Ever Onward

by Wayne Mee

  Josh ran forward, yelling as he went. “Get down, Doc!” With each step he expected to feel a bullet slam into him. None came. Doc had pulled the terrified girl down behind the bench and was covering her with his body when Josh flopped down beside them. All three kept their heads lowered.

  “Quick thinking for a college man,” Doc said, a wry smile on his lined face.

  “Up yours, Doc.”

  The sound of the 12 gage boomed out again. This time the window to the right of the dentist shattered.

  Jessie called out from behind them. “I think he’s gone, Dad!”

  “Stay down!”, Josh yelled.

  “You ARE a good teacher!”, Doc grinned.

  Josh didn’t answer. Instead he cautiously looked over the edge of the park bench. Nothing, except that he was kneeling in pigeon shit.

  “He called himself The Dude. I met him two days ago. He seemed nice at first, but then he got drunk and wanted me to...to do things.” The girl was sitting in the open door of their van, holding a cigarette in a trembling hand. “At night he’d put on dirty movies and --- you know ---”

  Doc patted her hand. “Never mind now, little lady. He’s long gone, and that offer about hot biscuits still stands.”

  The girl looked at him suspiciously out of the corner of her eye. Doc smiled. “I doubt Mrs. Wang and her granddaughter --- they’re the ones doing the baking --- care too much for dirty movies. Can’t say I fancy them much myself.”

  A ghost of a smile flitted across her young face. She said her name was Gloria Ambrose. Four days ago she woke up to a dead house full of dead parents. She’d ran outside into a dead word. After two days of wandering around she’s met ‘The Dude’. Since then things had gone from bad to worse. Jessie, blushing in the background, introduced himself and the others, then began telling her about his dogs.

  Suddenly Josh stiffened. Cocking his head to one side, he listened. The sound of a motor was now clear for all to here.

  “Someone’s coming!”

  Gloria’s face went pale. “It’s him! Dude!”

  Josh checked the loads in the shotgun and moved to the end of the van. “The rest of you stay down!”

  Jessie, clutching the .22, moved up behind his father.

  The sound came from the far end of town. Watching, all four saw a battered dark green pick-up round the corner. It stopped directly opposite them in the town square. Two men were inside.

  Doc touched Josh’s shoulder, making him jump. “I know that truck. Belongs to Willard Spinner.” Doc squinted through the van’s side window. “Will’s driving. Can’t see the other fellow.”

  Before Josh could stop him, Doc walked around the rear of the van and towards the truck. Swearing under his breath, Josh moved around the front, both hammers of the 12 gage cocked.

  “Willard!”, Doc called out, walking towards the battered pick-up. “Willard Spinner! How the hell are you?!”

  The driver’s door swung open and a large, heavy set man in his late fifty’s stepped out. He was wearing dirty overalls and a baseball cap. The sleeves to his faded shirt were rolled up and one massive hand was held out in front of him.

  “Doc Gruber!”, the farmer beamed. “Just the man I was hoping to see! My best heifer is having one bastard of a time! Looks like a breach to me!”

  “Same as the last time, eh Will? Due next month as I recall.”

  The big man nodded. “Ya, but she’s off her feed and mighty feisty.”

  Josh couldn’t believe his ears. The whole bloody world had gone to hell in a hand basket, and here were these two old farts talking about some cow having trouble giving birth! He gently uncocked the shotgun and walked across the square. Willard Spinner took in both him and the gun at a glance.

  “Hunting season open a bit early this year?”

  Doc smiled. “This is Josh Williams. He and his son have been staying with me for the past few days. He’s a good man, just a might cautious.”

  Willard nodded. “I heard the shots.”

  Just then the passenger door opened and a young man, thin and sporting shoulder length blond hair, came round the truck. He waved shyly at Josh.

  “Hi there, Mr. Williams. Remember me? Bobby Stewart. I was in your history class some years back. Still got the old Volks, eh?”

  The boy, looking to be in his late teens or early twenty’s, held out his hand. Josh took it, feeling like he was seeing a ghost. Bobby Stewart had not been the brightest light in the class, and had quite school to pursue fame and fortune in rock n’ roll band. Bobby and his guitar had made it as far as George Phillip’s Texaco station on the edge of town. Josh wasn’t too sure about Bobby’s musical ability, but he knew first hand he was a damn fine mechanic. He’s worked on Josh’s camper several times.

