by Clay Martin
Dog and handler threat eliminated, Mike circled back to a patch of high ground overlooking the killing field he had created earlier. He was very curious to see how the Sheriff handled adversity when it was right up close and personal, as well as how the troops would handle this added insult. He might even get to see a mutiny, with the rest of his enemies cleaning each other up for him. Extreme trauma can show the cracks in the cohesion of even hardened, battle tested units. He wondered what it would do to psychotic, untrained, amateurs. Mike and all his kind had been psychologically evaluated to ensure they had a good chance of surviving things like this unfazed. He had no idea what his would do to a gaggle of random mortals, especially the kind that were used to consistently winning.
Not long after, he got his answer. The rest of the party showed up, and began sorting out the carnage. Following the blood trail first, they found the handler and dragged his body out into the open. Milling about a bit, they found the pool of blood where the other wolf fell, and followed its obvious drag marks to the cliff. Looking over, one man went white in the face, and had to step away to vomit. The horror of it had become too much for him, or maybe he was just abnormally afraid of heights. That gave Mike a brilliant idea. He pulled the pistol out, and screwed the suppressor back on. For the first time, he noticed the dents left behind by teeth. He shuddered at the thought. A bite like that could easily snap a forearm, and he never would have broken a hold like that in time with a knife. He had gotten extremely lucky. Looking at the pistol as a whole, it didn’t appear the barrel was bent, a real possibility with that much weight hanging off it. He would have to send Dan Wesson and Sig a thank you card. He also took a moment to vow no more fancy guns. Tight, 1911 style fitted pieces are more accurate, but they are not more reliable. Adding the suppressor on back then had also been stupid, it cuts the reliability of any pistol. It was all combat Tupperware from here on out, provided he wasn’t killed or jailed before then. Checks complete, he looked back to his prey. An argument seemed to have broken out, heated for certain. Mike wanted to fuel that fire with some added horror. Always a winning combination. The bearded man was pacing back and forth, looking down occasionally at the shattered corpses below. Maybe he was thinking about jumping, ending his agony. Best to help him along then.
Two hundred-fifty yards was a far shot with a pistol, even in expert hands. But it wasn’t impossible. And this opportunity was so good, Mike was certain the God of War would begrudge him one bullet. The combination of eliminating one more enemy while striking unholy fear in the rest was too much. He had to try. The one with the beard stood at the precipice, hands raised, bellowing at the Sheriff. The other four stood to one side, not having chosen a side yet. Mike had laid the pistol in the V of a tree branch near the trunk. Every added bit of stability mattered at this range. Red dot turned low for minimum distortion, he raised it two feet over beard guy’s head. Steady, he slowly eased pressure on the trigger. The gun barked, and Mike waited for impact. Time of flight would be a full second.
Just as he started to think he had missed, he saw Beard crumple. The bullet hit him low in the hip, and his collapsing weight dragged him backwards. In slow motion, he fell over the edge, disappearing from sight. He screamed the entire way down.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
As the chase wore on, Chief was more and more certain the dogs would run him down. He felt his old confidence returning as the tribe found the river crossing. Chief had chased a few convicts in his time with Johnson, and this looked exactly like what they would do. Desperate but futile hope of flowing water, and they were always surprised when the dogs found them anyway. Following the arrow Johnson had drawn, he kept after the footprints and broken limbs like his own yellow brick road. He just wished he could be there to see the beasts extract a terrible vengeance for him. Johnson’s dogs were half breed grey wolves, and meaner than the Devil himself. They would tear Mike’s guts out, and smile the whole way home over it. They had been little slow in catching up a few years back, and the carnage they found was sickening to look at. City Council had raised stink with him about who exactly he was contracting, but the voters seemed alright with it. The escapee had been a kiddy diddler, and that didn’t garner much sympathy in these parts.
