Last Son of the War God

by Clay Martin

  Thinking of Chief, Robbie set to his task of guarding the camp. Chief had put Jessup in charge, so it must’ve been the right thing to do. And he bet Chief would have a quiet word with Jessup about this particular decision. Robbie was one of his favorite proteges, and he didn’t deserve to be treated like this. Robbie knew that if they bagged the stranger, while he was sitting here in camp like moss on a rock, he’d never hear the end of it. They wouldn’t rib him out loud, at least not at first. It would be “You shoulda been there man, it happened like this” and “We nailed his sorry ass, it was so great.” Then, after the drinking started, it would be a new totem pole. Who was there and who wasn’t. Whoever got to shoot the sorry motherfucker would be at the top of that, followed by Bo for tracking him down, and finally ending with Robbie, bravely guarding camp like a housewife. “You get the dishes done while we were out avenging Dean?” They would all laugh at that one.

  Then Robbie secretly hoped the stranger was doubling back, hoping the camp was empty. Scurrying to find a cell phone, some car keys, some way to get help. And here Robbie would be. In his first draft, Robbie just shot him, dragged him over by the fire, and waited. Late in the day, his brothers slunk out of the woods, tired and defeated, not a glimpse all day. Robbie would be sitting on his log, nonchalant, sipping a cup of coffee, foot on the bandit like a prize trophy. He could just see the face that smug bastard Bo would make, some goddamn tracker. Couldn’t find his ass with both hands, while Robbie got the job done. Then he thought maybe he would drag the body into the bunk house, chain it back to the prisoner rack, like nothing even happened. Wait on someone to find it, that would get some laughs for certain! The final version of the fantasy was the best, after countless re-writes. In that one, the stranger came bounding out of the treeline, pursued by the tribe in full flight. He was too far ahead though, he was going to make the safety of the trucks. In this one, Robbie threw down his gun, and slowly pulled out his hunting knife, steel gleaming in the sun. In full view of his “betters” Robbie guts the stranger like a pig. The man falls to his knees, begging for mercy. But Robbie has no mercy in him. He plunges the knife into the stranger’s chest, just as Chief drives up. Wild cheers erupt, and Jessup has to explain to Chief why he left Robbie behind, but Robbie ended up saving the day. That was the one he liked best.

  Catching himself falling asleep, Robbie tried to patrol the area around camp. He was half scared to miss the stranger slipping into camp, so he kept to the grassy meadow. He tried to listen for approaching footsteps, or maybe gunfire deep in the woods, something to break the monotony. Give him a clue as to what was happening. By mid-morning, he grew weary of walking around in the grass. If the stranger wasn’t some kind of fucking idiot, he was hauling ass towards a highway, as fast as his feet would carry him. At least if he got away, it couldn’t be Robbie’s fault. He was guarding camp, like he was told. He bet that was it. Bo would lose the trail eventually, if he had even found it yet. The guys would be back, empty handed, by sunset.

  Robbie sat, bored again, stirring the embers of the fire he had made to ward of the chill of dawn. No way the tribe would be back before late afternoon. Jessup would be loath to give up the chase, Chief would have his ass if they came back early. That meant Robbie had hours to go.

