by Wayne Mee
Sloan was raging. How the hell had the shit hit the fan so fast? Just yesterday he was somebody important. People feared him; jumped when he looked there way. And now, here he was, stuck out in the middle of nowhere, crawling along some god-forsaken mountain; dirty, tired and aching all over. To make matters worse, some crazy asshole was trying to kill him --- and doing a damned good job of it too!
Up ahead, Tiny looked in even worse shape. The big Asian was limping badly, blood still oozing from when that bastard shot at them. Then there was Nuts Wilson. Good old Nuts, crawling along behind them; already a walking corpse. Sloan looked for the last member of his merry little band, but Donny the Geek was nowhere to be seen. Probably didn’t make it over the last ridge. No big loss there. The little faggot never was worth shit anyway!
Then Sloan saw Tiny waving to him from the base of a gigantic boulder. A weathered signpost leaned beside the trail. Sloan grinned. They’d made it! Now he’d get the fuckers! That bastard Hec too! But first, the two men and the woman. Sloan gripped his Uzi and shuffled forward.
Nearing Tiny, he read the aged signpost. Weathered, overlarge wooden fingers pointed to three trails; right back up to Marcy, left over to Haystack and continue on down to J.B. Lodge.
“See anything?”, Sloan asked.
Tiny, the right side of his face awash with blood, hefted his long rifle. “No, but soon as they come into sight, they’re mine!”
Sloan patted his machine-pistol. “This baby needs close range. We’ll take cover behind this rock. The first one that comes by is dead meat. You handle any still up the trail.”
Both men grinned and headed around the rock. A hundred yards behind them, Nuts Willson, his world having shrunk to a silent litany of pain, continued to hobble down the bare rock.
Eddy and Flame, waiting on the far side of the rock, listened to Sloan and Tiny planning their deaths. Josh, already hidden in the trees beside the trail, kept both men in his sights as they wound their way around the massive boulder. Eddy and Flame were to jump the first one, while he moved in behind the second. With any luck there’d be no shooting at all.
But luck had something else planned.
Flame, hidden in the shadowy split, watched as Tiny climbed passed. Sloan, following close behind, nearly browned his shorts when she stepped out beside him and pressed the long barrel of her .44 into his ear. At the same moment, Eddy stood up and shoved the sawed-off shotgun into Tiny’s considerable gut.
“Give me a reason, Shit-Face. Please!”
Tiny decided then and there that he was not in a giving mood. Sloan, however, was. He swung his Uzie upwards, pulling the trigger as it rose, shouldering Flame at the same time. Nine millimeter slugs stitched their way up the split boulder. Rock-chips and dust filled the air. Flame fell
backwards, the deafening boom of her Smith & Wesson mingling with the coughing chatter of the machine-pistol. The back of her head struck the rock. Stars exploded inside her brain, followed by a numbing blackness.
His finger still depressing the trigger, Sloan swung the jerking weapon round in a sweeping arc. Two yards in front of him, small holes erupted in Tiny’s back. Punched forward, Tiny impaled himself on Eddy’s shotgun. Both barrels of the powerful weapon went off, ripping open the large Asian’s stomach but not checking his fall. Eddy and Tiny went down in a tangle of legs, arm and intestines.
Josh, hearing the gunfire, rushed towards the large boulder. What he saw when rounding the corner made his heart leap to his throat. Flame lay in a heap, the back of her head covered in blood. Eddy was also down, frantically trying to get out from under Tiny’s dead weight. Sloan, however, had vanished.
Dropping his rifle, Josh knelt beside Flame and gently cradled her in his arms. Her long, red hair was sticky and damp on one side.
“NOOOOO!”, he screamed. The word came out like a howl.
Then a boot struck him hard in his side. Pain lanced through his body. His vision blurred. Blinking back tears, he fought to focus.
And out from the depth of the shadowy crack stepped Sloan. A vein pulsed on his forehead; a twitch tugged at the corner of his cruel smile. Fierce, savage hate burned in his haggard eyes.
Each man held the other’s gaze, then Sloan slowly raised his Uzi. Smoke still curled from its short, stubby barrel.
“Any last words, asshole?”, Sloan grinned.
