by Wayne Mee
They both sat there, each lost in their own thoughts. Jessie came back outside, a cat cradled to his breast, a Beagle pup at his heels. He was beaming from ear to ear. Sitting down on the step, the cat hissed at the dog and bounded off. The pup, its long curved tail wagging furiously, jumped up and licked his face.
“Found a friend, eh son?”, the old man asked.
Jessie’s answer came in the form of a laugh. Both men smiled. Josh swallowed the lump in his throat.
“I got his mother inside with a sore leg. The pup’s about a year old now, but he’s going to be a big one. You can always tell by the paws. You’re welcome to keep him, son, both if you like. But first you check with your dad.”
Jessie’s eyes went wide. “Can we, Dad? Keep them both? I’d take good care of them, and we can’t take him away from his mother!”
His son’s innocent words hit Josh like a kick in the stomach. “We’ll take both, Jess. There’s been enough partings lately.”
Jessie, already going back inside for the pup’s mother, missed the sadness in his father’s tone. Doc Gruber didn’t. The old man squeezed Josh’s hand. “I lost a brother in W.W.II, a son in that sad joke called Viet Nam, and a wife to cancer. Partings are terrible hard things, Josh, scaring the heart and the soul, but in time the pain recedes. We never forget, but we learn to go on. I did. You will too.”
Josh nodded out of politeness, even formed a half smile, but in his heart he ached for what once was, and it was his wife’s face that swam towards him through a watery film of tears.
They spent the rest of the day driving around Hawthorn, looking for more survivors. They saw some sign of looters downtown; the liquor store had been broken into and the large plate glass window in the front of Billing’s Food Mart was smashed, but they met no-one. Then, when they were heading back to Doc’s place for supper, Jessie saw someone run behind a house. It was just a quick glimpse, but Jessie thought it was a woman. They stopped to investigate. Josh honked the horn and waited. Nothing. He got out and called. Still nothing.
“That house, Jess?”, he asked, pointing to a rambling bungalow. Jessie nodded. “You stay by the van. I’ll have a look.” He was half way up the walk when the shot came. He felt the slug whiz by his head. Throwing himself on the ground, he yelled for Jessie to stay down. Touching his ear, he noticed with surprise there was blood on it. Cautiously he raised his head. “We mean you no harm! We’re friends!”
Another shot rang out. A .22 by the sound. This time bark chipped off the tree he had rolled behind. “Shit!,” Josh swore to himself, then he was up and running for the van.
“What’s up, Dad? Why they shooting at us?!”
Josh gunned the motor and tore down the street. “Scared, probably! Or crazy! Not everyone’s going to take what happened as calmly as old Doc!” He presses his sleeve against his ear. There was little blood now, but it stung like hell.
The ride was short and silent. Josh turned onto his own street and pulled in the drive. His home of twenty-some years stood silent and empty. Now little more than a box of dead dreams.
“I thought Doc was fixing us supper?”, Jessie asked.
Josh, still frowning, nodded. “Want to pick up a few things first. You too. Change of clothes and your toothbrush. We’ll be staying the night at Doc’s.”
“Good,” Jessie said. “This place doesn’t feel like home now that Mom’s gone.”
Josh looked at his son. Already adapting, he thought. Christ, to be young again! He followed the boy into the silent house.
While Jess was gathering his things, Josh went to the basement. Passing the washer and dryer gave him a sudden twinge and his wife’s face floated before him again. It was good they were leaving. Too many memories here, for him and for Jessie.
He went on into his workshop. Cross-country skis and old packsacks greeted him. His eyes went to his workbench, cluttered with tools. Cans of paint and half used rolls ofwallpaper stuck out of the rough shelves he had made several years ago. Always meant to clean this place up, he thought. Now, what the hell.
He looked up and found what he had really came for; two long leather cases tucked in with the Alpine skis and poles. Pulling them down, dust and cobwebs came with them. Clearing off the workbench, he laid the two objects down. His fingers trembled as he undid the zipper of the heaviest one. Half-way, his hand fell to his side.
“Jesus Christ!”, he muttered. “What the hell am I doing?”
Protecting your own! a cold voice said. It was an ancient voice, first heard when the new upstart man discovered that a stick could be a weapon. A primeval voice; ancient; old; as old as the earth itself.
