Renewal 8 - War Council

by Jf Perkins

  A “whisk-punch” sound accompanied the hunting round in its high velocity path through the man’s torso, neatly severing his spine and destroying a number of valuable organs on its way through. The leader of the cannibal band saw the round hit the ground ten feet in front of his brother first. He didn’t register the lethal shot until he heard the body fold to the gravel driveway. Then came the sound of the shot. It echoed around the river valley until he could only guess at its source. His guess was close enough to put the shooter in Eugene’s camp.

  Where the sign had failed, Beth succeeded. Three minutes later, fifty armed cannibals poured out of the woods and trotted down the road to cross the bridge. Beth felt a moment of practical pride over the queasiness of what she had just done. When it comes to protecting your family, she thought, you do what you have to do.

  ***

  The sun was on the verge of disappearing behind us when Dad held up his hand. We stopped and dropped into the leaf-bare bushes. We were about seventy yards short of the road. Arturo had just returned to the scene and was doing a fine job of blasting the station wagon around the field in front of the camp, spraying mud and sod as he went. Just for added confusion, he was randomly firing out the driver’s side window. Unfortunately, even an ex-Marine would have trouble hitting anything with the car spinning and lurching through the lumpy grass. Even better, a shadowy band of shapes was approaching up the hill from the bridge. They were being relatively cautious, but they were not following any of the tactics that Arturo had painstakingly taught all of us. The used no real cover; they simply huffed and puffed up the steep slope carrying a motley assemblage of guns and blades and garden tools. The leader was obvious. He stood tall and continually waved his band forward. When he had a clear line of sight on Eugene’s camp, he yelled a wordless battle cry and started running across the open grass. His ragged band of cannibals roared in response and joined the charge. Idiots.

  Thanks to our earlier escapades, Eugene’s men were alert and ready to fight. They may not have made all the connections, but Arturo was immediately pegged for a distraction rather than a threat. The men who were firing on him turned and ran to better locations in order to take shots at the cannibals in full charge. That left Arturo free to stop the car and use it for cover. We saw his rifle barrel slide across the hood and join the chorus of barking weapons. Thanks to the man-eating swarm, Arturo was dropping Eugene’s men with ease. Unfortunately for the cannibals, Eugene’s men were armed with appropriate equipment for the fight. Most of them had no trouble killing the attackers.

  Cannibals died rapidly under a hail of NATO rounds. I almost felt sorry for them. We were in a terrible position to keep them alive. We wanted them alive long enough to thin Eugene’s camp down to something we could handle, but they were doing a poor job of it. The cannibals were directly between our position and the mass of Eugene’s fighters. Arturo, on the other hand, was doing a good job of leveling the playing field, but the remaining baker’s dozen of cannibals were not enough. Dad gave us a “follow me” wave and ran out to the ditch on our side of the road. He dove in and set up to fire. Kirk followed him step for step, but I took a few more seconds to do the mental math before I ran out of the bushes. We were spotted, no thanks to me.

  It was my first time under direct massed gunfire, and I’ll be honest. I froze. I could almost feel the air splitting as bullets hissed by overhead. All I could do was bury my face in the muddy ditch and whimper. Each crack of Kirk and Dad’s rifle made me jump as if I had been hit. After what seemed like minutes, Kirk kicked me in the shoulder, and that was enough to snap me out of my locked state. I looked up, saw that the situation was almost exactly the same as it was when I dove into the ditch, and aimed my rifle. Snap! Kick. Aim.

  It was like the stupid dance we had at school. All the boys stood along the wall, terrified of all the little girls standing around the punch bowl, waiting for us to grow a pair. Finally, the PE teacher herded us over and paired us up by main force of will, and we began to dance. Four bars of Taylor Swift later, that dancing thing wasn’t so bad.

  So – I fell into a rhythm of aiming and firing, just far enough away to make the whole process just as impersonal as a dance full of kids waiting for puberty to hit with hormonal power. I honestly don’t know how well I did, but I guess collectively we did well enough, because the next thing I knew, we were crossing the road, and Arturo was limping forward to our left. Then, it became personal.