  Chief was adamant that no pictures ever got taken in camp. He said it was a capital offense, and he wasn’t messing around. Not just of the rituals, but no pictures that could ever place any of his men in this area. It was too bad, Robbie thought, some of these whores we fuck are downright stunning. Some pictures would be nice to relive that. Recently, Robbie had taken to collecting titty mags of girls that looked like the prey from the hunts. Close counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, he mused. Chief also said no titty mags in camp, and that the tribe should stop abusing themselves to porn anyway. It made you weak, spilling your seed to fiction, less hungry for the hunt. Keeping it bottled up made you more ferocious, both for the hunt, and for the Return of Kings. After the Return, you could sate any desire you had. But you had to earn it first. Blood and sacrifice. Robbie always mentally rolled his eyes at the porn part. He wasn’t giving up digital pleasures, and he doubted anyone else was in the privacy of home either. He had just bought a new Hustler Beaver Hunts, and the cunt on page ten looked exactly like the little hooker they brought up here last season. Dirty little whore, she actually came while Robbie was giving her a pounding. Fucking slut secretly loved it. Chief was right about them. They wanted to be put back in their place. It was too bad that for now, they had to kill them right after. In the Time of Kings, he could keep a stable of his favorites. Until they displeased him at least. He hadn’t even jacked it to his new mag, and the thought stirred his loins. He would have to be quick, just in case the tribe came back early. It wouldn’t do to get caught jerking it when he was supposed to be on high alert. It would be even worse if they came back with a body, they would mock him endlessly, and no doubt tell Chief. “Hey, we bagged this asshole early, and came back to Robbie playing with his pud looking at fuck books.” The illicitness of the need made him tremble with excitement. He would just knock one out real quick, put the magazine back under his jumper cables, and no one would ever know.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Before moving out, Mike took a second to remove the round from the gun, stick it back in the internal magazine, and closed the bolt on an empty chamber. The safety on a deer rifle was mostly a decoration, and only a fool would try and crawl with one in the pipe. It was the same way he had done it with his M40A1 when he was learning. A bolt action isn’t much use in a surprise, close range encounter anyway, so why risk sparking it off and telling the world you are here? Looping the sling in his left hand to secure it, butt stock dragging, he took off at a fast high crawl. Keeping the stock elevated just a few inches with his forearm kept the scope from taking a lot of abuse, dirt from clogging the muzzle, and the ground from derailing the bolt. He thought of just making a run for it, but with his luck the sentry forgot his hand lotion. He needed to make the most of his time, and a high crawl seemed the best option. If someone appeared, he could instantly drop down in the grass, most likely avoiding detection. If he laid still, odds were in his favor the whole pack of idiots could come strolling in here and never notice him. He would just have to wait for dark, slip away, and come up with a plan B. If he was so close the sentry finished early and spotted him, it was a simple motion to sling the rifle forward, rack the bolt with his right hand, and blast him. The devil is in the details. The sun warmed his skin, and he was sweating profusely as he closed the distance. He had to be down to his last reserves of water, his tongue was on fire for a drink. Still, he stopped every few seconds to listen for sounds of the main group. He didn’t have the ability to watch his front and his back, so this was the next best thing. Damn it would be handy to have a spotter at a time like this, watching his back with a semi auto from the safety of the pines. On he went, moving as fast as he could manage. Ten steps out, he jumped up and ran for it. Too close to miss careful inspection anyway, and that much closer to fresh weapons. Carefully, he crept around the corner of the canvas walls, hand on a bolt already drawn back. A loaded weapon would have been faster, but half charged gave him options. Pausing at the closed tent flap, Mike put his ear to the canvas. He was treated to the sound familiar to a hundred thin walled porta shitters in a dozen third world war zones. Boys will be boys. Mike smiled. Time to pay for your sins. Ripping the tent flap open, spilling sunlight across the dark interior, Mike covered the distance to Robbie in two rapid steps. Robbie flailed, trying to cover himself, knowing he was busted, face a mask of confusion at what he was seeing. At the last second, Mike remembered he wanted to talk, and drove the butt stock low from its arc at Robbie’s head. It hit him in the chest at half the speed intended, but was still enough to collapse him in a heap. In a move practiced thousands of times during close quarters combat training, Mike caught the bounce of the weapon off his chest, changed the angle up on the rebound, and sm
ashed it butt first into the man’s kidneys. Robbie spasmed with the pain, and as his head snapped up, Mike looped it with the rifle sling. Crossing his hands and planting his feet into Robbie’s freshly abused lower back, Mike rotated his wrists over in a savage modified Gi choke, cutting off the blood supply to Robbie’s brain. In ten seconds, he was out like a light. Mike secured his hands with his own bootlaces and went back to the door. Twenty seconds had passed, max, less time that it took most men to cover 200 meters. And it had been relatively quiet. But still, its easy to get caught with your pants down once the action starts. Nothing quite so unforgiving as getting so caught up in the axis of advance, and forgetting your flanks. Lots of dead men learned that the hard way. Glassing the trees from deep in the shadows of the room, Mike saw nothing out of place. Robbie started to say something, so Mike walked over and calmly kicked him in the stomach. While he was trying to catch his breath, Mike pulled a water bottle out of a nearby cooler. Twisting the cap off, he raised it to his lips, and quickly dropped it. Fool me once echoed in his head. Reaching back in the cooler, he pulled out a handful of ice and filled his parched mouth. Drugged water bottles, entirely possible. Drugged ice, highly unlikely. The melt off and volume of water would make it less effective, and you would need a huge batch to start with. No one would go to that trouble for a random chance encounter. Remembering the bar lit an ember of rage, so he rabbit punched Robbie, knocking him out cold.