Josh slid the shotgun out of its case. The bare bulb overhead glared off its blue-black barrel, glinted off the twin open hammers, danced along the wooden stock. His father’s gun, dead now for a dozen years. Josh thumbed the breech open. There was the familiar ‘clicking’ sound. Both barrels were empty. He snapped it shut, old memories snapping into place along with it. The weight, the heft, even the smell. Josh ran his hand over the walnut stock. The scratch was still there. Josh had first fired it on a duck hunt at thirteen. The recoil had knocked him on his ass into the weeds, the gun to the bottom of the boat. His father had shook his head and offered his hand.
Smiling sheepishly, dripping semi-stagnant pond-water, young Josh had reached out trembling much like Adam had so very long ago. The touch of any god lingers forever with a person.
Good old dad. The late, great white hunter. Kind but distant, caring but cool, unable to allow love to show. More at ease with animals than people, at home anywhere but at home, finally finding rest in the bottom of a bottle.
But before he checked out for that great skeet-shoot in the sky, he’d passed on his love of nature to his only son. Taught him the song of the silent woods, the caress found in the frosty wind and the magic of flowing water. He’d also shown him the thrill of the hunt and the triumph of the kill.
Josh hadn’t fired the gun since before his son was born. He’d replaced it with hiking and canoeing; a sharing of life rather than a taking. The world had slowly changed since his long ago childhood. Davy Crocket and Daniel Boon had been eclipsed by Little House on the Prairie, Oprah and Doctor Phill. Hell, in these days of cell phones, laptop computers, video games and ‘surfing the net’, any concept around for more than a year or two was considered ‘ancient history’. To most people in the ‘Modern World’, the sport of hunting had gone the way of the dinosaur. Conservation, Green Peace and Save the Whales were ideals Josh himself strongly agreed with. The Hippies had long since come and gone, but their motto of ‘make love not war’ lived on --- at least on the surface.
But now it seemed that the world had changed again, only this time not as a slow, gentle movement, spearheaded by idealistic children with flowers in their hair, but by nameless, faceless scientists working in their top-secret labs. Sudden, brutal, total change, leaving only a motherless boy and an arthritic old man --- and frightened people who shot at you when you wanted only to be their friend.
Slowly he unzipped the other case and stood looking down at the second relic from a bygone age --- an age suddenly come again. In it lay a bolt action .22target rifle and a box of hollow point bullets. Josh began to rummage around for shells to go with the shotgun. He found the heavy cartridge belt for the 12 gage in an old wicker picnic basket under his workbench. Its weight felt strangely familiar.
“What you doing, Dad?”
Josh turned to see Jessie standing in the doorway. Feeling suddenly guilty, he smiled at his son. “Just checking things out, Josh. You ready to go?”
Jessie came up to stand at his father’s side. As tall as I am, Josh thought. But still so young! Will he be alive this time next year? Will any of us? And if we are, at what cost?
“Wow! I didn’t know you had guns!”
“They were your grandfather’s. Now --- now they’re ours.”
Chapter 8: IT BEGINS
China Lake
Nav
al Weapons Center,
California. June 22
George ‘The Man’ Sampson stood looking down at Pussbag kneeling at Jocco’s feet, disgust warring with disbelief in his bloodshot eyes. “What’s this shit?! And where’d that ugly skag come from?!”
Jocco graced him with smile, his gray eyes however, remained cold. “All in good time, Georgie-boy, but for now, get my new friend here a chair.”
George didn’t like taking orders, but somehow he liked even less the idea of crossing Jocco. He got the chair.
“Now,” Jocco said, motioning for Pussbag to be seated. “Explain again that part about following me.”
Pussbag was only too willing to comply. In a muddled torrent of words he told Jocco all, including his undying allegiance to the Dark Stranger. When it was over he fell on his knees again. Jocco left him there.
“Christ, man!”, George swore. “The asshole’s not playing with a full deck! If you can’t see that you’re just as fucking crazy as he is!”
Suddenly George found his feet swept out from under him and a blood-covered bayonet pressed against his throat. Behind the sharp blade, Pussbag’s wild eyes glared down at him. “You will not speak that way to Him!”
