Last Son of the War God

by Clay Martin

  Mike’s wait proved long, his freshly recovered watch told him in excruciating detail. He had worked fast earlier, a by-product of an unknown enemy. After the spear attack, his worst-case scenario gave him an hour-long head start. If these men were real savages, they might have just left their dead pinned to a tree and come right after him. He banked on the threat of a rifle in his hands to slow them down some, they didn’t appear fanatical enough to just charge him with superior numbers. One of two things was happening now. They were bringing back a body, or they saw through his ruse. If the later was the case, they might well be glassing the tree line right now, looking for him. He had by necessity picked a position with an open field of view, but had camouflaged his spot with carefully placed vegetation. He doubted all but the best of counter snipers could find him as it was. If they did, they better get him with the first shot. Counter battery fire would be coming like Thor’s hammer itself.

  Finally, after hours of waiting, he heard the sounds of movement coming from his 12 o’clock. Much too large to be an animal, unless an entire herd of elk had taken flight. Mike pulled the butt stock into his shoulder, his right hand loose on the pistol grip. Double checking that the safety was off with his thumb, he mentally rehearsed his movements. He had done this pre fight ritual a thousand times, but habits die hard among professionals. “Shot placement doesn’t matter, just get some hits” he drilled over and over. The Berger hybrid match bullets he was using were enough to take a T-Rex off its feet. Against men, all he needed to do was get some lead in them fast. He could be having steak and eggs in Spokane by morning.

  The bearded man from earlier was the first to come into sight. Keeping both eyes open, Mike tracked him to his center cross hair. At 450 meters, his bullet only dropped five inches, and there wasn’t enough wind to even begin to matter. He stood frozen for a moment, and Mike had to actively resist the temptation to drop the hammer. “Stick to the plan” he murmured to himself. Beard moved forward at a glacial pace, and behind him came a tangle of limbs as the rest of his posse reached the clearing. There was a stretcher with his earlier victim on board, which explained why it took them so long to get here. Mike counted, making sure everyone was present. It wouldn’t do to get wrapped up a killing spree, only to get hit from the flank. Doctrine said to never take more than two shots from one position. One shot is almost impossible to identify the source of, but two narrows it down nicely. Three almost always gives away your exact location. Mike needed to take at least six.

  Staggering into the open, on the tribesmen came. Mike gave it enough time to get them all well into the open. They had no idea what was coming. Two men matched paces, and his finger tightened on the trigger. Tiny bit of take up, a custom feature of all his personal rifles. He liked the mechanical movement to give him a tactile assurance he was set when fingers where numb. Long years of practice let him add half the pressure required to fire as the scope tracked the man in the rear. As soon as he came abreast of his buddy, they were going to die as one. Half a step to go, Mike released the breath from his lungs. Natural respiratory pause, the ideal time to shoot. Inches until they met square, and a bullet tore through both of their torsos long ways. With this much kinetic energy in the projectile, he was likely to get all four lungs and both hearts. His left hand fed micro adjustments to the stock of the rifle, balanced on its bipods. He started his gentle squeeze of the trigger.

  And stopped abruptly. This wasn’t the way. The War God hadn’t kept him alive for it to be this easy. He had all of his tools now, he could end this at any minute. He thought back to what he had told Robbie before he gutted him. It was true. Those might not even have been his words, the War God was speaking through him. Channeling him back to a purpose. These men deserved to be punished. Not the easy death of shot in the head so fast you don’t know it happened. There might or might not be a hell in the afterlife, but he could certainly create one here. And maybe this was Mike’s redemption. He had felt useless, lost, and he had come up here to kill himself. But the last two days, hunting and killing men that deserved it, with just the tools of the Stone Age? On reflection, he had never felt so alive. This is what he was born for.

  He was suddenly glad he had left them with supplies. He wanted them fresh enough to play. They didn’t have enough to be happy, which was also good. They needed to eat some bitter before he ended them. In these last moments, let them gain an understanding of what a real soldier went through. Then they would be allowed to die. Cold, hungry, and afraid, just like they deserved.