Since Flame’s limp body lay against his Beretta, Josh’s hand slid to the Tanka knife at the small of his back. In his heart he knew it was a useless gesture, for only in the movies could knives be thrown with any accuracy --- but it was still better than nothing.
“Go ahead,” Sloan mocked, seeing the knife pulled free. “Take your best shot.”
Josh held up the glittering blade. Jessie’s ‘gift’ from a lifetime ago; back when the future still held promise and death and killing were but dark dreams.
Sloan’s taunting voice cut through such whimsical thoughts. “Nice blade. Maybe I’ll take it with me to remember you by. After I’ve finished with the red-head. Want to watch?”
Something inside Josh snapped. Shoving Flame aside, he lunged to his feet. Another useless gesture, but a needful one just the same. At least now he was off his bloody knees!
The Uzi followed his rise. “Very good!”, Sloan grinned. “No wonder Hec was scared shitless of you. Where is old Hec anyway? Dead?” Sloan shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I bagged the ‘Great White Hunter’, not that gutless hayseed.”
Flame moaned and attempted to sit up. Sloan’s hard eyes flicked to her, then back to Josh. “Time to cash in your chips, friend. It’s been a blast.”
Sloan’s left hand gripped his right wrist and the Uzi centered on Josh’s chest. Clutching the knife, Josh readied himself to spring. One final gesture; futile but still necessary.
As his muscles bunched for the leap, an explosion rent the mountain stillness. In mid-air Josh felt something sizzle by his ear. At the same time he saw Sloan spin around, blood welling from a large hole in his right shoulder. The machine-pistol, set on automatic, sprayed out its lethal contents into the clear, crisp sky. Josh’s leap brought him up against Sloan. While his left hand fended off the lowering gun, his right hand drove the tapered blade deep into the man’s chest. For several heartbeats they clung together; two lovers locked in Death’s embrace. Then they sagged to the ground, Josh’s weight driving the blade in up to the hilt.
Sloan’s eyes opened in surprised wonder, then glazed over. The breath that escaped his dead body was carried off by the wind.
Eddy, his legs still pinned by Tiny’s bulk, let his heavy King Cobra fall to his side. It had been one hell of a lucky shot, and now that it was over, he realized how close he’d come to shooting Josh instead. Suddenly he began to shake.
Flame crawled to Josh and hugged him. Together they staggered to their feet. Like a tottering old couple they made their way to Eddy, who had just freed himself from Tiny’s massive corpse.
Eddy looked down at his shirt, glistening with Tiny’s blood and organs. “Christ, what a mess!”
Flame laughed, staggered and was forced to sit. Fighting back shock and giddiness, her mind groped at something important, though she couldn’t quite remember what. Then it came to her.
“The others!”, she said, clutching Josh’s arm. “There should be two more!”
Josh moved to the large slit, catching up his 30/30 as he went. Through the wide crack he could see a lone figure cautiously approaching some fifty yards away. Higher up and to the left another figure sat slumped against a rock, a splash of bright red on its head. Josh cocked the rifle and raised the it to his shoulder. Behind him, Flame was about to speak, but then stopped herself. Josh knew best.
The report from the 30/30 echoed off the surrounding peaks. The closest form jerked, staggered and dropped his gun --- his hands shooting skyward.
“Dun’t shut!”, Nuts Wilson screamed, his words still slurred from having bitten his tongue hours ago. “Fur Chrust sak, dun’t shut!”
Josh fired again, this time striking the rocks on Nuts’ right side. “Turn around and head back up!”, Josh yelled. “And take the other one with you! If I can still see either of you in three minutes, the next one won’t miss!”
Nuts was already moving back up the steep slope, Josh’s words having lent his weary legs wings.
“Nice move, Lover,” Flame beamed. She nodded towards the woods where Hec was still bound and gagged. “What do we do with that one?”
Josh touched her cheek. “That depends on him. But first, let’s see to that cut on your head.”
Twenty minutes later the four of them, Hec included, sat round their small stove drinking tea. They’d made a quick meal of soup, salami and tortillas. Hec, his hands now bound in front of him, had eaten a hearty meal despite his broken teeth. Eddy sat to one side. Clutching his shotgun, he glared at the bearded woodsman. At last Hec put down his empty cup.
