by Wayne Mee
“I saw what you did back there,” she beamed. “Pretty damned stupid.”
Cobb shrugged and moved into the main section. From overhead the thunder of the 50. caliber had ceased. Jenny and Faith were crowded together in one corner. Nate sat with the others. Josh stood hunched over Gretta at the radar table.
“How’s it look?”, Cobb asked.
Josh frowned. “Not good. Only two trucks got out.”
Cobb remained silent for several moments. When he did speak, anger seeped through. “I had him in my sights.”
“And...?”
“The bastard moved.”
Josh’s gaze flicked to the dark haired man, then back to the greenish screen.
“Next time,” he said, the words more a silent prayer than a spoken statement.
“I’ll ask you once more, old man; where were they going?”
George Cummings, his gnarled hands bound behind him, sat defiantly in the same chair his daughter had last seen him in. Blood tricked off his chin and one eye was swollen shut. The shotgun lay at his feet. He’d killed the first two through the door. Scar had been the third.
“Go to hell!”, George spat.
On a nod from Scar, Private Lions slammed his rifle butt into the old man’s stomach. George doubled over and would have fallen except that Sergeant Cozens and another soldier held him fast. Grinning like an idiot, Lions moved in for another go. Scar stopped him with a raised hand. “Drag that table over here.”
As the table was pulled into place, Scar slowly drew a heavy survival knife. The long serrated blade glittered in the fading light. “Place his hand on the table, fingers wide.” As Cozens and Lions did as they were bid, Scar’s face stretched into a hideous smile. “I want their names and I want to know where they were going. And old man, sooner or later I always get what I want.”
George snorted. “Do your worst, Scab-Face. I’m past caring. But you’ll care. When that fella Josh catches up with you, you’ll care one Hell of a lot!”
The glittering blade hovered over George’s arthritic fingers. “Who is this ‘Josh’?”
George glared back defiantly. “Someone that’s come a long way to find you. From back east; a little place called Hawthorn. Heard of it?”
Scar, his mind suddenly filled with long buried fears, was once again the hunted scarecrow; jumping at shadows; too tired to run and too terrified to stop. George, seeing Scar pale, warmed to his tale.
“Followed you for half a year and you never even saw his face. Christ, you never even knew his name! But he knows yours. Knows your ways, your habits and the scum you run with. Thanks to me, he also knows your some big shit with Jocco’s Tax Guards.” George sat back, a smug smile on his weathered features. “So carve away, One-Eye. My wife’s waiting and I’m long overdue, but remember this --- if Nate or Des don’t get you, Josh Williams sure as Hell will!”
Lions looked from Scar to Cozens, then back to Scar. A vein pulsed in the one-eyed man’s forehead. Sweat coursed down his mutilated face, his good eye wild and bright. Suddenly, screaming out of fear as much as from rage, Scar plunged the long knife into George’s chest. As the old man sagged back in the chair, a smile spread across his lined face. The features relaxed, free of pain for he first time in years. Scar, seeing the smile, yanked out the knife and began hacking at the body. Blood spattered the table and the men standing slack-jawed about it. As the heavy blade rose and fell, the pool of blood on the cabin floor began to spread. Over the meaty sound of the blows, Cozens hissed at Lions.
“Get Heller! Now!”
Lions, unaware that a damp stain of another kind was spreading over his crotch, fled out the door.
Rick, his black hair falling over his eyes, stuck his head down from the forward gunner’s hatch into the main compartment. “Trouble up ahead, Josh. Road’s blocked. One of our trucks is burning.”
From her place in the corner, Faith paled. Jenny, her eyes flashing, clenched her jaw. Gretta flipped a switch and the radar screen showed a magnified forward view. The LAV’s sophisticated sensors picked up not only moving objects, but heat as well. The screen looked red-hot.
Josh punched the intercom button. “Bobby! What’s up?”
Bobby Stewart’s voice came back tiny and high. “”Roadblock! Some of them must have got ahead of us! One of our truck’s been hit dead on! The other one’s off the trail!”
Josh frowned. “Get us in close, Bobby. Rick, Enrico, give us cover.”
