by Tristan Vick
Unimpressed, Longstaff’s eyelids lowered and he scanned the room one last time. “I’m gonna count to three,” he informed them.
“You’re gonna what?” Mr. Giggles asked.
“One...”
Mr. Giggles lost it, and began laughing uncontrollably. “You all better watch it, he’s a’ counting!”
Mr. Green walked around, still petting Frank around her ears, and handed her off to Juno. Then he pulled out his custom dagger. “You know how many lost sheep I have gutted with this?” He asked, dangling the knife in front of the Cowboy’s nose. “You wanna know how many stupid wanderers, desperadoes, and tough guys like yourself I have slit open with this?”
Longstaff ignored Mr. Green’s attempt at an intimidating speech and simply continued his countdown. “Two.”
Mr. Green laughed even louder. “Ooh, better be careful, the numbers are getting bigger! Haha-ha!”
Mr. Green pressed his knife under Longstaff’s chin and forced him to regain eye contact. “I gutted those men because it was my right. Las Vegas is my kingdom. Here I reign supreme!”
“Three.”
Everyone’s eyes nervously flickered back and forth checking to see what would happen when the countdown ended. Mr. Giggles looked the most emphatically shocked, but then smiled a stupid grin the moment he realized nothing had happened, and briefly after that burst out laughing all over again.
The barrel chested dimwit joined Mr. Giggles in his fit of laughter with a bellowing chuckle, which caused Longstaff to raise his eyebrow—this being the first he’d heard from the man.
When the din of laughter died down, Longstaff turned to Juno and smiled so warmly that it gave her the shivers. In that brief instant when her eyes locked with his, that’s when she knew something was terribly wrong.
Suddenly a gunshot rang out. Mr. Giggles was the first to drop. Then another shot. The big dumb muck hit the ground with a harsh thud. Mr. Green turned toward the entrance and screamed, “What the hell is…”
BLAM!
The final shot put Mr. Green down like the diseased animal he was.
“No mercy for the wicked,” Longstaff said. Bending down, he picked up his cowboy hat and dusted it off.
Juno, still clutching Frank tightly in her arms, spun around to discover she was the last one standing. The ground was littered with the dead bodies of her comrades.
A dark figure stood in the backlit doorway. It was a cowgirl in silhouette, holding a smoking Remington 700 rifle. Pulling back the bolt, the woman ejected the spent cartridge in dramatic fashion, and raised the muzzle of her gun toward the ceiling. With the butt of the stock resting firmly on her hip, she said, “Sorry I’m late, luv.”
“Better late than never,” Longstaff replied. He placed his hat on his head and then tipped it in a gentleman’s fashion as an unspoken thank-you.
“Who the fuck is she?” Juno asked, a hint of jealousy in her shocked voice.
“Graaah!” Without warning the muscle-bound freak sat up. Everyone startled in fright at the unexpectedness of it and looked over at him.
Standing up, Mr. Muscles winced in pain then touched the bleeding bullet wounds on his chest. He pressed down on them and fresh blood oozed out. This seemed to anger him even further. Snapping his head up, he looked at the Cowboy and growled like a rabid animal.
“Gragh!” he roared, and lunged forward. Before he could make it more than a couple of steps another gun shot rang out and a red, cherry-sized dot bloomed from his forehead from where the bullet had drilled into his brain. The big lug crashed to the floor a second time.
Gordon Longstaff spun his Colt Python, like the gunslingers of old, and slammed it back into its holster. He had moved so quickly that Juno hadn’t even seen him draw his gun. His dark eyes peered out from under the rim of his hat, and he looked directly into the eyes of the hot, confused, mess standing before him. “Put the dog down, Juno.”
“How did you…” Juno began to ask, but her voice suddenly trailed off as she began to realize that she and her group had walked straight into a trap.
“Just…put the dog down,” Longstaff repeated.
“If I were you, I’d do as he says,” the cowgirl standing in the doorway added.
