then he realized he could hear voices talking in relatively close proximity and went dead cold. His reassembling hard drive started putting together the last events he remembered.

  “Sako? What is that? Sounds like a fancy European brand. I’m telling ya, this is some rich fuck, bought an old truck so he don’t get robbed for being a city fella.”

  “With a plastic pistol shoved in his pants? Drinking? That ain’t no city boy way to do shit, its illegal”

  “Gym muscles. Some faggot assed office job, bought some toys to try and come out to the woods and recapture his man card. Done fucked up though.”

  “Them tattoos don’t scream city life, and a couple big assed scars?”

  “Tattoos are cool now. Probably got em off insta-book or some of that other computer shit. Hell, scars might be fake too. Perverts and weirdos from the city do all kinds of strange shit now days.”

  “300 Norma Magnum? Never heard of that shit. Its a big assed bullet though. Probably some pussy can’t shoot, thought a big ole bullet would do the work for him. Bet the salesman laughed all night, thinking about some dip shit green horn cracking his skull with the scope when he drops the hammer on this.”

  “Wait till Chief gets back. He’ll know what to do. Tim, you’re either a dead man or a genius, and I can’t wait to see which.”

  The last bit was punctuated by deep belly laughter from at least four men, on the way to intoxicated by the sound of it. Mike connected enough dots to remember he was in a bar, headed to the parking lot and likely a fight. Had he lost that fight and was laying half dead in a ditch now? Years of training kept him from opening his eyes or moving again. Keeping his chin slumped to his chest, he very slowly flexed his fingers. Or at least thought he did. All he was getting in response was pins and needles. Awakening his other senses, he noticed he could smell wood smoke. The dingy little hovel he had left only smelled of cigarette smoke. His mouth was dry and he was thirsty, but not ravenously parched. That said a short amount of time since he had gone under, three to four hours at worst. Could also be five minutes, but it hadn’t been that long in relative terms. Finally his wrists solved why his shoulders were full of acid. As the feeling slowly came back in his arms, he felt the bite of a circle of metal on each forearm, which only could mean one thing. Handcuffs.

  It takes an abnormally practiced man to stay still when he awakens from an uninvited slumber. Mike was that and then some. There are many situations where letting people assume you are dead has advantages. There almost no situations where upon waking up and discovering you are handcuffed, jumping up and screaming bloody murder has advantages. Opening his eyes would just tell a guard, if one was present, that he was ready to commence whatever came next. Being handcuffed and recently under his eyelids, that was probably not going to be any fun. Mike tried to breath normally and absorb any other detail he could.

  Footsteps, and the movement of canvas. Footsteps moving closer. Mike dared not move from his fake sleep. He could feel a body close to his, like proximity siren going off in his head. A booted toe prodded against his calf. Stay limp, let it happen he willed himself.

  “He’s a big fucker. Think he’ll be any good in the woods?”

  “Hope he’s better than most of these cunts have been. And the women too.” A second voice chimed in, eliciting a chuckle from the first.

  “Why’s he got a bullet tied around his neck? Some new queer jewelry fetish?”

  “I”M FUCKIN TALKING TO YOU BOY!” A mouth yelled inches from his face, spittle catching him above the eye. Mike didn’t flinch in shock by sheer willpower. If they had taken his pulse, the jig would have been up, but these two didn’t seem the thinking type.

  “He’ll be out for hours yet genius, this is my own brew. Years of perfection distilled drop by drop.” Said the second voice, which Mike’s recovering senses tagged as Tim.

  “I still say he’s just another pussy got lost in the wrong woods. Maybe Chief will give him a gun or something to keep this interesting. Otherwise we might as well just do him right here.” Oh sweet baby Jesus, let that happen Mike yearned. A faint glimmer of hope sparked in his heart. Give him a Makarov and two rounds, and this equation would change real quick.

  “I don’t think Chief is in a giving mood. He was breathing fire and brimstone like a traveling preacher in a dry county when I told him the news. I’ll be damn surprised if he even lets us hunt.”

  “Not your fault brother, you saw a chance and went for it. That’s what alpha males do. Chief might be pissed at your judgement, but can’t nobody fault you for making a decision. It’s outside the way we do things normal like, but inside the code of how we live. Take what you want, it’s the Return of Kings.”

  Shuffling away the same direction they had come, with the words fading,” Yeah, but Chief is none too fucking happy. And that is not a man you want to piss off.” Tim sounded a little dejected, liquid courage on board or not.

  “Fuck it. Worst case scenario, we bury him with the rest, season is over, and we all laugh about this over beers for the next year. You took a risk, not just following like some drone. Chief will understand that, and the tribe does too.”

  No greeting to a third party, or words exchanged with one. Pretty good odds he was alone in a room. Rolling his head to the opposite side as the direction of the door, Mike risked partially opening his left eye. What he saw doused any hope of walking out of this one. Both men had masks on, the pull up kind with drawn on animal teeth. Under normal circumstances, laughable. But here, this had a very sinister connotation. This had nothing to do with concealing identities. Mike was under no illusion these men were concerned he knew who they were. For thousands of years, across every continent, a mask had been part of every warriors’ attire. From the faceplates of the Romans, to the Samauria menpo, to tribal Africa, to arguably modern camouflage paint. Yes, it was partially designed to strike fear in your enemies, or make you appear other than human. But mostly it achieved a change in the human psyche. Put a dozen men in masks, and suddenly they were mentally capable of committing all kinds of barbarity. Take it back off, they returned to humanity, like peeling off a glove used for a
dirty task.

  Mike didn’t know what was going on, or where he was, but he knew a couple of things about the human mind. So did whoever called the shots around here, and he knew enough to put his men in killer face as part of the ritual.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Chief, Bob to most people in the county, was not a man used to being second-guessed. A bear of a man with a hot temper, he dominated most interactions with people by sheer implied violence. God help you if you actually managed to piss him off. Some drunk had taken a swing at him a few years back, and Bob left that poor dumb bastard a vegetable, sucking down taxpayer dollars at a hospital over in Spokane on life support. Bob dropped him to the pavement with his first counterstrike, and just kept hitting him. Long after the man was down and out of the fight, Bob just kept pummeling him like a wet noodle. No one in town had wanted to testify to that, and with no witnesses any charge of assault evaporated. “Chief” had a reputation before that as someone not to be messed with. The incident with the drunk made mothers pull their children close when he walked down the street, and tempered the tongue of any man who even thought about challenging him around here. When he walked in the tent flap at the base camp, he was positively lit with rage.