  As his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, Mike set about looking for the tools he would need. Shoved in a corner, he found his own gear, or at least most of it. Giddy like a kid on Christmas morning, he picked up his battle belt. The pistol was still in the holster, a monster of a weapon. He had been very flush with cash when he splurged on a Dan Wesson Fury. Chambered in 10mm, a handgun round powerful enough to handle a grizzly, it had a huge capacity at 14+1. He checked the chamber, and found it still loaded. With its integral red dot sight and 1.5-pound trigger, this was enough to change his fortunes all by itself. His Randall #16 knife was still in it sheath, so he set about cutting fist sized holes in the tent, one each cardinal direction. The canvas wouldn’t even slow a bullet down, but at least he could see now. The small size made it easy to see out, but still hard to see in, and the added light helped him in his search for the useful. Stripping off his sandal boots, Mike put on his own footwear with a rising spirit. He had never been so happy to see his friends Zamberlan left and Zamberlan right. He didn’t even bother looking for socks, priorities of work needed to be done. His .45 caliber plastic carry gun was with his jacket, right on top like it was waiting for him. Finally, he checked the load on his Sako TRG M10 rifle. One bullet missing, but no time to bother looking for it now. The other seven in the magazine would make these hillbilly fucks regret it dearly if a firefight started now. Basic survival tools acquired, Mike sat down to ask some questions.

  Robbie came to slowly. Mike was afraid for a moment he had hit him too hard, killing him ahead of schedule. You do have to break a few eggs to make an omelet. Cold water on the face finally did the trick. Robbie awoke to find himself sitting in a camp chair, arms and legs tied down, pants still around his ankles. Mike knew there were better, more reliable ways of interrogating. The best in the business never even laid a hand on their detainee, and wrung every last drop of information from them. But those methods all took time, a luxury he didn’t have at the moment. He needed answers fast, and there are more direct, if less moral, methods in the book too.

  “You are probably wondering why you are tied to a chair, and more importantly why your dick has its own special binding. That knowledge leads to the further realization that said tiny dick is actually tied in four directions over a log. Now believe me, I didn’t enjoy touching your tiny pecker, especially after I caught you in here stroking it to gay porn. Nasty little fucker. And also believe me, you don’t want to find out why I bothered. I am going to ask you a series of questions, and you are going to answer me. Got it?”

  A seemingly cobbled together statement full of lies and half-truths actually had psychology behind it. First, naked means off balance to most people, unless they are in a very intimate setting. Even then, a level of comfort first generally has to be achieved. Being of the same sex made it worse. Most men haven’t been around other naked men since they were in a high school locker room, and the awkwardness of it broke down barriers otherwise in place. Humiliation at acknowledging his actions, combined with the lie of homosexuality, leveled up the shame. Introducing the idea he was caught with gay porn, combined with his penis’s new wrappings, led him to subconsciously question not only his own sexuality, but also his interrogators. And a tiny penis insult for good measure, to further illustrate the balance of power. If he had a female interrogator to run this gambit, it would work as a standalone. But he didn’t. Steeling himself, he knew what came next.