Gretta focused the screen. Orange lines flashed across its surface. A glowing blob indicated the burning truck. A darker square showed the second truck. Smaller blips were clustered about it. Further down the trail, single blips showed, orange lines streaking towards the second truck. As the LAV picked up speed, the chatter of the forward machinegun and the lower booming of the 50. caliber filled the compartment. Thicker lines flashed across the screen, the night-scopes on the LAV’s heavier guns giving Rick and Enrico an advantage.
Then the LAV was beside the last remaining truck. Overhead Rick and Enrico kept up their coverfire. Eddy swung the rear hatch open. Cobb knelt in the opening, his laser-sighted H & K sweeping both sides of the trail. Sporadic fire still came in, yet it was wild and not sustained. Cobb fired a burst as the three survivors turned towards the LAV. Suddenly a rocket streaked out of the trees, hitting the last truck directly in the gastank. The vehicle lifted into the air and flopped down, jarring the LAV and crushing the three men. Des was one of them. Cobb, his face lit by the ruddy flames, mouthed a silent curse. Eddy pulled him back inside, beating out the flames from the spilt gas.
Jessie sprayed them both with a fire extinguisher, then slammed the hatch shut. Flame, seeing Cobb wasn’t seriously hurt, turned to Josh. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”
Josh glanced at his son and nodded. Jessie hit the intercom button. “Move it, Bobby!”
The LAV raced down the trail, leaving the dead and the dying to the stillness of the forest.
Chapter 43: ‘VENGANCE’
Sequoia National Forest
Sierra Nevada Mts.
California, May 12th, 1 AC
After picking up the vans left behind in Sandberg, they fled northward. They drove in shifts, wanting to put as much distance between themselves and Scar’s troops as possible. Heart-sick and dispirited, they pressed on for two days. At Mojave they found the Interstate 395 hopelessly blocked with rusting cars. In a daring move, they decided to take the Los Angeles Aqueduct north to where it cut #178. From there they headed west into the Sequoia National Forest. With the giant trees towering above them, they came at last to Lake Isabella, where tired, stiff and road-weary, they finally stopped to bathe in the soothing waters of the Miracle Hot Springs. While the women soaked in the pools, Jessie and most of the men went off to see what could be found in the deserted resort town. Cobb, ever mindful of security, took up sentry duty on a nearby rise. At the Westfalia, Josh and Nate poured over a map.
“And you say this Jim Carrol and his bunch often use this place?”
Nate, his usual twinkling eyes now cloudy with fatigue, nodded, tracing a weathered finger over the map. “They were here three months ago when I passed through. Though, since they blew up that temple a few weeks ago, I guess Jim figured they were a little too close to Bakersfield.” The light sparkled for an instant in his blue eyes. “They say the Mighty King Jocco was real pissed about loosing another one of his precious temples.”
Josh set the teakettle on the camper’s stove, then dug out his pipe. “Where do you think Carrol is now?”
Nate snorted, waving a hand at the mountains all around them. “Christ, Josh, he could be anywhere.
Josh leaned closer. “If you were him, where would you go?”
Nate removed his battered Stetson and scratched his thinning hair. “Further north. Tule River maybe. If not there, then King’s Canyon.”
Josh studied the map, finding an area marked ‘Tule River Indian Reservation’. “Carrol doesn’t sound like an Indian name?”
“It aint. His wife’s Indian. Least, she was. Now she’s just dead.”
Josh ignored the note of despair in the older man’s voice. “What’s this ‘King’s Canyon’ place?”
Nate replaced his hat. His former cockiness returning. “Just the biggest goddamned piece of wilderness in the whole state. If Jim took his boys in there, you could look for a year and never find him.”
The kettle began to boil. Josh made the tea, then lit his pipe. “We’ll try the reservation first.”
Nate shook his head. “Suppose you do link up with Jim Carrol? Then what? You still planning to go after that one-eyed psycho?”
Josh nodded, pouring the tea.
Nate sighed. “What if Big Jim doesn’t see it that way?”
“Then,” Josh smiled, clinking his mug to Nate’s; “we’ll just have to do it alone.”
“’We’?”, Nate repeated. “You that sure of me, youngster?”