George the Man all but wet his pants. “Sure thing, man! Anything you say!”
Pussbag looked up at Jocco like a Doberman waiting for its owner’s signal. Kill or set free, all on the whim of its master.
Jocco placed a hand on Pussbag’s head, patting it twice. “Let him up, friend. I believe Georgie-boy has seen the light.”
The bayonet disappeared into Pussbag’s dirty fatigues, yet his wild eyes followed George as he made his way shakily back to his bottle.
On the floor, Shirley Bates was waking up to a changed world in more ways than one. Jocco saw her wince and smiled. “Ah, the fair princess awakes. Georgie-boy, help the lady up.”
George was about to complain, but one look at Pussbag sent him scurrying over. Shirley cried out when he lifted her, then again when he tossed her on a sofa. From the other side of the room Lieutenant Pinkton watched in stunned silence as Flight Lieutenant Sam Waterson slammed his glass down and stood up. Facing Jocco, he summoned up his best officer’s voice.
“Now listen, private, this has gone far enough! As senior officer here, I’m taking command!”
Still smiling, Jocco drew his .45 and pointed it at the girl. Two shots rang out, filling the room with rolling thunder and the smell of burnt powder. Shirley pressed herself back into the sofa, screaming as she did so. A nice, round hole had magically appeared on either side of her. Jocco raised the gun and locked his wrist with his free hand.
“One more word from you, ‘private’, and the next one’s between her eyes.” The smile was still on his handsome face.
Waterson stiffened, seemed about to respond, read the madness in Jocco’s eyes, and still glaring hatred, slowly sat back down. Pinkton, his white face having turned several shades whiter, kept his eyes riveted on the gun. Pussbag’s smiling face looked adoringly at Jocco, while George the Man giggled in the corner.
“Man oh fucking man!”, George beamed. “You sure as shit showed him!”
The .45 swung in Waterson’s direction. Jocco was still smiling. “Georgie-boy. Get the lady a drink. Several in fact. Then strip her. These two ex-officers are going to join you in a little gang-bang.”
George’s eyes widened, then a smile of his own spread over his sallow face. “Sure, Jocco! Anything you say, man!”
Jocco turned to Pussbag. “Help the two ‘privates’ to get in the mood, friend. Use your knife if you have to.”
Flowing like a scarecrow on ice, Pussbag glided across the room and stood behind Waterson and Pinkton. His bayonet had once again appeared in his hand. Jocco set his gun on the table and, digging in his shirt pocket, produced a small pillbox.
“Georgie. Give the lady two of these. It’ll help make her feel more romantic.”
George caught the pillbox and giggled. “Fucking-A, man! Fucking-A!”
Jocco woke to the sound of rain. Water dripped off the jagged edges of the demolished wall. Sleeping bodies lay scattered about. His .45 lay in his lap. Picking up the weapon, he rose from the plush armchair and walked to the opening. Wind gusted across the tarmac. In the east a gray stain blotted out the rising sun. It didn’t bother him though, for he had a bright, shiny plan for the future.
In a way, he had the strange, bayonet-wielding idiot to thank. The pathetic creature had given him the dark seed from which the darker rose would grow. Now, looking out on the newly remodeled world, Jocco was anxious to put his plan into action. The building blocks of its creation lay scattered all about him. He breathed deep of the heady brew of expectation and took stock of his options.
Over three thousand souls had resided at China Lake. All but a few were dead. He had found five survivors so far. How many more could be found in an all out search? Another truth was that whatever had happened here had happened everywhere else as well. The pilot Waterson had confirmed that. The Big Bad World had suddenly just gone belly-up.
Yet somehow a few had survived. More importantly, HE had survived. Now he would gather them to him. Draw them in like fish in a net --- his net.
Then there had been that bit about the ‘Dark Stranger’. He had liked that. Shit like that really did a number on the weak and feeble minded, a group which, in Jocco’s view, had always made up the majority of the world’s population. Now, after this strange but oh-so-welcome Big Check-Out, the ratio of idiots hadn’t changed, only the gene-pool had gotten smaller --- one Mother-fucking hell-of-a-lot smaller!