He was thinking they must be close when he heard muffled gunshots, two of them. Maybe Johnson had fired into the air to get his dogs off. That would be keen of him. Chief would much appreciate a seat at the show. He pressed his men onward, which was getting harder to do by the minute. These boys were dead tired, they would need a long rest after this. “Come on you curs, it can’t be much further” He yelled, leading from the front. Rising up the side of the mountain, he finally stepped out into a clearing. Curiously, he didn’t hear anything or see anyone. Finding the first pool of blood, his heart fell through his stomach. Creatures like Johnson’s don’t let a victim loose once they latch on, and a man is too big of a meal for even three of them to drag far. Fear rising, he set the boys out in a search pattern. It didn’t take long to figure out the story. Liam had been right. A demon had been unleashed, and it was cutting them down like a threshing machine. The loss of the dogs was utterly incomprehensible. Two had been shot, but how the fuck did the third one get tossed off a cliff? There was no blood, only scuffmarks up to the edge. Sheriff Bob felt something new forming in him. He had been slightly scared before, but now he was terrified. He had to keep that under control. Had to think of something quick too, or else the men were going to bolt and run.
He had lovingly built this tribe, a collection of men he had molded into his shape. Others, to share his vision of the world, and his hobbies. It was nice being able to talk about these things, after being forced to keep them bottled up inside for all those years. His police job gave him insight into the commonalities among serial killers, and he knew this was one area where he was outside the bell curve. Most of them are loners, and anyone acting in a size beyond two-person team is always caught very quickly. Even pairs are exceedingly rare. But Bob was a social creature. He liked the sport of others participating, and he liked the power he wielded by the taboo things he coerced them to do. He had invented the rituals and mythology whole cloth, but that was part of the fun for him. He truly enjoyed watching the tribe grow in audacity and skill, each of these men felt like a son to him. But it was time to put the icing on this cake. If they continued this path, everyone would die. The fate of the wolves and Johnson put a guarantee on that.
Gathering the survivors close, he told them the only way out. “Men, we are in deep shit here, no question about that. I’ve never seen anything like this, or even heard about it for that matter. But our man did fuck up. He left us a murder, with a murder weapon, that I guarantee has his fingerprints on it. I don’t see any other way but to shift strategies. What we need to do is think through a plausible story, iron out any holes in it, and bring down the power of the office I hold. I am talking full blown National Guard helicopters, State Police, FB fucking I, the works. Good chance this guy is so nuts, and I’ll help enhance that story line, he doesn’t get taken alive.”
Jessup was the one to dissent. Apparently he had found his balls again, must’ve had a pint stashed somewhere Chief thought as he started to argue. “You out of your fucking mind Chief? You know how much dirt is up here on all of us? Tracks we couldn’t cover in a month of work. We just need to get the fuck out of here, lay low for a while, and this mother fucker will go away.”
Chief folded his arms and looked stern. This wasn’t the time to muscle his authority, the rest might crack. “Jessup, you saw the registration in Robbie’s mouth. He probably kept the rest, he knows where we live. And what about this son of a bitch makes you think he’s the quitting type?”
Jessup was pacing, stopping suddenly and throwing his hands in the air. He was yelling now, a tone he would never even have considered with Chief a week ago. “Fuck you Bob. You haven’t been out here. You’ve been back at your fucking desk, while we are out here getting
chewed the fuck up. We stay out here, we all die. We call in the goddamn Police, we are going to jail. Me, Zeke, and Wade have all done time, it isn’t fucking pretty. I’m not going to live in a fucking cage again. They would put us away for life if they found the bone pile. Bury us under the goddamn jail. We are leaving. Your happy ass is going to drive us down this mountain, and we are gonna hide out for a while. End of story.”
Chief started to respond, when Jessup folded at the hip. The four tribesmen not in the argument looked defensively at Chief, sure he had just shot him, Zeke raising his rifle. Chiefs gun was still in the holster. A second later, the sound of a gunshot reached them. The bullet had already gone subsonic, eliminating the crack of a bullet flying past. Jessup tilted his head up in a look of betrayal as his legs gave out, his mouth opening to scream as his crippled body pulled him over. His voice grew distant, followed by an unearthly wet splat, like a bag of meat hitting a countertop magnified by thousands. Dumbfounded, Zeke looked over the cliff to be sure. The other three stood frozen. As Zeke turned around, he caught a glimpse of Chief disappearing into the timber, back the way they had come. Panic struck, Zeke took off after him, the others following in his wake.