Josh smiled, yet there was more than a hint of ice in his voice. “That ‘one-eyed psycho’ as you called him has killed more of your friends than he has mine. I figure you’ll come along, if only to spit in his good eye before I kill him.”
Nate eyed the younger man for some time. “You’re a hard headed bastard, I’ll give you that.”
Josh grinned. “Same to you, fella.”
Jim Carrol, leader of the Bakersfield Rebels, was cut from a very different cloth than the late Desmond Pardoes. Where Des had been quiet and soft-spoken, Jim was brusque and frequently crude. Where Des had guided men by his gentle manner, James Carrol led by example and by the force of his character. Few people said ‘no’ to Big Jim.
In size the two men differed as well. Des would have blended in easily in a crowd; Jim, due to his size, bushy beard and booming voice, stood out like a sore thumb. And a ‘sore thumb’ was just what he was to Jocco. Ever since the Army of the Dark Stranger had began its ruthless takeover of southern California, Jim Carrol had been resisting the tyrant in every way he could. A former truck driver and union leader, Big Jim had organized scattered, disheartened survivors into a well-armed group that, in his own words, ‘Don’t take no shit from nobody!’.
Now, peering through a portable high-powered telescope, Jim Carrol turned to John TwoRivers, jutting his bearded jaw towards the LAV and the two vans parked down below.
“Who the Christ has that old fart Nate dragged up here this time?”
TwoRivers, laconic to the point of lock-jaw, shrugged poetically. He had known Carrol for over ten years, ever since his sister had married the boisterous truck driver. Like most of his family, John TwoRivers had been against the marriage from the start, thinking his younger sister foolish to give her heart to a fork-tongued white man. Over the years however, he had been proven wrong. Not only were the couple sublimely happy, but Jim, when not on the road, actually lived on the reservation. So adapt did the lumbering white become at hunting and tracking and so keen and wise seemed his council, the elders of the tribe invited him into their inner circle, giving him the name Black Bear. In time, Jim became not only TwoRivers’ brother-in-law, but his blood-brother as well. This sharing of blood had ironically been the reason that they had both survived the China Lake Plague.
Jim put his eye to the telescope. “Over a dozen of them down there. And look at the hardware on that truck! Looks more like a fucking tank!”
TwoRivers nodded, knowing full well what was coming. Ever since his hot-headed friend had seen first-hand what Jocco’s people were doing to any and all survivors, he had become obsessed with stopping Jocco any way he could; armed resistance; ambushes; quick, deadly raids on Jocco’s outposts. The burning of the Bakersfield temple had been his most daring move --- and most costly. Seven dead. Two captured. They’d been running ever since. The armored truck down below might just give them the edge they needed.
“Have your group move in slowly, but keep the rest here. I’m going down and talk with Nate.”
TwoRivers nodded towards the lone sentry sitting in the shade of a two-hundred year old Sequoia.
“Ya, I see him. The bugger’s wearing Kevlar and his piece is fixed with a laser sight.”
As Carrol started down the hill, TwoRivers’ hand gripped his large friend.
“For Christ sake, John, I told you I saw him!”
Again the laconic shrug. Big Jim growled and moved off down the slope.
At the same time that Jim Carrol was striding towards the LAV, over a hundred miles to the south Roy Heller was having a one-sided conversation with his boss. Jocco, it seemed, was clearly pissed off. He’d been upset to hear the number of his men that had been wiped out by the rebels, but the part that had really burned his ass was finding out that most of the rebel leaders had escaped.
Roy Heller winced and held the mike at arm’s length. Static and swear words crackled over the airways. “ --- and if you and that --- sucking bastard can’t --- their fucking heads I’ll --- yours! Is --- that --- ing clear?!”
“Sure, Jocco, sure. We’ll get them. We know most of their names.”
More swearing poured out of the radio. Heller winced again and glanced at Scar. The one-eyed man however, seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts. Suddenly he grabbed the mike.
“It was him, Jocco!”, the man once known as Rambo growled. “The same goddamn farmer that followed me from back east!”
