by Steven Bird
Kyle tended to always be required to pull more than his fair share of the work and accept more than his fair share of the risk. It was his way of paying his dues, they would tell him.
“I’ve not seen Jacob use the cross in a long damn time,” Zack McCullough said. “He must really be pissed.”
Nodding in agreement, Teddy Hofstadter said, “Yeah, I don’t know how this is all gonna play out, but that bitch is good as dead. No one who has ever been on the cross survived.
“I reckon that one feller, the Mexican, I believe, made it the longest. He was up there, what? Five days? Six?”
“Five,” Zack replied. “That was a tough sumbitch. I almost hated to see him die. He earned his place in our clans.” He paused before saying wistfully, “I know Jacob has his reasons, but damn, I could sure think of a few better ways to put her to good use. That bitch is kinda hot.”
“Don’t worry,” Teddy teased. “Maybe you can get her when Jacob’s done, and she’s still warm. Hell, they don’t even need to be warm for your sick ass.” Teddy said, punching Zack on the shoulder. “Hell, that one was startin’ to stiffen up, and that didn’t stop you.”
“I told you not to bring that up anymore!” barked Zack.
“Dude, you did the deed. I ain’t keep’n my mouth shut about some good shit like that.”
“Hey, guys?” Kyle interjected, interrupting the conversation taking place in the front seat.
“What?” Zack asked, annoyed by Kyle’s intrusion.
Reaching his short-barreled Romanian AKM out the sliding back window, he said, “A horse just bounded out of the woods and onto the road behind us.”
Turning to see what Kyle was referring to, Zack said, “Well, I’ll be damned. That’s a purdy one.” Bringing the truck to a stop, Zack put the column shifter into park and said, “See any sign of its owner?”
“Nope. There’s no halter or nothin’. It musta just got away from somebody.”
Chuckling to himself, Zack jested, “Yeah, or maybe the owner is dick down in the dirt right now, dead as shit. Either way, he’s ours now.”
Pulling the handle and slowly opening the driver’s side door, he turned to Teddy and said, “Grab that rope in the back of the truck.”
“Who the hell put you in charge?” Teddy protested.
“C’mon, man. I’ve got a plan here,” Zack urged, as he stepped out of the truck and turned to face the horse.
Making kissing sounds, Zack did his best to persuade the horse to come toward him, but to no avail. The horse, though not scared, seemed to be completely disinterested in their presence. “Damn it. You two stay here. Get the rope ready. I’m gonna see if I can get close to him.”
Visually searching the area for threats, Teddy said, “Take the damn rope with ya.”
“Some horses run when they see a rope in a man’s hands. They ain’t stupid. I need him to stay calm.”
Working his way toward the horse, Zack kept making kissing and clucking sounds, trying to find the right cue to match this particular horse’s training. Once he got to within twenty or so feet of the horse, he stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed sweat on the horse’s back, in the shape of a saddle blanket.
Zack muttered, “Son of a bitch,” just before a .308 bullet smashed into his forehead, sending the entire contents of his skull onto the ground behind him, following the path of the explosive exit wound.
Seeing Zack fall back onto the gravel road with a thud, Teddy turned to run around the truck toward the driver’s seat when several high-velocity 5.56 NATO rounds smashed into his side, piercing his liver and lungs, sending him crashing down on the ground beside the truck.
Lying in the seat, trying desperately to conceal himself from the threat, Kyle shouted, “Shit! Shit! Shit!” while he frantically tried to think of a way out of his situation. Crawling between the two front bucket seats, attempting to stay as low and concealed as possible, Kyle slipped into the driver’s seat, placed the shifter in drive, and stomped on the accelerator.
When the butterflies of the Holley 650 carburetor opened, allowing four steady streams of fuel to be pulled into the engine, the rear tires began to spin, kicking up and spraying gravel and dust nearly twenty feet behind them. He looked over the dash to see a woman standing in the road, raising the stock of an AR-15 to her cheek, and emitting several quick flashes of light from the flash suppressor mounted on the end of the barrel.
