by Jaspre Bark
Hiamovi turned to Cheveyo. "Old friend, I do not want to lose your wisdom on this council. I do not want to turn my back on our customs either. So I will allow the challenge with one proviso. Ahiga is not challenging you for your place on the council, just a place. If he succeeds he may join his voice to ours. If he fails you will have silenced him."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you will be a coward," said Ahiga.
Cheveyo's stiffened with indignation. His fate had been sealed.
Somewhere off in the distance, out of the hearing of the rest of the council, Hiamovi caught the sound of a coyote laughing.
CHAPTER THREE
Downtown Laramie had changed a lot since Samuel Colt had last blown through. They'd stopped crucifying non-believers outside the railway station on Superior Court for one thing. The gallows on North Third Street, one of the busiest in Wyoming just a few years ago, seemed to have fallen into disuse too. It looked as though scavs had half dismantled it when Colt and his honour guard drove past. Laramie had done some serious moral back-sliding, Colt was sure of that much.
Same could be said of the Good Shepherds. Time was when they were one of the fiercest, most effective branches of the Neo-Clergy. Raised, like most of the top Klans, from a street gang into part of a ruthless international organisation. When the plague had finished wiping the sinners from God's green earth, the Neo-Clergy had risen like a beacon from the ashes of a dead and corrupt world. In its heyday the Apostolic Church of the Rediscovered Dawn, to give the Neo-Clergy its proper title, had controlled three continents. That was before the forces of Satan had brought it low and killed their leader John-Paul Rohare Baptiste.
Jack Mills ran Wyoming back when the Neo-Clergy were in power. There was a man Colt could do business with. A man who made God something to fear again and had terrified the whole state with His holy name.
Not like Benny Cooper. Benny grinned his shit-kicking grin and offered Colt the semi- automatic. "D'ya wanna have a little fun with 'im, 'fore we finish 'im off?"
Colt looked at the godless wretch on the ground. He was pissing blood from at least twenty wounds and still he begged for his life. He was already on his way to see Satan. No amount of pleading could stop that.
The man's brothers lay dead at his feet. Their blood congealing on the floor of what used to be Laramie's biggest mall. When the Neo-Clergy took over it became a stockade. Worship of the Almighty Dollar turned to worship of the Lord. Now Benny was in charge, it had turned to worship of idiocy.
Colt declined the offered weapon. "I'm not here for fun."
"Suit y'self," said Benny and put one in the wounded man's gut. He doubled over, trying to scream, but the lack of a stomach wall and the blood in his throat stopped him. He would be dead within the hour.
The entertainment had started soon after Colt and his men arrived. They'd pushed some prisoners into a lower level of the mall and blocked off the walkways so they couldn't get out. Then Benny and his guests had leaned over the balcony of the upper level and picked them off with their rifles.
"We're gonna show Colorado we know how to hold a party," Benny had said with a fool grin on his face.
Colt knew he was just trying to show him how big his dick was now that he'd stepped into Jack Mills' shoes.
"Take these bodies an' hang 'em up in Optimist Park." Benny said. "Let everyone see what happens when I don't get ma tributes."
"But Boss," said one of his lackeys. "We didn't bring these guys in for not paying their tributes."
"Did I ask for your opinion boy?" said Benny, pissed at being corrected in front of his out-of-town guests. "'Cos if I wanna hear it, then I'll tell you what it is." Then, to emphasise this, he smashed his rifle butt into the man's face. "Now git."
"Yeff fir," said the lackey, spitting blood and teeth as he got to his feet and left.
"Maybe you gentlemen'd like to accompany me to ma office," Benny said and walked towards an armour-plated door in the far wall. Colt joined him and motioned for Simon Peter, his number two, and one other soldier to follow. The rest of Colt's men stood to attention. Dressed in full Neo-Clergy uniform they looked every bit the crack team they were. Not like the bunch of yahoos Benny Cooper had around him.