  We jumped over dead and dying bodies on the way in. Kirk just naturally fell to cleanup duties. His 9mm cracked at anything that was still moving as we made our way into the camp. We took cover behind a spreading oak tree that marked the original western border of the property. Arturo waved from a similar location on the north side. There were still several cannibals on the loose among the tents. Judging from the harsh language and rough voice we were hearing, Eugene was still among the living as well. The plan was to wait until the two groups had done as much damage to each other as possible before we engaged whoever was left.

  We heard a diesel engine rattle to life, and Arturo fired an entire clip in that direction. The engine kept running but it was idling. Minutes went by without a single gunshot from the camp. Arturo began to move in, using dead shrubbery for broken cover. Dad took the cue and we proceeded forward. For me, it was all part of the dance by then, but I still had a profound urge to take a leak. Not a fun way to dance.

  Quickly we were among the tents, with me trailing Dad and Kirk. I knew we were looking to make sure that Eugene was dead, and to free whoever was being held in the barn-shed. I heard nothing but our feet and a painful moan off to the right. Suddenly, an arm was around my neck and I was hoisted off the ground. My feet tried to run, but only made a few scuffling steps before they lost all purchase and flopped back against whoever was holding me. I dropped my gun by reflex. I made a pitiful squeaking noise as my bladder threatened to give way.

  Of course it was Eugene. He called out to my father. “Mr. Carter. Seems like you owe me a son. I think I’ll take this one. How about you boys drop your weapons now?”

  Dad turned slowly and let his rifle fall to the ground. Kirk took a few seconds longer. It took a hard elbow from my father before he followed suit. Kirk dropped his handgun and slid the strap of his rifle off his shoulder. The gun made a clattering sound as it hit the ground, butt first. Dad held up his hands in a pleading motion, and started to speak.

  “Don’t bother. You should’ve thought about that before you killed my boy,” Eugene said, spraying my ear with his warm spittle. My eyes darted to where I hoped Arturo would be, but he was not in sight. Eugene wrestled around with his right arm until he had his own revolver pressed against my head. His left was still wrapped around my throat.

  “Listen, Eugene...” Dad said. “You attacked...”

  “I don’t give shit! This is all mine. I found it. I took it. Mine!” Eugene was breathing fast and hard in my ear all of a sudden. I was thinking with unnatural clarity, my senses on overdrive. Apparently, Dad had touched a nerve. Maybe this guy still had a conscience in there somewhere. Then the hammer clicked back, and I decided probably not.

  His hand scraped my neck as it slid away to the left. I dropped to the ground without any plan except to hide. I heard a gunshot close enough to set my ear into a ringing reset mode. I heard an impact, a larger impact to the side, and a distant rifle shot thumping hollowly around the valley. I looked to my left and Eugene was down, writhing on the ground and smacking himself repeatedly on the butt. I was confused.

  Kirk moved in a blur, kicking the revolver away from Eugene’s hand. Dad grabbed his rifle and pointed it at the man’s head. Kirk was already gone. He had picked up his own weapon and was searching the camp at high speed, just in case anyone else was waiting in ambush. No one living was there.

  Eugene was screaming by then, a foul stream of profanity that made my dad wince and twitch, particularly around his trigger finger. In Eugene’s defense, he had good reason. I had no ide
a where my mother was aiming, but the bullet passed directly through both of Eugene Curfman’s buttocks, which must have been very painful when I think about it.

  “Shut up, Eugene!” Dad shouted. “Or, I’ll be happy to shut you up myself.”

  Eugene responded with his usual diplomacy. “I’ll kill you! I will find you, and I will kill you! No. I’ll kill your family, and then I’ll kill you!”

  “In that case, I think I’ll just wait until you bleed out through your ass,” Dad said. “I really hate to admit it, but it’s kind of fun watching you suffer.”

  “My men will...”

  “I don’t see any men, Eugene. They’re all dead. You got some more around here?”

  “Oh, I got more. I got lots more, and they’ll kill you. They’ll find you, and....”