Kyle felt as if everything went silent. The windshield shattered directly in front of him, sending a spider web-like pattern of cracks throughout the window.
Immediately finding it difficult to breathe, Kyle looked down to see the upper part of his shirt was covered in blood, one hit representing each flash of light from her rifle.
As he released his pressure on the accelerator, the truck began to slow, and Kyle slumped over the steering wheel. Attempting one more deep breath, Kyle felt a searing pain through his chest, along with the gurgle of his blood-filled lungs.
When the truck came to a stop, Kyle sat up and looked through the shattered windshield to see the woman walking directly toward the truck. Her face told the story of his inevitable fate.
Unable to reach his AK in the backseat, he braced himself as one more single flash of light came from her rifle, sending him into a world of eternal darkness.
~~~~
Back at the Hofstadter place, Jacob stood towering over the frightened children being held in what used to be quarters for migrant workers during the Great Depression.
Looking up at Jacob, twelve-year-old Matt could see the pleasure in the man’s eyes. It was clear he enjoyed this. He enjoyed the power he held over others.
Refusing to give Jacob the pleasure, Matt looked him dead in the eye, held his jaw firm, and resolved to show no fear. Rather than allowing the man to see fear in his eyes, Matt resolved for him to see the strength that would one day bring him down, if given a chance.
Just as Jacob began to speak, a man Matt was unfamiliar with opened the door while knocking and blurted out, “Teddy’s been hit.”
Spinning to face the man, Jacob roared, “Hit? What the hell are you talking about?”
“He was on patrol with one of the McCullough boys and another man from the McCullough place. We don’t know what happened, but all three were killed. We can’t figure it out either, because their truck wasn’t even taken. It was still running, just sitting there in the middle of the road with the driver slumped over the wheel.”
Seeing Jacob’s face tighten while he gritted his teeth, the man added, “There was a note.”
“A note?”
“Yeah, carved into Teddy.”
“Carved?” an increasingly enraged Jacob Hofstadter inquired.
“Yeah, carved. Um… like with a knife.”
Throwing a chair across the room and breaking it against the wall, Jacob snarled and asked, “What did it say?”
Stuttering, the man explained, “It… It said, ‘Life for life, death for death’.”
Storming out of the old, wooden building, Jacob stomped toward the main house with rage, smashing into the ground with every step.
Seeing Stewart McCullough step out of the home, Jacob shouted, “Your boys sure ain’t doing a very good job of keepin’ that old man and his friends at bay!”
“Now just calm down,” Stewart McCullough warned, unhappy with Jacob’s indignant tone. “You’d best explain just why the hell you’re yellin’ at me.”
Walking up to Stewart, Jacob stood uncomfortably close and said through gritted teeth, “You were supposed to have your men scour the area to find that old son of a bitch and his friends. They sure as hell aren’t doin’ a very good job at it. My little brother is dead now, and so is one of your kin.”
“One of my kin?” Stewart questioned.
Kicking Stewart directly in the chest, knocking him backward and onto the ground with a thud, Jacob quickly kicked Stewart’s pistol out of his hand when he drew. Jacob leapt on top of him with a long, sharp, fixe
d-blade knife in his right hand. Putting the knife against Stewart’s throat, Jacob hissed, “The way I see it, your kin got himself killed. That was your job. You’re supposed to be handling the outer perimeter while we cover the interior. Don’t make the mistake of thinkin’ you’re my equal, and don’t make the mistake of thinkin’ your kin are equal to mine. You’re nothin’ but a bunch of low-life trash carvin’ out a living by preyin’ on the weak. If you think that’s what we are, you’re wrong. My family was forged in the fires of hell. My family was born in the blood of sin and is saved by punishing the sinners of this world. God gives us strength through those whose blood flows over the roots of the tree.”
Pausing to look around, Jacob relaxed the knife and said confidently, “Go ahead. Look around. All of mine are holding sights on all of yours. As a matter of fact, I think that one right over there might have pissed his pants. We’re not cut from the same cloth. You’re not even cut from the rag my kin would use to wipe their asses.”