As they walked down a corridor to what had once been a manager's office, Colt got the measure of Benny. He was around six-five and broad across the shoulders, with long red hair. Benny wouldn't have been allowed it like that when he was in the Neo-Clergy. Nor the cowboy hat and boots he and all his men wore. All ways of showing their independence from the past. That would change soon.
Two other men flanked them as they approached the office. Tom Eastman, head of the Crazy Eight klan from Casper, walked like he knew how to handle himself in a fight. Next to him was Carl Jennings, head of Cheyenne's Lonesome Rancheros Klan. Colt knew Carl of old. He was a pastor's son who had done a tour with the marines before The Cull. They had history in the Neo-Clergy and Colt was prepared to give Carl some latitude. With his buzz cut hair and his sharp angular nose he could have been Simon Peter's brother. They were even the same height. The only thing that distinguished them was the long scar down Carl's left cheek.
Benny showed them into the office and sat in the big leather chair behind the desk. The walls were covered with hunting trophies, weapons and even a pair of severed human hands, mounted on wooden plaque. There wasn't a crucifix or a Bible in sight. Benny was in need of moral education. Colt was just the man to give it.
"Why don't we get down to business?" Benny said, leaning back and putting his feet on the desk. "I think we all know why our friends from Colorado are here."
Colt drew himself up straight. He had not taken the tiny stool he had been offered. It would have put him at a lower height to everyone else, so he remained standing while they lounged.
"I'm not a man to waste words," Colt said. "So I'll come to the point. The whole country's gone to hell since John-Paul Rohare Baptiste died. While he was alive and the Neo-Clergy was strong the people had a chance. There was order. Things got done. Now, wherever you look there's degeneracy, sin and disorder. There's never been a time when the country had more need of the Neo-Clergy. I intend to answer that need. I've been building the organisation back to its old strength. We've taken control of Colorado and New Mexico, as you know. We're also running most of Utah. Now we're ready to welcome Wyoming back into the fold."
Benny, Carl and Tom all exchanged looks. "As all three of you used to be in the Neo-Clergy," Colt went on, "I'm prepared to let you keep control of your Klans. But things have got to change. You'll have to start paying dues and recruiting foot soldiers for central HQ. Full uniform will be worn at all times and daily prayer meetings are compulsory, not just for members but everyone in your territories."
"Well that's mighty generous of you," said Benny. "But y'know, the Neo-Clergy ain't too popular round these parts anymore. What with all that talk about John-Paul drinking kiddie blood and all." Benny was talking about a rumour that had plagued the Neo-Clergy since it had lost its grip on power.
John-Paul Rohare Baptiste was the founder and glorious inspiration for the Apostolic Church of the Rediscovered Dawn. Years after the The Cull had struck down everyone whose blood group wasn't 'O' negative, this one man had miraculously survived the levelling. By the laws of science he should have been dead. The blood in his veins should not have kept pumping through his heart as it was not O-neg. Yet the divine grace of the Lord had kept him, and him alone among all the other people with a different blood group, alive. Kept him alive in these Last Days to lead the Neo-Clergy and save God's people.
Satan was covetous of God's miracle though and he wanted the last of the souls the Lord had left alive. So he struck down John-Paul, scattered the Neo-Clergy and put about the rumour that their leader had survived not through a miracle, but by blood transfusion using blood from the children the Neo-Clergy had taken from their parents to mould into God's future warriors.
"That was a damn lie," said Colt, seething
with anger that a former member of the Neo-Clergy could repeat such slander. "John-Paul was a man of God. A walking miracle, kept alive by the blessed grace of the Lord."
"Even so," said Tom. "There's a lot of folks glad to see the back of the Neo-Clergy. And I'm inclined to agree with 'em."
"Which is why we've been forced, by popular pressure mind, to join forces and keep you out of Wyoming," said Benny. "Now we know you gotta lot of men under your command. But we also know you gotta lot of trouble out in Utah. Which is why you're over here recruiting. Together we're more'n a match for whatever you can throw at us. So you best keep out of Wyoming from now on. We've gotten to like things they way they are and we don't want no-one else muscling in on our rackets."