  Decision made, Mike turned his rifle to the surviving functional truck. The one he had planned to escape in. No one would be escaping now, he knew, as he sent a copper shanked meteor crashing into the engine block. One shot, and off he went into the safety of the forest. It was time to plot and scheme. He thanked the War God for the chance as he melted into the wilderness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Every step drew Jessup nearer. He already knew what it was, but he needed to be closer to make it real. Like his eyes were lying to him. If he could just get right up to it, he would see it was something else. Or a fake. Robbie playing some extremely elaborate practical joke on them. Burning the camp was going pretty far for a joke, but that was Robbie. Immature fucking kids.

  No amount of self-delusion could make the image change though. It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion. He wanted to, but he couldn’t look away. Fifty feet from being able to touch it, he felt tears running down his cheeks. No way Robbie could be dead. Not like this. His hands were extended in a futile gesture of touch as he numbly closed the distance to the devastation. A rifle shot like the earth cracking split the air, and Jessup shit his pants.

  The rest of the troops hit the ground, an animal instinct ingrained from the first clap of thunder ever heard by an ape. Jessup stood, paralyzed by shock, the mess of his evacuated bowels leaking down his leg. Wade, playing the hero he had seen on TV, bolted and tackled him to the ground. Impacting his former mentor, he felt a soft squish were none should have been as their combined weight collided with the soil. No one moved.

  Minutes dragged by, stunned silence holding in the air like time had stopped. Gone was the grabastic return fire from previous encounters. No one had a clue which direction the shot had come from. His senses returning, Bo called for a status report. Universally scared that a voice could draw the next round, he received no answer. For a brief moment, Bo wondered if he was the only one alive. Maybe one shot had actually been many. Maybe everyone else was already in the Elysian Fields, and he was soon to join them. Cautiously, he lifted his head, and took a look around. It remained attached to him. He stood up and surveyed the rest of the tribe, many of whom were now looking at him like he might spontaneously explode. Some looked as though they might be trying to burrow into the earth like badgers. Anything to escape the killing ground they were so obviously laying in.

  “Get the fuck up you fucking pussies. I need to know who is hit!” He thundered.

  Gradually, one by one, the rest of the tribe shakily got to their feet. Wade gave Jessup a dirty look and conspicuously moved a few feet away from him.

  Bo took charge in the way that a shipwrecked crew elects a new captain. That is to say, by default. Jessup was still catatonic, walking around Robbie’s staked head in circles. Bo sent four men to retrieve Bill, and set the rest to surveying the damage. The record was not good. Bill had died of his wounds sometime during the melee, his face was turning purple with pooling blood. All of the vehicles were badly damaged, and would require parts to ever move again. Robbie had not only been killed and hung like a trophy, his truck registration was in his mouth. A chill fell over them as Bo announced what the paper stuck in his teeth was. It didn’t take a degree in cryptology to get the message. The stranger was telling them all “I know who you are, and where you live, and we will settle accounts one way or another.” Zeke was secretly very pleased he had carpooled this time. The supplies set out in the open felt
like a taunt. It was a sleeping bag per man left, with a meager supply of food and water. Right on top were several boxes full of bullets. Like having them wasn’t going to make any difference in what was to come. The only hope left was that Chief had an answer. He had been attending to other business, but he would know what to do. No one got the best of Chief. Not ever, bet your life on that.

  As twilight approached, the tribe was quietly separated into two groups. One group was gathering wood and building a new fire pit. No one was willing to deal with Robbie’s decapitated brain bucket, like it was a curse. And the other was Jessup, silently sitting on a log, staring off into the distance. A flicker of hope sprang as Chief’s car came tearing up the dirt road to camp.

  Chief parked his car in the usual spot, a force of habit from being at this place so many years. He was to all appearances unfazed, but his mind was processing detail at an alarming rate from the moment he noticed the lodge was no longer standing. He had been a busy boy today, and already had bad news to give. What in the holy fuck had happened while he was gone?