Juno’s eyes flashed furious as she shot a sharp glance back at the cowgirl, as if to say back off bitch, then she looked back at Longstaff and, smiling timidly, she slowly lowered Frank back to the ground. Gently patting Frank’s head, she said, “Good dog.”
Frank wiggled her bobtail and turned a happy little circle, then sat down and began to bite at an itch on her hind leg.
“See, that wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Longstaff said. “Come along Frank,” he called out, making his way toward the exit. Frank jumped up and ran to his side, and was warmly greeted with a full body pat down. “You’re a good dog, aren’t you?”
“What about me?” Juno asked in a worried voice. “Are you just going to leave me here? Alone?”
“Reckon so,” Longstaff answered. Besides, I got me a gal already.”
“Well, screw you then!” Juno sneered. “Screw both of you. Screw the whole lot of you—screw you and your bitches!” Juno paced the room then looked down at her dead friends. A sick sort of glee danced in her wild eyes and her thin red lips twisted into a crooked grin, and then she began laughing aloud.
The cowgirl looked over at the Cowboy and gave him a worried look. Nodding back, as if to say he agreed, Longstaff turned himself back around and slowly drew out his pistol. Juno was none the wiser.
Pulling down on the brim of her hat, the cowgirl lowered her head and diverted her gaze. She knew that whatever happened next, it wouldn’t be for the faint of heart.
39
Mountain of the Gods
Mt. Gongen: Eastern Yokohama Region, Japan
Kevin had caught up to the criminals who had, like mad barbarians, raped and pillaged his village. He had tracked their convoy to the eastern regions of Yokohama. They were camping out on the North Western side of Mt. Gongen—also known as the Mountain of the Gods.
Leaving his bike disguised beneath some loose foliage within the thick of the trees about twenty or thirty meters off the roadside, Kevin climbed over a small hill and found the detestable goons gathered outside an old, abandoned Japanese-style spa resort on the other side.
Keeping to the trees, Kevin tucked away in some nearby hedging and waited until they had set up their kerosene burners and were huddled around them trying to heat up tin cups of instant coffee. As the men bantered, Kevin, crouching down, stealthily encroached upon their position. Suddenly the twig of a dried out tree branch snapped beneath his foot. Kevin froze and looked up to see if the sound had alerted the group to his presence. Luckily for him however, their suspicions went unaroused and they remained none the wiser to his presence.
Keeping to the shadows, he grew close enough to hear the men’s chatter. They talked about their past spoils, of women they had savagely raped, and of all the stubborn villagers who dared to stand up to them that they had taken pleasure in slaughtering.
What really got under Kevin’s skin though was the way they talked about it all—as if it had been a kind of sport to them. They talked as though they were these great jungle explorers and trophy hunters who had snagged rare specimens, prizes to boast to one another about. And they laughed at each other’s loathsome tales of the pain and suffering they had inflicted on countless innocent others.
Their utter disregard for those they had harmed made Kevin’s blood boil.
Rubbing his eyes, Kevin took a deep breath and crept closer to the building where they stood sharing their vulgar stories. He counted seven men. They appeared to be paramilitary types, dressed in special Black-Ops styled uniforms. It also appeared they had the latest gear and cutting edge weaponry and were armed with Heckler & Koch HK416 rifles. In fact, to him, they seemed entirely too fancy for your average ragtag band of bloodthirsty mercenaries working for the highest bidder. If he had to guess, he’d say these
guys were being funded. But by who? They obviously weren’t with the military. But the only other organization that had access to this caliber of weaponry was…the Yakuza.
Could it be? he wondered. Could these men be the famed group of elite soldiers employed by the Syndicate? The infamous Black Dragon enforcers?
According to legend, the Japanese Yakuza had a top secret paramilitary group they deployed anytime they needed some clandestine double-oh-seven level shit to get done–and get done without a lot of questions asked. They called themselves the Black Dragons, and the official word was they didn’t exist. But if Kevin’s hunch was right, he was staring right at them.
Kevin hid himself underneath one of the black Toyota 4Runner SUVs, the only thing close enough to the main building where he could still get a decent view, yet remain hidden. Taking out a pair of night-vision binoculars, he looked out from underneath the vehicle and zoomed in on the windows of the bathhouse.