"So that's how things are," said Colt after a long silence.
"That's how things are."
Colt looked at all three men in turn. None of them met his eye. He turned on his heel and marched out of the office. Simon Peter and the soldier followed him.
"You drive careful now," Benny called out as they left.
Colt was mighty pissed. Simon Peter could tell that. Maybe more pissed than he had seen him in a while. He got quiet when he got angry. And that was frightening, Like waiting for a lit fuse to blow.
Simon Peter could feel him seething in the back seat of the SUV as he turned onto Route 287 out of Laramie. Even with his back turned to Colt, Simon Peter could feel his mood, like heat from a furnace. The two foot soldiers sitting either side of him could feel it too. They looked away, watching the road intently.
Wyoming was practically Colt's backyard. It looked bad in front of the other States if he couldn't bring them back into the Neo-Clergy.
Simon Peter knew the only way to get Colt out of his mood was to get him to scheme. He had to be careful how he did it though. "Permission to speak sir."
Colt waited a while before answering. "What do you have to say?"
"Sir, I don't trust those Wyoming boys. I'm fixing to go in there and gun down every one of 'em. But I know you got a smarter way of handling this. I was hoping you might tell me, 'cos otherwise I'm so pissed I'm likely to kill the next inbred local we see. Just to see the look on his stupid face."
"At ease soldier. Don't you worry none about them Wyoming boys. They're going to get theirs."
In the rear view mirror Simon Peter saw Colt crack his knuckles then stroke his bald head and clean shaven chin. This was a good sign, it showed he was thinking. Colt was a big man and when he sat up he made even a roomy vehicle like the SUV seem small.
"I got me a plan for dealing with this, but I want to see you show me some initiative. What do you think I'm gonna do?"
Simon Peter knew this game. He knew how to play dumb and show the right amount of deference. "Well I don't have your experience sir, but I'm guessing that until we can subdue Utah, which ain't anytime soon, we don't have enough troops to take Wyoming back into the fold. So are you planning to cut off their supply lines and starve 'em out?"
"And what supply lines would those be? They grow or scavenge most everything they need right there in Wyoming. Had to since The Cull came down. You're gonna have to do better than that."
"What about sabotage? Are you thinking of guerrilla tactics? Sending in small parties to take out their fuel depots and food stores."
"It'd crossed my mind. There's always the risk of them getting caught though. Could compromise us if they torture the men for intelligence or try and ransom them. Not to mention the excuse it would give them to counter-attack. You ain't doing too good at this."
A light came on in Simon Peter's head. "Maybe you ain't fixing to use force at all."
"Really?"
Simon Peter thought for a minute about the best way to sell his idea. "Maybe you're gonna mount a 'hearts and minds' campaign. Try and win over the people them Wyoming Klan's rule. They seemed to put a lot of stock in how unpopular the Neo-Clergy was. What if that were to change? What if there was – how did Benny Cooper put it? – 'popular pressure', that's it. What if there was too much popular pressure from their own people to keep us out?"
Colt grunted, he was impressed. Before he got a chance to say anything though, Simon Peter lost control of the vehicle.
The back end took off and the wheels left the road. A wave of blistering heat came from behind. Simon Peter saw flames in his rear-view mirror.
He put his head between his knees and clasped his ankles. The front end of the SUV hit the ground and crumpled.
The vehicle fell on its side, the windscreen shattered and covered Simon Peter in shards of glass. He lifted his head and looked into the back seat.
The back windscreen was gone. A piece of flaming metal debris was sticking out the back of one soldier's head. His eyes were vacant. His cap was alight and blood ran out of his nose and mouth.
"Help me get Reverend Colt out." Simon Peter shouted to the other soldier.
"That's alright, I'm fine," Colt said. He pushed the dead soldier aside, kicked the back door open and climbed out. Simon Peter and the other soldier followed him out the wrecked SUV.
Bullets raked the vehicle the minute they were out. They ducked behind it and took shelter. Simon Peter saw that the vehicle behind them – part of their small convoy – was now a flaming mass of twisted metal and burning flesh.