  “Ok! I think I got the gist of it,” Dad replied. “Bill, you and Kirk go check out that shed. Art? We all clear?”

  “Clear as far as I can see!” Arturo answered, stepping into sight.

  Eugene rolled around, getting his first look at Arturo. “You brought a spic? A goddam spic?”

  “That’s enough, Eugene,” my dad said calmly, and just as calmly, pulled the trigger.

  Dad came up behind Kirk and me as we were trying to figure out how to open the heavy padlock on the shed door. Dad went back to Eugene’s body, and dug around until he found a key ring. He came back and tried the keys, but none of them worked on the lock. He went to the truck and looked behind the seat. He returned with a huge screwdriver, and simply pried the hasp loose from the wood and particle board doors.

  The twilight was getting deep as the doors swung open. Anything could have been inside. We had our weapons pointed into the shadows, but we took a step or two back just in case. “Arturo! Need a light over here,” Dad called.

  Arturo limped over, pulling a mini-flashlight from his belt. He snapped it on and shined it into the shed. Huddled as far from the door as possible were three grown women and a young girl with copper red hair, appearing about my age. They were all completely naked, and all terrified.

  Kirk and I could not have spoken if our lives depended on it, but Dad said, “It’s ok. We’re not going to hurt you.” They did not react at all, except to jam themselves further into the back corners.

  “Bill, Kirk. Go through the tents. Find some clothes. Anything will do. Go!” Dad ordered. We took off at a run. “I’m sorry, ladies. I know you’ve been through a lot. This is my friend Arturo. We’ll just look the other way until we get you some clothes.”

  Kirk and found plenty of clothes, mostly in the form of big flannel shirts, and mostly in need of serious laundry services, but we brought back a double armload as fast as we could.

  “Just set it inside, boys. Then turn around so they can get dressed.” Dad spun his hand in a circle to emphasize his point.

  While we waited, Arturo walked out to get the station wagon. He pulled it through opening in the fence and backed it up near the shed. As far as we could tell without looking, none of the women had made a move yet. Dad tried again. “Listen, ladies. We’re not part of the group that locked you up. I have a wife and four kids. We’re not in the business of hurting people unless they try to hurt us first. It’ll be ok. Just get dressed and I promise, we’ll take you to a safe place where you can get warm and eat some decent food.”

  Nothing happened.

  “Ok. Arturo, you think you can guard these women alone? I’ll take the boys and get Beth out of the tree. Maybe she can reassure them...”

  “Sure, David. But if you hear any gunfire, come running,” Arturo said.

  “You can count on it. Boys, in the car.”

  We passed two cannibals on the way up the hill on the far side of the bridge. They must have been smart enough to hide when their leader tried to charge across an open field. They made no threatening moves. Maybe they had seen us killing the same guys they were supposed to kill. Maybe they were just the smartest cannibals. Dad pulled up on the side of the road right across from their driveway, and sent Kirk and me to get Mom while he watched the car.

  Ten minutes later, we were crossing the bridge for what felt like the tenth time, with Mom in her traditional place in the shotgun seat. She was chattering like we were on our way home from one of Kirk’s old soccer games. Dad was trying to explain the situation.

  When we reached the shed, Mom had lost her bubbly mood and replaced it with a new serious purpose. She took the flashlight from Arturo and stepped through the doors. A minute later, she came back out.

  “David, these girls have been through too much. They’re not coming out as long as any men are around.” Mom shrugged her shoulders.

  “Ok. How far away do we need to be?” Dad asked.

  “Pretty far, I’m guessing.”

  “Arturo... You think we can drive this truck home?”

  “Yeah. It runs. We’ll probably wreck the tires, and maybe the wheels, but we can make it,” Arturo replied.

  “All right. Boys, let’s round up anything worth keeping and throw it in the back of the truck. Especially weapons. Beth, tell them we’ll be out of your way in twenty minutes. We’ll pull back to the main road, and keep watch until you’re on your way.”

  We went to work, grabbing everything in sight. When we drove away on flopping flat tires, there was nothing left of Eugene’s camp but the cooling corpses – as far as we knew.