  “Good to see you, Bobby.” The boy’s smile widened. Doc’s expression, however, became serious. “You do know what’s happened, don’t you Willard?”

  The big farmer looked puzzled, then his brow uncreased. “You mean the plague? Course I do, Doc! You know I live alone, and my place is kind of out of the way, but I met Bobby two days ago and he filled me in. Can’t get nothing but snow on the tube now. Radio’s the same. Phone still works though. Got any idea who started it?”

  “Not the slightest.”, Doc said. “See anyone else out your way?”

  The big farmer shook his head. “Yesterday Bobby and me went up to the big houses up in the park. You know my farm’s alongside that wildlife sanctuary up there.” He took off his grease covered cap and scrubbed his short, graying hair. “Gave me the creeping bajeezers walking around those rich fellow’s houses. All dead and dried up like last year’s leaves! The horses in the stables were fine, though.”

  Bobby spoke up, looking glad to have something to say. “We came into town after leaving the park and saw your sign. It is your sign, ain’t it, Mr. Williams?”

  Josh nodded, not wanting to stop the flow of Bobby’s thoughts.

  “Well, me and ol’ Willard here read it n’ decided to come back in today at noon.”

  “But my best heifer started acting up and we’re a might late,” Willard put in. He offered a smile all round. “Glad you fellows waited.”

  Josh noticed Willard was missing a front tooth.

  “We did see one guy,” Bobby chuckled. “On the way in here. He was riding a chopper. Going like a bat out of hell too!”

  ‘The Dude,’ Josh said to himself, feeling his stomach knotting at the thought of what might have happened.

  Doc invited Willard and Bobby back to his place. “After you meet Mrs. Wang and her granddaughter, Mai-Ling, I’ll take a little ride back with you to your place. Can’t let that heifer of yours bust down the barn.”

  Half an hour later they were all crowded round Doc’s table eating the much discussed biscuits. The girl, Gloria Ambrose, was very pleased to see the two females. Mrs. Wang, in turn, seemed delighted to have another chick to tuck under her flour dusted wing.

  Chapter 10: ‘BE FRUITFUL AND MUTIPLY’

  June 25, Barstow, California,

  50 miles south of China Lake

  Naval Weapons Center.

  As the armored personnel carrier pulled into the parking lot of Barstow’s Holiday Inn, its six tractor tires crunched over the remains of several bodies. A large Troop Transport and two heavy trucks followed. Swirls of dust choked the air; not all of it from blown sand.

  The door of the heavy APC swung open and Jocco climbed down. In the fading light, his first conquest lay before him: Barstow, located where I-40 continues west to Bakersfield and I-15 heads south through the San Gabriel Mountains all the way to LA.

  It had taken Jocco two days to find and load all the little toys he would need to implement Part B of his Grand Plan. The trucks, weapons and manpower had been easy; the APC had not. At first he had wanted a tank, but Bobby-Joe Burlis, one of several other survivors that had willingly joined Jocco’s merry little band, had talked him out of it. Bobby-Joe had pointed out that they needed more speed rather
than more firepower.

  “Sweet Jesus-on-a-stick!”, Bobby-Joe had drawled in his thick southern accent. “Why, you got enough ass-kick in them two trucks to start a goddamned war! Besides, a tank needs a trained crew; radar, gunner, navigation, the works.” He’d jerked a thumb back in the direction of the motley bunch they had assembled in the China Base Hanger. “Look, Jocco. I can drive just about anything with wheels, but I wouldn’t trust one of those assorted assholes near my daddy’s old tractor, let alone a fucking tank!”

  So Jocco had settled for the APC. It had front and back machine guns, a 50 mm. swivel cannon turret, and was heavy enough to either push aside or plow through wrecked cars. It could also, in Bobby-Joe’s own words; “Hump along like a whore on a quart of moonshine!”

  George the Man leaned out the window of the Troop Transport. “Hey, Boss. Where do you want me to park this fucker?”

  Jocco’s cruel smile took in the parking lot of the Holiday Inn. “Right in the front lobby, Georgie-boy. It looks like rain.”

  George’s eyes widened, then a cruel smile of his own lit up his pale face. “Fucking-A, man! Fucking-A!”