“Mighty fine grub,” he drawled. “Always planned to get me one of those hiker stoves. Beats the hell out of a fire.”
Eddy’s brow creased and his hands whitened on the stubby shotgun. Josh frowned at him, then, lighting his pipe, turned to Hec.
“You’re pretty cocky for a man about to die.”
Hec wiped a trickle of blood off his cut lips. “Oh, you aint gonna kill me. If you was, I’d be dead now.”
“Maybe we just want to stretch it out,” Flame said, casually checking the loads in her Smith & Wesson.
Hec leaned sideways and spit. “Maybe. But I don’t think so. Besides, I got something to trade.”
“Ya?”, Flame said. “What?”
Hec’s eyes creased down to narrow slits. “What I got to say is between me an’ the boss-man. Whores aint for ‘talking’ to.”
Flame and Eddy moved at the same time, yet Josh beat them both. The Tanka knife, retrieved from Sloan’s chest, now pressed against Hec’s throat. Josh’s voice, though deceptively soft, didn’t fool anyone --- especially Hec.
“And just what is it that you have to say?” The tapered point moved slightly. Crimson tears followed in its wake. Hec’s ruined mouth opened to speak, but Josh shook his head. His voice became even softer. “Let me guess. You wanted to tell me that you’ve got men waiting for us at The Garden. Maybe even at John’s Brook Lodge. But we shouldn’t worry, because you know another way out. A secret way that only you can find. Perhaps over the Gothics and along the Great Range? Is THAT what you wanted to say?”
Hec’s eyes were now wide with fear. How did this bastard know?! He’d planned to trade the information for his life, even lead them out over the Great Range if he had to! But he already knew!
“How... how...?”
Josh stood up, resheathing the knife. “...Did I know? I didn’t. Not for sure. You just told me.”
Hec turned away, all the cocky swagger drained away. “What are you gonna do with me?”, he asked, his voice small and frightened.
Josh poured himself another cup of tea before answering. “Send you back the way you came. But without your gun, your pack or your boots.”
“My boots?”, Hec repeated. “Christ! I can’t walk out of here without boots! I’ll be wolf-bait by dark!”
The look Josh gave him made Hec’s blood run cold. “Oh, a smart man like you’ll find a way. Maybe you can catch up with your two friends. Who knows, their boots might fit.”
Hec squinted up at Josh. “You’re a cold hearted bastard, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told,” Josh said, drawing his knife and cutting Hec’s legs free. “Now, get moving!”
“What about my hands?”, Hec asked, holding out his still bound wrists.
Eddy, grinning from ear to ear, hauled him roughly to his feet. “Don’t push it, asswipe! If I had my way, you’d end up like your boss over there!”
Taking the hint, Hec began to pick his way back up the rocky trail. Josh began packing up the cookware while Eddy went to gather Tiny’s and Sloan’s weapons. Eddy especially wanted the big Asian’s long rifle. Flame watched as Hec’s form diminished in size, then turned to Josh.
“I learned something about you today.”
“Oh,” he said. “And what’s that?”
Smiling, she bent down and kissed him warmly. “That you can be one cold hearted bastard when you want to be.”
Josh shouldered his pack. “We all can.”
Two days later they came down out of the Great Range, followed a private footpath up to a large log house, took the car keys from a dried up corpse slumped over the kitchen table and headed home. The ride, like most of the last two day walk, was mostly done in silence. Each one seemed lost in their own thoughts.
Just before suppertime, they came to the stone guardhouse leading into The Shire. They were home.
Chapter 34: ‘AN EYE FOR AN EYE’
Mount Hawthorn
New York August 17
James Phinious Tibbs, better known One Arm, was a happy man. For weeks now he’d been in a red rage ever since the fiasco on Lake Champlain, but today he was grinning from ear to ear. In fact, he was ecstatic; for today he was going to get his revenge.
Behind him came three cars and a jeep, a convoy of newly recruited brothers of chaos, each and every mother’s son of them a full blown psycho, more than willing to join in this little adventure of rape and pillage.