Bob hauled ass back toward the camp. He knew his only salvation was to get to his car before Mike disabled that too. Even before Jessup was shot, Bob knew the game was over. The only way out was to sacrifice the rest of his men, and hope Mike had never been close enough to identify him. He hated it, but he could build again. He had a nest egg saved; he could buy some land in neighboring Montana. This site was done, that was certain. And he couldn’t call in any outside law enforcement, Liam would spot the holes in that right quick. Whoever he brought in, word would get around. Statewide manhunts are rare in Idaho, and cops gossip like old women. He couldn’t even do that if he knew they would burn Mike down. The body would be identified by dental records or fingerprints or DNA, and there was no good answer for how the “stalker” had ended up on this side of the state, in Bob’s own turf. He also knew that if any other bodies got found, Mike had an alibi of not even being in the country for some of them, no doubt. His boys were not going to survive this. Bob could get away though, and that was what mattered. Run back to town like nothing happened, let Mike clean up the mess and possibly Tim on his way out, Sheriff Bob has no leads. Forgotten by next Christmas, life goes on. After the amount of felonies he had committed himself, no fucking way Mike was going to the Feds. “Hey Agent Johnnie All American, I had a chance to escape, but instead I ran around the woods carving people up like Thanksgiving turkeys, but let me tell ya something.” No chance of that.
His guys might have figured this out after his hasty escape, they might even be pursing him now. But he had much fresher legs than they did, and he had slept in the last seventy-two hours. He hoped it was enough, because all five of them were running for their lives right now. A fox only has to beat the slowest rabbit, but the rabbit has to beat the fastest fox. Bob pushed himself faster, chest heaving, trying to keep oxygen in his system. The terrain started looking more familiar, he was getting close! Hope sprung in him like a governors reprieve. He was going to make it! Into the clearing he ran, past the charred remains of the tent lodge and Bo, never looking back. Like Lot’s wife and the pillar of salt, he knew that to do so would be his end. Single minded purpose, he kept his eye on the prize. Grabbing his car door, he almost ripped the handle off trying to get it open. He didn’t remember locking his door this morning, and he frantically felt his pocket for the keys. Oh fuck, he lost them in the pursuit. He pulled his pockets inside out, staring at them in disbelief. Jacket pockets! Of course! Oh sweet mother Mary, there they are! His hands felt like he was wearing oven mitts as he separated the car key from the rest. The door unlocked, and he scrambled inside, firing the ignition before he even pulled it closed. Ripping into reverse, he J-turned in a cloud of dust, braking hard. Slamming the shifter into drive, he floored it. Faintly he heard the crack of a bullet as the engine roared to max RPM’s. Disappearing around the first corner, he slapped the dashboard. He made it! He fucking made it! Sorry men, but it was you or me. And I always pick me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Zeke ran as fast as his legs would carry him, Wade, Garrett, and Tony not far behind. At first he thought Chief was just getting out of the line of fire, smart tactical decision. As the miles wore on though, a different line of reasoning started to meld in his mind. Why hadn’t Chief stopped to regroup with them? Was he running in a panic? That seemed like a good way to get ambushed. But staying back here with a killer on their tail didn’t seem like a good idea either.
It felt like Zeke had been running forever. Like he might keel over and die at any second, and that would actually be a welcome relief. He was exhausted, wiped out, so far gone he was starting to see things. He thought he caught a glimpse of Chief up ahead of him, and stutter stepped to pull his rifle up in case it was the stranger. He tripped over a root and lost sight of whoever. Picking himself up, he resumed his flight. Finally, the terrain looked familiar again. Breaking into the clearing that had been home for so many years, he finally knew what Chief was actually doing. As the brake lights went off and Chiefs car lurched forward, Zeke unleashed a torrent of rifle shots. Wade bounced into him from behind, the other two piling into them both.
“That’s Chief dumbass, he’s going to get help.” Wade yelled, knocking Zeke’s rifle barrel high. He looked at Zeke like he had just committed sacrilege.
“No, he isn’t. Chief isn’t coming back. He left us. Left us out here to die.” He turned to face the remaining survivors. The looks he received in response told him they knew it was true.
“FUCKING FUCK!” Wade screamed.” No good, coward mother fucker!” The abandonment by Chief was the last straw. His entire belief structure crumbled in front of him. It was like getting to the Pearly Gates and having Saint Peter ask you if you had been a good Shinto. The walls came tumbling down, and there was no answer.