  Moments later the high plate-glass windows shattered as Georgie – Porgie smashed his way into the lobby of Barstow’s Holiday Inn. Grinning like the savages they were fast becoming, Nathon Hight and Rege Shehe, the two other drivers Jocco had recruited, followed Georgie’s lead.

  On a low hill near the edge of Barstow, Manuel Estaban Gazara, called Rat by everyone but his mother, sat astride his new Honda 350. Both the dirt-bike and its rider were filthy. Rat’s long, greasy black hair was tied back by a headband as red as the numerous pimples on his sallow face. Dressed in a mixture of studded leathers and high boots, the eighteen year old looked like something out of a Mad Max movie. A Smith & Wesson .38 Special hung from a new shoulder holster. A 12 gage Defender shotgun, it’s black pistol grip sticking obscenely up out of a rifle scabbard, was strapped to the Honda’s gastank.

  Rat squinted against the blowing sand as he watched the scene below him unfold. At first he thought that the Army had arrived. The idea had sent twin shivers of anger and disappointment coursing through him. Manuel the Rat liked things just fine the way they were, thank you very fucking much! Wild n’ crazy n’ free for the taking! And he sure as shit didn’t want any Law & Order types fucking things up!

  Before the Change, he had had nothing; he had been nothing. A petty thief; a small time pusher; hanging out with a bunch of big-mouth Chicanos who strutted and swaggered but did dick all. Now they were gone and he was left --- and everything was his. So Rat was less than ecstatic when the four Army trucks rolled into the parking lot of Barstow’s Holiday Inn.

  Then the crazy fuckers had driven right into the front lobby! The sight nearly blew his mind! Fucking glass everywhere! No regular Army pussies would do that! Rat smiled to himself and turned the ignition key. The big 350 purred like a cat about to spring. He drove down the far side of the hill, through the sand dunes and up onto the hard surface of I-15. It would be dark soon and he had a few things to do before he came back and checked out these crazy gringos.

  Private Pamela Gliss, unafectionately known as Pam the Bitch, finished field stripping her M-16, snapped the 20 round clip back into the magazine and worked the slide. “Lock ‘n load, boys and girls! It’s party time!” George, along with Tim Galt and Bobby-Joe Burlis, were passing a bottle back and forth and watching a porno movie on the wide screen Sony in the hotel’s lounge. A bleached blonde with jugs that made Dolly Parton look flat-chested was bending over a surprised but happy Maytag repairman. Pam the Bitch, deciding to give the boys on the couch a little show of her own, fired a triple burst from the hip. The hollow nosed slugs shattered the glass, imploding Japan’s greatest contribution to the Western World.

  “Jesus-fucking Christ, man!”, George yelled. “It was just getting to the good part!”

  “Ya!”, Bobby-Joe drawled. “Ol’ Georgie-boy here was ‘bout ready to shoot his own load!”

  Pam the Bitch placed the butt of her M-16 against her crotch and rotated the barrel in a slow circle. “I just thought three big pussy-eaters like you would like a little of the real thing.”

  Tim Galt, more than a little drunk, nudged Bobby-Joe. The night before Private Pamela Gliss had quite eagerly joined in the latest initiation ceremony. Undoubtedly Tim anticipated a repeat performance.

  Lieutenant Sam Waterson sat on the far side of the lounge, quietly nursing a straight Vodka and contemplating murder. Nurse Shirley Bates, her ear badly infected from Pussbag’s bayonet, lay on the couch curled up in a fetal position. Walter Pinkton stood sullenly off to one side, his eyes fastened on the slowly rotating gun barrel.

  Suddenly Nathan Hight, a tall, muscular black, came running in, his weapon sweeping the room. “What’s all the shooting?”

  Pam turned her hard eyes on him and smiled. “Just warming up the pie, Buckwheat. Want a piece?”

  Nathon’s white teeth lit up his dark face.

  Things were just starting to heat up indeed when Rege Shehe and Pussbag filled the doorway. Between them was a sallow faced teenager dressed all in black leather. Pussbag’s bayonet was pressed against the youth’s throat.

  “Who the fuck ya got there, Pussbag?”, George grinned. “Your new boyfriend?”

  Tim Galt seemed to find the remark hilarious.