His goal wasn’t to launch a full frontal attack. He wasn’t stupid enough to go up against half a dozen or more well trained killers, especially the Black Dragons, who were completely without conscience.
No, Kevin had to play it careful. What he needed to do was gather as much intel on them as possible first. Find out their weaknesses. Holes in their patrols; what cigarette breaks they’d sneak alone; whether or not anyone was holding a grudge with anyone else in the organization…who had a small bladder, that sort of thing. Anything which might give him a tactical advantage. Once he knew how they worked, once they revealed a pattern to him, that’s when he’d strike. Then, ever so slowly, he’d dispatch them one at a time.
As it was, Kevin could sneak up on a Walker, with its heightened sense of smell and its alertness to any kind of movement, in the thick of the jungle without a single twig snapping beneath his feet. He could draw his sword, slice the creature’s skull as if it were a watermelon, and then disappear into the trees as quickly as he had appeared, right past other Walkers.
Although, Kevin did have his reservations. After all, he’d never hunted a living human before, let alone trained soldiers. And he knew that if he got caught they weren’t simply just going to shoot him in the head. They’d torture him first. Then they’d skin him alive. Then they’d shoot him. But he wasn’t going to let that happen. He wasn’t going to let them get away with what they had done to his people or to Mr. Tamagawa’s son, who they’d slaughtered in cold blood.
Just then a green Humvee with military insignia pulled around the corner and came up the street. It was your standard issue Defense Force transport.
“What the hell?” Kevin mumbled to himself. What was the Japanese Self Defense Force doing way out here?
The vehicle slowed to a halt and suddenly the door opened and a long bronze leg poked out of the vehicle. A stern looking woman in an army green jacket and matching miniskirt climbed out.
Kevin adjusted his binoculars to get a better view.
She was petite, fairly attractive, and certainly knew how to carry herself on a slender frame. All seemed like business as usual but for the fact that her hair was bleached to platinum blonde and she wore green contact lenses that gave her eyes an unnatural brightness. Kevin didn’t like that look, too artificial for his tastes, although the oddly appealing doll-like surrealism seemed to be all the rage with Asian women these days.
The attractive blond brushed her army green skirt down, bringing Kevin’s attention to the fact that her fingernails were painted a stark black. She then tugged on her military jacket which seemed a little tight, even for a petite sized girl like her. The front flap of her jacket was left open, revealing her equally petite cleavage which was smashed as tightly as Kevin had ever seen two breasts squeezed together.
Treading her heels was an official officer in green, decorated to the nines. He was obviously a high-ranking military officer, as his uniform had enough medals to make him look the part of a decadent dictator.
The man paused, turned around, and did a quick scan of his surroundings. He had narrow eyes, dark skin, and an ice-cold gaze that was eerily familiar to Kevin. He felt as if he’d seen this man somewhere before…a strange sense of déjà vu, even though he was quite certain he’d never encountered the man before in his life.
Twisting the lens focus on his binoculars, Kevin zoomed in some more. He could see now that the officer was obviously a prisoner, as his hands were bound behind his back and secured with rope. So whatever this was, Kevin knew one thing, it was a hostage situation of the highest order. He could only guess what was going on here, but his hunch was that the Yakuza were trying to stronghold the Japanese military.
Once the officer had stepped out of the vehicle, a couple of Black Dragon soldiers shoved him up a small flight of stairs and quickly ushered him into the building.
The woman turned to follow the rest, but she unexpectedly stopped, spun around, and looked directly at Kevin. He froze and his breath caught in his chest as he stared back anxiously. Did she see him? Her striking green eyes were fixed onto his position and she stared towards him for the longest time without so much as a movement or expression.
Finally, she brushed her silver bangs from her eyes and then turned back around like a supermodel spinning on the catwalk, and walked past a couple of Black Dragons who guarded the entrance before disappearing inside.
Kevin let out a big sigh of relief. He knew that if he was going to find out what on earth was going on here he’d have to get into that building somehow.