  “Fuck you motherfucker, you don’t know who you are fucking with. Chief is going to skin you, you’re a fucking dead man. You fucked up big time. The tribe will be back any second, and they will eat you alive cocksucker. Best thing you could do right now is stick a gun in your mouth, save yourself some pain. I ain’t telling you shit!”

  Dammit, why did it always have to be this way? Mike kept his poker face, and never moved from his own chair, inches away from Robbie. In a fluid motion, he brought up the thick, wooden tent peg he had secured for this purpose, and brought it down in a hammer fist on the head of Robbie’s cock. Smashed between two unrelenting piece of oak, the transfer of force was devastating. Robbie’s eyes bugged out of his head in agony, and his screams filled the air. Mike shoved a dirty sock in his mouth he had found in the tent, jerked his head back by the hair with one hand, and poured a water bottle down his throat with the other. It was a poor version of water boarding, but it had the desired effect of shutting him up. Mike waited on the wailing to subside, and sat back down, never removing the sock. Robbie’s chest was heaving, and he contorted against his bonds. Mike calmly folded his hands until Robbie wore himself out of spasming. Making eye contact, he gestured with his left hand in a V. Point back and forth from his eyes to Robbie’s, he pantomimed “Look at me.” Robbie looked at him like a whipped dog, but some defiance was still in there. Never breaking eye contact, Mike brought the tent peg slamming down again. Then he got up to observe the wilderness until Robbie composed himself. He was in a hurry, but he needed to appear that he had all the time in the world. He had to break his spirit, and that was going to take some punishment. It was the same problem with the ragbags overseas. The hardest part of the interrogation was making them understand they hadn’t been captured by the regular Army this time. The regular Army was awesome at tank battles and artillery barrages, but they were woefully out of their depth at counter insurgency. The poor bastards actually seemed to believe what the generals and politicians said, at the least the officers did, and that was enough. They would follow the rules, no matter what idiotic order came down the pipe. First it was no bags on heads, you have to use goggles. Bags are inhumane. And don’t write on them with a sharpie. And chain of evidence. And we can only hold them for three weeks unless the local government wants to put them on trial. One of the most embarrassing things Mike had ever seen actually made the cover of the Stars and Stripes. Some fucking idiot general had decided to empty the prison at Camp Cropper, and had the 4th Infantry Division Band outside the gates playing for them. American soldiers, playing Danny Boy or whatever a band does, while hundreds of terrorists walked to freedom. Mike had flown over Cropper almost every morning that deployment, returning home from missions a lot of his teammates never would. He had often thought of expending his last grenades in the prison yard, wondering how many at prayer in their yellow scrubs one would take down. And some spineless fucking idiot that wouldn’t know what cordite smelled like let them all go. Mike’s troop rarely brought in prisoners after that. What was the point?

  Returning to his seat, Mike saw that Robbie had mostly gotten over his last dose. He p
lucked the sock from his mouth, dropped it on the ground, and twirled the tent peg into a two handed grip at chest level.

  “I think we have had a failure to communicate here. Or at least, you have failed to recognize who you are dealing with. Let me put this in some perspective for you. I killed the fat one last night. Not because I had to. I beat him down because I had to. And then I killed him. Because I am good at it. You clowns might not have recognized it, but I crushed his throat when I was finished to make sure. Whatever you think you and your “tribe” are, you’re strictly amateurs. And I have played a very long time in the big league. I’ve killed more people than you’ve fucked, and probably done so in a single day. You are already going to walk out of here hurting. If you have any shot at still breathing when I’m done, you had better start answering. Now I am going to ask you a series of questions……..”

  Robbie eventually broke. Everyone does, it’s inevitable. And once he started talking there was no shutting him up. He told Mike all about how Chief had recruited them, how they came here once a year to hunt men, how Chief selected and acquired prey in faraway locales, what Mike’s fate would have been if he hadn’t escaped. But like a career criminal, he stuck close to the parts Mike already knew. Mike prodded him with questions to steer the interview, but held some of his cards back. When he started talking in circles, Mike assumed he had exhausted the current line of stories.