  “Caught the little fucker sneaking round the trucks,” Rege said. “Calls himself Rat. Where’s Jocco?”

  “Here,” answered a cool voice. Jocco walked into the lounge. He was dressed like the rest in army fatigues, only now he sported two .45’s in matching shoulder holsters and four gold stars an his collars. General Jocco Wellington turned and surveyed his troops, his cold eyes coming to rest on Pussbag.

  “And what have you brought me now, friend?”

  Pussbag seemed to swell with pride. “A thief, Sir!”

  Rat suddenly squirmed free and stepped towards Jocco. “I’m no fucking thief, man! Not no more! I came to trade!”

  Jocco’s left eyebrow rose. “Indeed? And just what, prey tell, would a daring young lad like yourself have to offer?”

  Rat’s beady little eyes took on a sly look as he milked his moment in the sun for all it was worth. “People,” he said at last. “Five of them. Three men and two women. One of them’s a real fox too!”

  Jocco moved closer. “Where?”

  Rat’s pimply face cracked into a smile. “You let me join up with you and I’ll tell you where, only I don’t want no shit job like driving a fucking truck. I got me a good hog outside. A 350 Honda. I wanna be your point man, your scout.”

  Jocco’s smile never reached his eyes. “Perhaps. Every army needs good reconnaissance. Now, where did you say these people are?”

  Rat’s head came up in defiance. “First tell these ass-kissers to give me back my gun!”

  Pussbag was already reaching for Rat’s hair, his long knife ready when Jocco stopped him with a look. He moved closer to Rat, putting a friendly hand on his shoulder. His voice was like a patient parent talking to a belligerent child.

  “We are not a mob or some mindless group of looters; we are an army. Small, but growing quickly. I am the leader. My people treat me with a certain respect. You - will - too.”

  Rat shrugged, feeling more sure of himself now, even a little cocky. “Ya, sure, General, I understand.”

  “No,” Jocco said, still smiling. “I don’t think you do. But you will.” He turned to Rege. “He had a gun?”

  Rege pulled the .38 Special out of his belt and handed it to Jocco. Flipping open the chamber, Jocco removed five of the six shells, closed and spun the chamber. “Twice I asked you where these people are. Twice you failed to respond.” He cocked the .38 and pressed it against Rat’s forehead. The tension in the room suddenly seemed to crackle. Shirley Bates moaned from her place on the couch. Jocco’s voice, still that of a patient parent, continued.

  “Twice.”

  The hammer of the revolver dry-f
ired. Rat’s small eyes threatened to pop out of his head. Over in the corner Walter Pinkton gasped. The .38 was cocked again, the double click sounded like nails on a chalkboard. Rat sagged and would have fallen if Rege and Pussbag hadn’t caught him. Jocco squeezed the trigger a second time and Rat’s bladder let go. The hammer fell on an empty chamber and Rat fell to his knees.

  Still smiling, Jocco pointed the gun at the ceiling and pulled the trigger a third time. The sound of the explosion shattered the silence. Tossing the smoking gun at Rat’s knees he spoke again. “Where?”

  “In the church!”, Rat gasped. “The big fucking church in the center of town!”

  Jocco turned to Pinkton. “Take this lad into the kitchen. Get him cleaned up and then get us something to eat. As of now you’re the cook and he’s your assistant. Move.”

  Pinkton jumped forward, half dragging Rat towards the kitchen. Sam Waterson started to go with them, but Jocco called him back.

  “Not you, Pilot. I still don’t trust you out of my sight.”

  “Why?”, Waterson sneered. “Afraid I might fly away?”

  Jocco’s handsome face broke into a grin. “Not at all. You know I’d kill Pinkton and the girl if you did.”

  “Why then?”

  Jocco nodded at Pam the Bitch. The butt of her M-16 was again pressed tightly between her thighs. Tim Galt was aiding her with his hand and George the Man was opening her shirt. “Because, Sammy, the games are about to begin.”

  Bobby-Joe Bemis let out a Rebel yell.

  The next morning Rat, winding his Honda around the few cars blocking Barstow’s main street, came to stop in front of a large stone church. The APC, rumbling along behind, merely brushed the cars aside. Jocco, standing in the open the hatch of the turret, looked like a young Patton in North Africa.