Back in his ivy-league palace, Jocco’s eyebrow rose. Here was an interesting bit of news. The wheels and cogs of his sinister mind began working overtime. How could he make the most out of this bit of news; how best to turn it to his advantage? Then another thought began to form, rising like a bubble from deep beneath the surface; teasing, tantalizing, even taunting. Could it be that he had at last found a truly worthy opponent? Someone to finally challenge his own abilities?
His shrewd eyes flicked over his officers as they circled him like a pack of wolves; sleek, nervous, waiting. Just the way he liked them. His announcement the day before to send a strike force to the East Coast had caused quite a stir. Tension now hung in the air like the calm before a storm. Off to one side Walter Pinkton, wrapped in his stately black robes, watched like a hungry vulture. Of them all, only Pussbag remained calm, a loyal dog confidant that his Master could do no wrong. Jocco smiled, then turned his attention back to the radio. His voice was deceptively low.
“Captain Scar, are you quite sure this is the same man you wanted to go back east to kill?”
“Of course I’m fucking sure!”
“Well then,” Jocco chuckled. “It would seem the mountain has come to Mohamed.”
“What?”
Jocco’s smile widened. “Never mind, captain. The point is that it now seems you shall get your chance at revenge much sooner than you thought.”
Scar sounded both eager as well as impatient. “Just send me the rest of my Tax Guards, some bloody armored support and I’ll ---”
“You’ll do, Captain”, Jocco cut in, his voice suddenly as cold as steel; “exactly, what I tell you to do! If not, then it will be you nailed to a telephone pole and not your farmer friend. Is that perfectly clear?”
There was a pause, filled only with the static from the radio --- then Scar’s voice was heard. “Perfectly --- My Lord.”
“Splendid!”, Jocco grinned, his voice, however, retained it’s icy edge. “You’ll continue on to Bakersfield and complete your mission. Find the men who burned my temple and bring me their heads!” There was a pause, filled with more tension than static. When Jocco continued, his voice was once again velvet coated, the voice of a big brother or a trusted old friend. “Scar, listen to me. I told you I’d send you back east and I will. But first I need this Bakersfield thing settled. This rebellion needs to be nipped in the bud before it spreads. Besides, with any luck, taking care of my problem might just solve yours as well.”
Miles away, Scar’s face creased into what passed for a frown. “Ya?”, he muttered. “How do ya figger that?”
Jocco continued. “Well, it see
ms that this Mister Williams is as keen on killing you as you are him. If you continue on to Bakersfield, chances are he’ll turn up there as well. That way we get two birds with one stone, captain --- or should I say ‘major’.”
Scar turned this over in his mind. “You’ll send me the men I need?”
“Better than that, captain,” Jocco beamed. “I’ll bring them myself. A full armored division; tanks, trucks, rockets, the works. How does that sound?”
Scar was both delighted yet wary at the same time. He knew that bastards like Jocco never did anything for nothing. “It sounds fucking-A. But why?”
Jocco’s velvet chuckle came through the speaker. “I think the peasants up there need a show of strength to remind them who’s in control --- also this foe of yours interests me.” His voice changed again, once more laced with steel. “I’ll be in Bakersfield in three days. Meet me there.”
Scar was left with a dead mike in his hand and a uneasy feeling in his stomach.
Jim Carrol, up to his neck in the hot springs, took another long pull on the bottle, belched and passed it on. Sam Waterton took a polite sip and offered it to Josh, who did the same. Nate retrieved the bottle, downed a hearty slug, then put it aside. Clouds of steam billowed into the cool, crisp air.
“Well, Nate,” Jim rumbled, his fingers raking through his dripping beard. “We’ve said ‘how-do’, passed the jug and soaked our asses, now let’s cut the bullshit. What is it that you want?”
Nate shook his head. “You always were a polite bastard, Jim. That’s why I like you.”
Jim Carrol returned the older man’s grin. “Never had much time for chit-chat, Nate. I leave that to you and the old women.”
Nate sighed. “Alright, I’ll tell you straight, but you aren’t going to like it.”
“Try me.”
“Don Paxton and his bunch are dead. Jenny over there is the only one that got out alive.” He waved his hand towards the others moving about the camp. “We’re all that’s left of Des Bardow’s and his group. Faith Cummings’ father, George, was also killed.”