  Bo met him a few steps from his car door, alone. Some reports are best done without an audience. After a few minutes of muffled conversation, Chief strode over to where Jessup was seated. He stood without speaking, Bo a pace behind and to his right. The rest of the tribe unconsciously formed up around Jessup, looking to Chief like lost puppies. Broken, spirits drained, ever hopeful that their prophet knew the way. The look on Chief’s face was pure rage, and cowering, they braced for the onslaught.

  “Jessup, what exactly does a 175 grain Sierra Match King, tied to a green piece of 550 cord around a man’s neck mean?” Chief might have been a criminal, but he was also a very competent investigator. One did not prohibit the other. And he knew the power of an ancient ritual. Some trials must be conducted in public.

  Jessup looked at Chief dumbfounded. He had no idea what this line of questioning meant. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders.

  “You were in Force Recon, yes?”

  “I told you that before. All you guys. I didn’t shit my pants either, it’s just that….”

  Chief cut him off with a raised voice. “I don’t care about your fucking pampers. I want to know why the fuck you can’t answer my question.”

  Jessup’s eye’s widened. He knew. Jessup didn’t know exactly how or why, but Chief knew his darkest secret. Slack jawed, his brain scrambled for a solution.

  “A 175 Sierra Match King, or a 168 grain in older specimens, configured like that means a very specific thing. Something you should fucking spot in an instant if you are from Force Recon. So what is it? Answer the goddamn question.” Chief unholstered his sidearm and pointed it at Jessup’s forehead, eliciting gasps from the spellbound audience.

  Jessup looked at the gun, and past it to Chief’s eyes. There was no mistaking the homicidal intent. Chief was going to kill him, right now, if he didn’t have an answer. For the first time in many years, he went with the truth. Lip quivering, and fresh tears trickling down his face, he couldn’t look him in the eyes as he said it. “I was a cook. I was in Force Recon, but I was a fucking cook. Not an operator. I made omelets. They have all kinds of support jobs in a place like that, and technically we are in the unit. But I wasn’t on a Team. I got busted out my second year for stealing morphine from the aid station. I never even left the country.” He put his head in his hands, as audible sobs escaped him.

  Chief held the pressure on the trigger. He was so goddamn mad he wanted to beat Jessup to death instead of shooting him, but the gun was already in his hand. Between Tim’s fucking bright idea, and this fake commando motherfucker, everything he had built was going up in smoke. Bashing his skull to shards in front of the rest might also restore their fear in him, which he was going to need if they were going to have any hope of winning this. But he hadn’t survived this long by making rash choices. He was also going to need every swinging dick that could lift a gun. Slowly, he put his gun away.

  “A 175 grain Sierra Match King, on a green piece of 550 cord, is what they give you the day you graduate from Marine Scout Sniper School.” Chief let that sink in, noting the fresh shock in the faces of his men. He continued before hysteria took hold. “ I found that out on the internet today. Thank you Google. Green 550 cord, I am sure you astute specimens have noted, is basically thick green string. Remarkably like the kind around the stranger’s neck yesterday, as described to me by Tim. With a bullet hanging off it. I didn’t get a chance to pull out my reloading scale, but it is a pretty good guess that was a 175 Sierra Match. Anyone disagree with that cognitive leap?”

  Heads shook left and right. Chief pressed on with his lecture.” The story they tell is, each person is destined to die from one bullet. That is the one with your name on it. You might get shot by others, but the one with your name on it is the one that kills you. The one that is gifted to you, the day you graduate by your instructor, is yours. As long as you wear it around your neck, so you always know where it is, you can never be killed.”

  “So basically, Tim released a Marine Sniper into the woods for us to hunt. A combat proven, trained, professional Sniper. That also believes he is invincible. And our own hero class warrior spent his career asking if you wanted ham and cheese or Denver. Un-motherfucking believable. Jessup, you’re a pants shitting coward and a phony. You got Bill killed with your bullshit, acting like you have any idea what the fuck you are doing. These men trusted you today, and you failed them miserably.”