Slipping the knife back into its sheath, Jacob stood and looked down at Stewart McCullough. “You remember that.”
As he lay there looking up at Jacob Hofstadter, the reality sank in that his world, a world that had seemed full of bounty and freedom just days before, had just been transformed into a world of servitude to a man and a family he now regretted aligning himself with.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Feeling the impact from the muzzle of a rifle slamming into her side, Shauna awoke from her momentary lapse of consciousness to see Jacob Hofstadter and several of his men standing around her. Jacob’s face was different this time. Before, it had seemed as if he’d enjoyed what he was doing. He had seemed to take great pleasure in her suffering on the cross, now swinging gently in the breeze from its suspended position from the old oak tree.
Now, his face wore a look of anger and resolve. But what was he angry about? What did he resolve to do? The fear of the unknown swept through her pain-filled body. Her shoulders and wrists ached with a ferocity from their torturous position.
Looking up at her, Jacob Hofstadter asked, “How many more are there?”
“Wha… what?” she asked. “How many what?” she forced out through her dry, aching throat.
Gritting his teeth, he dragged the blade of his knife across the top of her foot, leaving a deep scratch that began to weep tiny droplets of blood. “How many more of you are out there? How many of your men survived?”
Confused for a moment as to why she didn’t seem to be able to feel the cut on the top of her foot, she regained focus and said, “Men? It’s not just the men you need to worry about.”
Stabbing the top of her foot with his knife in a fit of rage, Jacob shouted, “How damn many?!”
Screaming when her senses came back into her reality with a flood of pain, she screamed, “I don’t know! I don’t know!”
“How do you not know?” he asked, twisting the blade in her foot.
Nearly hyperventilating from the pain, Shauna gathered her strength and said defiantly, “Because those assholes took me during the fight. I don’t know who, if any, are still out there! And I wouldn’t tell you if I did!”
Turning to one of the other men, Jacob ordered, “Get her some water. Keep her alive. I don’t want to lose her as an asset.” Pausing for a moment, he looked to her with that familiar evil grin and said, “Or as a source of entertainment.”
~~~~
Bouncing down one of the many dirt and gravel roads around the Hofstadter place, several of the McCullough men were driving along, keeping a close watch out for potential threats, given the recent turn of events.
In the cab of the truck, Greg McCullough, a twenty-six-year-old man who’d spent his life in and out of jail after having dropped out of the tenth grade, turned to his cousin Justin McCullough and griped, “I don’t get it. What the hell are we doing lettin’ those bastards push us around? We’re the ones who’ve been calling the shots all this time, and now, Stewart just gives it all over to them.”
“I dunno, Greg. I dunno.” Looking back in the bed of the truck at Thad and Miles McCullough, both armed with scoped rifles, Justin placed his AR15 on the seat, turned, and opened the sliding rear window. As he began to speak, a gunshot rang out with a metallic thud hitting the passenger side front fender. Hearing several more shots, the men in the bed began firing toward the source of the shots when the truck slid to a stop, causing them to lose their balance and slam into the cab of the truck.
“Damn it, Greg!” Thad yelled, as everyone scurried to the driver’s side of the truck to take cover.
“Did you see where the shots came from?” yelled Justin.
“Yeah, over there,” Miles indicated, as he pointed to the far side of the road.
Hearing several more shots ring out, the men hunched behind the truck as Greg said, “Yep. I saw the muzzle flashes that time. We’ve got him.”
Looking at Justin, Greg directed, “You two go around to the left, I’ll go right.”
“What about me?” the other man asked.
“You stay right here and pop off a shot at them every minute or so. Keep them pinned down and keep them concentrated on you.”
“Got it,” the man said, nodding before he took aim and fired, ducking back behind the truck for cover when another shot rang out from across the road.