After fleeing the ‘attack’ at Crown Point, One Arm and what remained of his crew, headed north. The next day the not so good ship Sadistic limped into Plattsburg, where One Arm and a bleeding, half blind Rambo quickly set up shop in a waterfront bar. The three surviving women soon brought in a brisk business and within a week they had found a new crew to take the place of the ones killed by the old farmer. One Arm and Rambo spent their nights drinking and planning their revenge.
Now at last they were ready.
Counting Pete the Prick and the kid, Straw Hair, twelve men now followed them. More than enough to find that old farmer and stamp ‘paid in full’ on his little shit-burg of a town.
Since dawn the convoy, led by a heavy garbage truck, had been weaving its merry way down I-85. The truck’s massive front forks easily shoving wrecks aside whenever necessary.
Bruce ‘Rambo’ Chillis sat beside him, absently sharpening his large survival knife. His once handsome face was covered with purple and black blotches, scars from the shotgun blast he had taken three weeks earlier. The patch over his right eye gave him a piratical look, almost rakish, yet there was nothing swashbuckling about this cold-blooded killer. He, like One Arm, lived for just one thing --- revenge.
Just two hours after Josh, Flame, Trina and Eddy had entered the High Peaks Region of upstate New York; One Arm, Rambo and their various assortment of psychopaths, turned off the interstate and headed south-east to Crown Point.
By noon they had found the place where Willard and the little Turk, Sadat, had fired on their yacht. Behind the large boulder Rambo discovered several empty rifle shells. The one-eyed soldier-of-fortune grinned coldly as he picked up one of the spent casings.
Straw Hair, half his left ear missing due to Sadat’s lucky shot, came over and looked at the large shell. “What the fuck was he using? An elephant gun?!”
Rambo held the cartridge up to the sun. “A .444 double load. Either a Seinum or a Marlin.”
“Big?”, Straw asked.
Rambo didn’t bother to reply.
A half hour later they found the town of Crown Point to be deserted. One Arm took over a liquor store and sent six men out to scout around. Half a bottle of Rye later Pete and a sour looking Latino called Raoul came back with news that somebody was living in a farm near a little one-horse berg called Mount Hawthorn. It could be the hayseed. Rambo led the reconnaissance himself. By late afternoon they had found the farm.
As the sun began to set, Rambo and three other heavily armed men burst into Willard’s place, each one grimly determined to do murder and mayhem. Alas, save for a cat, the place was empty. Rambo shot the cat.
Standing by the parked vehic
les, One Arm watched the scarred cat-killer come back down the long drive. “Well?”, he asked.
Rambo brushed past him and climbed into the cab of the garbage truck. “They must be up at that fucking commune I told you about. The one by the lake.”
One Arm grinned.
Less than five minutes later the convoy stopped beside the little stone gatehouse. Jim Shell and Marcy, the woman who called herself Jim’s wife, were playing cards inside the little cottage. It was their shift for guard duty, something every adult in the Shire took a turn at. Jim and Marcy had been looking forward to their time alone. Their ‘marriage’ had taken place a week after they’d met. Two lonely survivors of a small town on the Canadian-U.S. border, they had instinctively clung together to stave off the madness all around them. They’d been inseparable ever since. They secretly referred to the little gatehouse as ‘the honeymoon suite’.
At the sound of the approaching motors, Jim looked up, more irritated than alarmed. Moving towards the door, he ignored both the CB and the shotgun that Cobb had insisted be carried by all gatekeepers at the slightest sign of trouble. Stepping outside into the growing dark, he faced a bank of vehicles, all with their high beams trained on the cottage. Blinded by the lights, he died instantly as several bullets ripped through him.
Marcy screamed as Jim’s body was punched back into the tiny room. She was still screaming when Rambo’s tall form darkened her doorway. She didn’t scream for long.
The wrought-iron gates crumpled like paper under the truck’s massive weight. The alarm wire connected to bells in the main house half a mile away lasted long enough however to do their job. Mrs. Wang and several of the women glanced up as the bell in the kitchen rang briefly. They had just finished dinner and were doing the dishes, the men having gone out on the front porch to smoke and plan the next days activities. Willard had been trying to get Doc to see the advantages of planting corn in the rolling field that led down to the lake. Mrs. Wang sent Betty Sinclair to tell Doc about the bells.