The van that had been riding in front pulled alongside and three soldiers jumped out. "Sir, thank God you're alive," said the first.
"What in hell just happened?" Colt shouted.
"Rocket took out the rear vehicle sir. Came out of nowhere." More gunfire thudded into the vehicles and everyone took cover.
A gang of four motorcyclists tore by, firing Uzis. One of them had a rocket launcher strapped across his back. They must have been hiding just out of sight, waiting to launch this ambush.
Simon Peter pulled out his pistol and unloaded half the clip. The other soldiers followed suit, returning the biker's fire. Simon Peter caught the last rider in the shoulder. The biker jerked backwards and the bike skidded out from under him as he hit the ground with a crunch loud enough to hear above the gun play.
The other riders circled back, just out of range, as their fallen comrade screamed out to them. They charged back towards him, providing cover with their Uzis.
This was not a wise move. Colt had trained his men well, which meant Simon Peter and the surviving soldiers were crack shots.
Someone took out the front tire of the lead bike. The rider went right over the handlebars and smashed into the road. His corpse jerked and spasmed as a torrent of bullets ripped into it.
The second biker caught a bullet full in the face. It cracked his visor and sent his brains flying out of a hole in the back of his helmet. He carried right on past them without stopping and rode straight into the fiery wreck of the burning vehicle. His gas tank exploded as he hit.
The remaining rider turned three-sixty and fled.
"Someone get after him!" Colt shouted.
Without thinking Simon Peter ran over to the rider he had taken down, who was still screaming about his shoulder. Two in the face put a stop to that.
Simon Peter kicked the motorbike into life and jumped on.
He took off after the escaping biker and caught up with him a mile down the road. The man knew how to ride and Simon Peter was only on him because he'd taken a lot of stupid risks. As he began to draw level the rider turned into a side road which led to a wooded copse. Simon Peter followed.
He pulled out his pistol and let off a few shots. The biker zig-zagged across the road and Simon Peter tried for his tires but didn't have any luck.
The rider took his bike off-road and tried to lose Simon Peter by taking sharp turns through the trees. Simon Peter took a gamble on the biker's next turn and drove straight at the point he thought the rider would hit. He was spot on and ploughed straight into him at nearly fifty. At the last minute he leaped and caught hold of the biker around the waist. They went straight into a tree trunk. The biker caught the brunt of the impac
t. Simon Peter fell backwards and the man landed on him. A sharp pain shot up his spine and he kicked the biker away.
He sprang at the man and tore his helmet off, then punched him twice in the face before he noticed the ribs sticking out of the biker's chest.
"Who sent you?" he screamed. "Who are you working for?"
The man just shook his head and coughed up blood.
Simon Peter punched him a few more times, but the biker couldn't have talked even if he wanted to. Simon Peter was so pissed at him after chasing him all this way that he just walked away and left the man to die slowly. He wasn't going to put the son of a bitch out of his misery.
Half an hour down the interstate he found Colt and the other men. Colt wasn't too pleased when he heard what Simon Peter had to say. He remained ominously silent for about five minutes then said: "We don't need no confirmation. He'll deny it of course, but we know who sent those men to kill us. And he just signed his own death warrant."
CHAPTER FOUR
Linda had never ridden with anyone as irritating as Greaves. For a guy who had survived the worst plague in history he sure was allergic to a lot of things.
Every five minutes he was either taking some pill or sucking on some inhaler. The huge greatcoat he never took off was an Aladdin's cave of pharmaceuticals. It had a million pockets and each one of them rattled with some kind of medication. Shame it stunk worse than a flatulent skunk.
"Ah, New Harmony," he said as they passed a bullet- riddled road sign. "Site of America's only socialist community. Founded in 1825 by Robert Owen."
"Wasn't he a blues singer?"
"A British industrialist actually," said Greaves, missing Linda's bored sarcasm. "It didn't last long. Socialism never caught on in the States. It's one of those European things."
"Like soft cheese and not bathing?"