His nimble mind still racing, he reviewed last nights ‘recruiting session’, the first, he now believed, in a long line to come. He smiled at his own play on words. The woman the crazy shit had found would continue to serve as a form of ‘initiation booth’ for his growing band of merry men. Bang her willingly or BANG! you’re dead! Sweet Christ, he even had a pilot! A most unwilling one to be sure, but something could always be worked out.
Big Bad Lieutenant Sam had been a tad reluctant to deflower the fair damsel. Even after Pussbag had cut him a few times he still refused. Only when Jocco had his loyal servant give the bitch a pierced ear big enough to stick a finger through had Big Bad Sam finally dropped his drawers.
As for that little prick Pinkton --- again a smile at his own play on words --- he was so bloody scared he couldn’t even get it up! Georgie-boy had helped out there, offering an empty beer bottle as a substitute. Old Four-Eyed Pinkton had accepted it gladly and started in with gusto.
Jocco saw no reason why what had worked in the past shouldn’t go on working in the future. Of course, dear Nurse Shirley Rottencrotch might give out, but then he was sure in his heart of hearts that he would eventually find a replacement.
Part A of his plan would continue; the creation of the Dark Stranger’s army. Part B would soon follow. The details were still vague, but then, hey, one step at a time. A line from some stupid old movie surfaced. ‘Step by step; inch by inch. Slowly I turned...’ Jocco smiled, not sure just WHAT he was turning into, but was very anxious to find out.
Christ, isn’t life grand? The future lay before him like a conquered land, an open bank vault, a willing virgin --- the possibilities were endless!
The roar of the big truck’s motor cut through not only the rain, but the fog in George the Man’s somewhat limited brain. Like Jocco, the Government of the State of California had made Georgie-boy an offer he couldn’t refuse: two years in the army or five in the can. Up until the day he was caught, Georgie-Porgie had been snatching what he could from the grimier streets of L.A. A mugging here, a drug-deal there, here a rape, there a rape there, everywhere a rape. Fortunately for him, three of the four women he had molested refused to testify, and of the one that did, the D.A. had failed to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Georgie-Porgie hadn’t been invited to put his pudding in her pie. He was nailed on the drug bust however, and so was given the choice of being Uncle Sam’s
boy for two years or some con’s girl friend for five. Owing to his strong preference for the fairer sex, Georgie-boy chose his kindly Uncle Sam.
Excited, nervous, and still half drunk, Georgie’s mouth was running almost as fast as the truck’s motor. Unlike Jocco, however, George the Man had no idea what the fuck was going on.
“Shut up and drive,” Jocco told him. George shrugged, fumbled with the gears of the heavy troop carrier and drove out onto the landing strip. The rain had stopped, but puddles littered the runway like angel’s tears. Pussbag had Sam Waterson, Walter Pinkton and Shirley Bates tied up in
back. Shirley, her face bruised and puffy, sat staring off into happier times.
“Where we going, Boss?”, George asked.
Jocco pointed across the runway to the long row of barracks. As the large truck approached the buildings, Jocco flipped a switch and a siren bleated out into the silent morning. George stopped the heavy vehicle and Jocco climbed up to the open command post on top. George sat waiting, a loaded M-16 across his lap, absently rubbing his sore crotch where the stupid cunt had bit him.
The strident sound of the siren stopped, and Jocco’s clear voice boomed from the speakers mounted on the front of the troop carrier. “Now here this. All survivors will come outside immediately. Bring no weapons. I repeat, bring no weapons. Anyone failing to report will be shot. Anyone reporting with a weapon will be shot.”
Silence.
On the hard bench in the back of the troop carrier Walter Pinkton strained to see what was happening. Beside him Sam Waterson sat glaring at Jocco’s back, wondering if he could throttle the bastard before that maniac behind him used his bayonet.
Jocco spoke into the mike, his amplified voice both calm and cold. “Sergeant George. Give them a burst through the windows.”
Georgie was out of the cab in a flash, the M-16 cradled in his arm. Flipping the switch to full rock n’ roll, he emptied a two dozen mag in a matter of seconds. The prefabricated wall of the barracks took on the texture of Swish cheese. Any glass left in the row of windows hung in long, jagged shards. Most of it lay shattered on the tarmac.