Slipping into the trees behind them, Greg worked his way down the road, then sprinted across, diving into the thick vegetation on the other side for visual cover. Hearing several more shots being directed at their truck, he then worked his way through the woods toward the source of the gunfire, holding his AR15 at the high ready. “C’mon, you sons of bitches. Show yourselves,” he mumbled while he worked his way toward them, moving from tree to tree for cover.
Seeing a muzzle flash from the thick brush up ahead, Greg smiled and said to himself, “Gotcha!” and he emptied his thirty-round magazine into the thick vegetation surrounding his foe. Hearing a voice scream out in pain, he smiled and boasted, “Got you now.”
To Greg’s dismay, he heard a familiar voice shout out, “Justin’s been hit! You’re shooting at us, you dumb son of a bitch!”
Wait, he thought, could I have? No. No, I was shooting at the other guy.
Dropping his empty magazine and replacing it with a loaded one, Greg left his position of cover. He worked his way toward his foe, saying, “I’m on the move! Hold your fire!” If he had been the cause of a friendly fire accident, he didn’t want the trend to continue.
Arriving at the source of the gunshots, Greg pushed some brush out of the way with the barrel of his rifle to see an AR15 still pointed at the road. “Shit!” he shouted as he opened fire, sending ten rounds into the brush.
Hearing nothing, Greg pushed the brush out of the way again, and under closer examination, he saw the rifle was tied securely to the low hanging branch of a tree. “What the hell?” he said, and he heard his cohorts approaching from the left flank, busting through the brush.
“Did you get him?” Thad asked, and they both looked at the rifle. Confused, they noticed a string tied to the trigger and disappearing into the woods and in the direction opposite the road.
“Son of a…” Greg stammered when an arrow tipped with a razor-sharp hunting broadhead pierced his side, slicing through his right lung and severing one of the major arteries surrounding his heart. The rapid loss of blood pressure sent Greg falling to the ground like a lifeless sack of flour.
Turning to run, Thad crashed through the brush and briars of the thick vegetation, leaping over his wounded comrade, Justin, who was pleading for help as he slowly bled to death from his friendly fire wounds.
Looking ahead, Thad saw a woman pop up from behind a fallen tree. Seeing her raise a rifle, the man fumbled to react when a flash of light and the crack of her supersonic round left her muzzle, striking him in the chest and sending him crashing down onto the ground.
While he lay there, drowning in his own blood from a devastating wound channel and the sucking
chest wound it had caused, he looked up to see Tina Williams calmly walking toward him.
Knowing he was going to die, he hoped for a swift end to his misery. He watched as Tina placed the barrel of her rifle against his forehead and prepared to fire. He closed his eyes, attempting to quickly make peace with the Lord, and he felt her release the pressure on his forehead.
Opening his eyes, he saw her turn and walk away, disappearing into the thick woods, leaving him there to suffer and die alone.
Back at the truck, Miles McCullough, now the sole surviving member of the patrol, observed the gunfire coming from different weapons and from different directions. “Screw this,” he muttered, and he turned to run into the woods on the far side of the road. His plan to flee was quickly thwarted, however, when he saw a slim, road-worn man standing behind him with an old single action revolver in his hand, pointed directly at him.
Watching while the man cocked the hammer of the old Colt with his thumb, Miles attempted to bring the cumbersome bolt-action rifle to bear before a .357 Magnum round launched from the old relic, smashing into his forehead and ending the fight.
~~~~
Watching from a distance, Isaac peered through the 6x scope of the Pedersoli Sharps and was in horror to see Shauna hanging on what appeared to be a crucifix from the very tree under which Billy had lost his life.
Seeing a flurry of activity when several men began to spread some sort of message, Isaac could only assume Jessie, Tina, and Paul were having their desired effect on the perimeter patrols.
Isaac wanted so badly to begin sending well-placed buffalo loads into the men surrounding the tree, but he feared the retaliation against Shauna that such actions could lead to. She was totally helpless, dangling there like a marionette on a string, and he didn’t want to risk making her situation any worse.
No. Not yet, he thought while he scanned the area with the big rifle’s scope, hoping to glean any information he might find useful in her rescue.