  Chief walked away to gather his thoughts. The tribesmen murmured to one another, but made no move to disperse. A few minutes later, Chief came back from his car carrying a duffle bag, heavy from the thud it made hitting the ground. Showing a disconnect none the others could muster, he also removed Robbie’s head from the pike, and placed it on Bill’s corpse, now located by the ruined trucks. He ordered a fire started in the pit to restore some sense of normalcy and control. For what he needed to tell them next, he had to be able to read their faces. Cracks in the dam were showing badly, and he needed to shore up what was left. In the dark or under the lights of his car was no way to do that. He had to remind them of their place as hunters, strength gathered by the light that had served their kind since time immortal. His council once again seated, he began.

  “ No man is bullet proof. Not a fucking one. You put some lead in King Kong, he will fall over dead too. Mike. His name is Mike. Just a man, just like any of us. We underestimated him, that is why we have three gone. We didn’t know we were dealing with a professional, but now we do. Guess what though? We are all professionals too. We have been stalking these woods for years, and our skills are as good as anyone. At risk, gentlemen, is everything we have built. Our entire way of life. We have to put this fucker down, or we will be looking over our shoulders from now on. Not just for a coward’s bullet from the dark, but for the State Police. The FBI. Any agency he could contact that might believe what he told them.”

  “Snipers are good at shooting people that don’t know they are coming. We know he is coming. Fucking pussies like that aren’t real warriors, they just sneak up and hit people that aren’t ready. So we are going to be ready. I don’t want any of you thinking we are going to get in a sniper dual with him. That is foolish. We don’t play to his strength.” Reaching into the duffle bag, Chief pulled out an M-4 carbine. “As soon as I found out what he was, I stopped by the Sherriff’s dept armory. We gotta get these back before anyone notices, but I brought each of you an assault rifle. No more deer rifles and scopes. These are purchased from the military by DHS for us, made for killing men. Full auto switch and everything. Next time we see him, pin him down and kill his ass with superior firepower. No more problem.”

  Jessup lied to us, deceived us, but he is still one of us. He has partaken of our rituals, he is still part of the tribe. We will hold a council of judgment when this is over, but not until. We need all hands on deck.” Jessup breathed a sigh of relief at his reprieve. H
e was still in trouble, still going to hear about this. But for the moment, he was okay. The guys would never let him lead again, but he still had a chance. Maybe he would be the one to get to shoot this Mike fuck, then all would be forgiven. They would see then. His alcohol addled brain commenced to telling itself he was a Force Recon veteran again. He had been living the story so long, most of him couldn’t be convinced it wasn’t true.

  Chief continued “We have one last card to play. Old man Johnson runs the dogs for this county, as you all know. He’s not on the department, we just pay him when we need him. Never enough need for our own dogs here. Johnson runs a moonshine still off in the woods too, which we all know I overlook. Something you don’t know, word is he sent out a bad run last month to his distributors. Already spent all the money they fronted him on crank and whores. He is in a bit of a bind. We would never bring an outsider here under normal conditions, but these aren’t normal conditions. He’s an old mountain man, they understand feuds. I think we go get him, tell him this is personal, and offer him all the coins we can muster. If he sees anything he shouldn’t we just add him to the bone yard when it’s over.”

  The gathered men murmured assent.

  “I am going to have to go get Johnson myself. Anyone else drives up they’re likely to get shot. He’s on a bender, and probably jumpy as hell. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Bo, you are in charge until then. Don’t go off and chase this fucker through the woods just yet. That’s what he wants. And if he wanted to shoot us right here, he would’ve earlier today. He’s playing with us. He wants you to follow him into another death trap. If I’m not here by morning, just go beat the brush a little. Keep him on his toes. Don’t go following his trail, whatever you do. Let me get the dogs here, and we will let em loose before he has a chance to react. Can’t nobody beat a pack of dogs alone, I don’t give a fuck what kinda soldier you are.”