“Johnson’s truck, maybe we can hot wire it. Or he has a redneck key!” Garrett chimed in. Holy shit! Wade had forgotten that in all the excitement! The foursome found the strength to run to the old diesel truck. What greeted them added insult to injury. Keys were in the ignition, but Zeke’s bullets had found a back stop. It would turn over, but something under the hood was hopelessly damaged. Absolute crushing defeat settled over them, made all the worse from a glimmer of hope. For a long while, they sat next to the truck, men at the gallows resigned to fate. Zeke finally spoke.
“I have one last idea, and it’s not a great one. But I just don’t figure any other way, and I’m not about to sit here waiting to get shot, or burned up in goddamn sleeping bag tonight, or some other terrible fucking way to die we haven’t heard of yet.”
The other three perked up. At this point, anything beat nothing. Zeke continued, “We are gonna surrender. This guy was a Marine, they don’t shoot prisoners. They let fucking ‘Old So Damn Insane’ surrender, and he did way worse stuff than us.” That had actually been the Army’s ‘cough’ 4th Infantry Division ‘cough,’ but no one was around to give a history lesson. Zeke let the idea sink in, waiting for someone to object.
“Are you fucking crazy? Surrender to this guy? What if he just decides to kill us anyway? And if he doesn’t the State is sure as hell gonna after they sort all this out.” Wade was having none of it.
“If he wants to kill us, he could’ve done so with a rifle already. Anytime since after he killed Robbie up to now. We can’t get him in the woods, and we don’t have a tracker or dogs to try again anyway. The only other option is to try and walk out, but I don’t think he’s gonna let us do that. Surrender is the only way. Them Marines are full of honor and shit, I don’t think he’ll just kill us if we aren’t a threat anymore. And as for the State, we get a plea deal for turning Chief in. Fuck him. He left us out here to die. We use the State of Idaho to bury his ass instead. We play our cards right, we might only do a dime or so. Long as
we don’t confess to any of the weird shit.”
His story was gaining traction, the survivors were in like rats from a sinking ship. He had their rapt attention. Bring his head down in a huddle, he spelled out the last piece in a whispered tone.
“That last part was in case he can hear us. Unless he saw Chief leave, or has his eyes on us right now, he don’t know how many of us is left. We get out to an obvious spot, clearing West of here smaller than this one, build a big ole fire, call out we give up. Tony is laying in the woods, all covered in branches, I give a signal. Tony shoots this mother fucker, we call it a day. Deal with Chief’s ass later.”
Now we were talking! Renewed vigor, the four left for a small meadow Zeke knew nearby. On the way, they worked out the details of a plan. The stranger tended to prefer to strike at night, at least it seemed that way. Sundown was only a couple hours away. They could bury Tony in brush, keep him pretty close though, since he would be shooting in the dark most likely. A big fire would help that, and Zeke’s signal would be a Copenhagen tin. Filled with gunpowder they could get from a few bullets, and with holes drilled in the back, it would make a good flash bomb. The added light should help Tony make his shot, and distract the stranger long enough to die. Natural enough that if they sat around throwing pinecones in the fire, the motion would be missed at go time. Hastily, they set about making preparations.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Mike was delighted with his shot on the bearded guy, that was too perfect. A hit anywhere would have been good, but to get a hip shot? Dropping him off the gorge, still screaming? That was textbook. He hoped he could tell his boys from Bragg about it one day. That was a shot worth bragging about. And it seemed to have done the trick for inducing panic. The Sheriff took off like a scalded cat, his minions not far behind. Mike considered following them, but he would have to run to keep up. And that was a damn good way to get counter ambushed and killed. Not exactly what he had in mind, but if they all managed to escape in Chief’s car, he could always find them later. The more pressing issue at the moment was a tactical blunder he had committed. He had spent so much time on a battlefield, ideas like evidence trails didn’t always factor into his planning. His bare fingers had buried a hatchet in a man’s head, and he had three shell casings along with an unfired round to account for. The last check back in sniper school at the end of the day was always the same. Lay out your boxes of ammo, and every piece of brass had better be accounted for. Burpee’s and pushups in a healthy volume ensured it was a mistake you only made once. In school, you paid in pain. On a battlefield, you might pay with your life. It was a lot easier with bolt guns than auto’s for sure. This was a lesson so ingrained, Mike had actually asked after his first firefight, riding a machine gun no less, if they had to pick up the brass. Fucking new guys, they ask the dumbest things. Out here, though, things were different. He was starting to see a limited advantage in carrying revolvers, no need to go looking for evidence.