Gathering his things, he slid out from under the vehicle and headed around toward the back of the main building. That’s where the third guard was, taking his fifth unauthorized cigarette break. It was as Saeko had told him, you always take out the weakest link first.
40
The Way of the Gun
The Scorched Lands: Las Vegas, Nevada, U.S.A.
The Cowboy flipped a cigarette from a modified mint tin, then fished it the rest of the way out with his lips. Cigarette dangling from his bottom lip, he said, “Maybe you can help me with something, Juno. Something that’s always bothered me. I’m curious, what’s the difference between you cannibals and the flesh-eating monsters?”
As he waited for Juno’s answer, he pulled out a stainless steel Zippo with his free hand and lit up his cigarette. With a clack-tink-clack, he clapped the lighter shut and slipped it back into his back jeans pocket. Longstaff took a long drag, held it for a moment, and then blew it up toward the ceiling.
Unable to find a suitable answer, Juno shrugged.
“That’s what I thought,” Longstaff said, his eyes fixed on her from amid a haze of cigarette smoke. Then, unexpectedly, he lowered his gun and turned to leave.
Before he walked out the door, Juno called out, “Next time I see you, you’re gonna be sorry!”
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
Longstaff palmed the hammer of his Colt Python and shot up the floor all around Juno’s feet. Juno cowered, covering her head. Pausing, she realized she was still alive. She turned to cuss out the no good sonuvabitch who was standing there looking like he was Clint-fucking-Eastwood, but bit her tongue when he slowly cocked the gun and left it trained on her.
“Anything else you wanna say?” Longstaff inquired.
“No,” Juno pouted.
“Good. Then we’re all done here.” Longstaff stepped outside, holstered his gun, and took his place by the cowgirl waiting for him. Looking at her with his tired eyes, the color of blue steel, he said, “Don’t give me that look. I’m with you, Briggs.”
Waving her hands and feigning innocence, Alyssa said, “I didn’t say anything.” Taking her canteen out, she handed it to the Cowboy.
“I liked the good old days, when there was etiquette to killing,” he said, taking a swig of water, then dowsing his head with it to cleanse himself of the lingering stench of piss.
“You say ‘the good old days’ like it was ages ago.”
“I see. So because civilization fell, it’s like we’re back in the Wild
West with no laws, surrounded by savage lands where it’s every man and woman for themselves? So, does this mean we get to kill who we want and take what we want?”
“Look, all I’m saying is a lot has happened in four years. Like it or not, the world has grown ugly in the wake of the Resurrection Virus—far uglier than anyone could have ever imagined. The rules have changed. In a world of monsters all the moral lines have blurred, and it’s hard to tell when you’ve stepped over the line.”
Alyssa Briggs put her hand on his chest and prevented him from walking away. “You don’t need to worry about that. You have a good heart, Cowboy. It’s one of the reasons I fell in love with you.”
“Is it, now?” He laughed and tossed his cigarette butt to the side. “And here I thought you fell in love with me for my dashing good looks.”
“Oh, that too. Definitely,” Alyssa laughed. Reaching up, Alyssa threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him long and hard. Then, looking up into his eyes, Alyssa said, “Thanks for keeping us safe.”
Frank barked, as if to say, “Don’t forget about me,” then turned in an agitated circle and wiggled her tail.
“Oh, I love you too, Frank,” Alyssa said, bending down and petting the little corgi.
As Longstaff lit up another cigarette, he asked, “Did you find what you were looking for?”
Alyssa smiled as she patted Frank’s side. “Well, yes and no. I’ll explain on the way to San Francisco.”
“Sure thing,” he replied, as they turned and began heading North, up the Las Vegas strip.
Alyssa and the cowboy watched Frank run on ahead as she sniffed along the chipped yellow line of the seemingly endless Vegas Strip. The long stretch of blacktop seemed to go on forever.
Frank turned in another excited circle, looked back at them and barked, as if to say, “Let’s get this show on the road!”
“That’s the spirit, Frank!” Longstaff said as the small corgi scurried on ahead.