  Chapter 8 – 7

  Gary Tucker, Jr. sat with his new buddy, Wyatt Jenkins, oldest son of the Judge. Neither man had gotten word of his father’s death, nor would they have cared at the moment. They were sitting in Manchester’s one and only house of ill repute, which happened to be sponsored to a great degree by the Jenkins family. Wyatt and his brothers could be found in this very room on any Saturday night, warming up for the main event upstairs by watching the young girls spinning and undulating on a brass pole four feet in front of them.

  At the moment, a well-fed blonde named Jeannie was hypnotizing the drunken men with a few shakes and wiggles. In this day and age, well-fed carried no connotations about being overfed, fat, or overweight. Well-fed meant exactly that. No missing teeth, no gaping hollows above the collarbones, and only the lowest ribs were visible for counting.

  In a few short days, Gary already knew that Wyatt took after Jerry Doan Jenkins, who was an idiot by the word of his father, the Grand Dragon. Worse than that, Wyatt was a coward by Gary’s code. Thanks to this whorehouse, there had been several opportunities for Wyatt to prove he was a real man, but he never put those girls in their place. Wyatt liked to say nice things, treat those whores real gentle, and leave them fat tips on the nightstand. Gary wasn’t happy unless he left them bruised and crying, maybe with a little blood just so they would know who to respect when he came back in for another little visit.

  After the first night here, Wyatt saw it exactly the other way around. To his way of thinking, Gary was a sadistic son of a bitch who needed one of those girls to kick his nuts clear up into his throat until he learned a little respect. As it was, he was having to work new deals with the Madame to keep bringing the Junior Dragon here for his entertainment. Only a few more days, Wyatt thought.

  “Come on, Gary! We gotta go. Work to do tomorrow. Remember?” Wyatt yelled over an old CD of Huey Lewis, which was the perfect whorehouse music when played at maximum volume.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m coming.” Gary tossed another dog biscuit at his favorite bitch, chuckling at his clever mental image, and followed Wyatt out through a door, some shiny curtains, and another door into the chilled air of the late evening.

  The two men panted on the sidewalk, in the manner of the truly drunk. Gary was a bit worse, as he reeled a bit to maintain his standing position. Wyatt was waiting for the obvious next step to occur to him when he heard familiar voices around the corner. He waited for the voices to cross his vision, and when he did, he saw his entire brown kitchen staff. What the hell were they doing in town? Did someone give them permission? No, he thought with glacial s
lowness, no one would ever do that with their kitchen staff.

  Wyatt’s kitchen staff saw him standing there, staring back with that stupid expression. Then, they saw it dawn on him. They ran as fast their short legs could carry them.

  Wyatt had made the connection but still couldn’t name it, even in his own head. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. “Gary! We gotta get back. Something’s wrong!”

  “Ok, Brother Wy. Where’s the truck?” Gary asked.

  “That’s it, right in front of you.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Wyatt stumbled around the truck, climbed in and cranked the engine. Gary wedged his foot between the truck door and the sill. He couldn’t figure out how to slide his foot to get it out. Wyatt didn’t have time to wait. He accelerated off the curb and let Gary hang on. Amazing how a little shot of adrenalin will sober you right up, Wyatt thought.

  Long before they reached the family farm, Wyatt knew the situation was bad. He could easily see the column of orange flame from two miles away, farther if a low set of rolling hills weren’t in the way. He spun the wheel to slide the truck into the driveway, clipping the gatepost with his taillight on the way through. He could not believe what he was seeing. The farm had been mostly the same his entire life. Now it looked like a tornado had literally leveled the whole place, leaving orange flame as its calling card. The main house – all 6000 square feet – was reduced to a giant campfire. Nothing taller than the first floor window sills remained. Even those were burning hot enough to make the glass sag.

  The bunkhouse was invisible beyond the bright flame, but Wyatt’s best guess was that it was gone as well, along with the hundred plus men they had left there three hours earlier. Smaller fires dotted the property and were quickly burning every man-made structure on the Jenkins family farm. Even parts of the wooden fences were turning black.