Ever Onward

by Wayne Mee

  The words struck the big man like a blow. “Don and Des are both dead?”

  Nate nodded. Jim Carrol’s tanned face paled, then flushed with anger.

  “Jocco?” It was more a curse than a question.

  “He wasn’t there, but they were his men,” Nate replied.

  Under his beard, the big man’s jaw clenched. It was some time before he spoke; when he did, it was more like a growl. “What do you want from me?”

  “Your help,” Josh answered.

  “Ya? To do what?”

  “Kill them.”

  Jim Carrol was taken back for the second time in as many minutes. “ALL of them?”

  Josh nodded.

  “Jocco too?”

  Again the nod.

  Jim’s face creased into a wicked grin as he turned to Nate. “He’s a right bloodthirsty bastard, aint he?”

  Nate grunted and reached for the bottle. “My thoughts exactly.”

  Chapter 44: ‘THE CAPTIVE’

  Temple of the Dark Stranger

  Bakersfield, California

  May 19th

  Jocco had been in town for four days and so far all he’d heard was excuses. Excuses why the temple wasn’t repaired; why the taxes weren’t collected; why the power wasn’t working. He’d just finished listening to Bakersfield's mayor explain why the water wasn’t running. To break the boredom he’d had the man hanged.

  But the thing that really set him off was the fact that there wasn’t a trace of the rebels. He’d tried threats against the local citizens and when that didn’t work he’d had Pussbag torture a few of them in the town square. Even now their mangled bodies hung alongside the late mayor’s. Nothing, alas, seemed to work.

  Now, sitting in the main hall of the temple, his predatory gaze moved around the fire-scorched room. Seeing Bobby-Joe Burlis, he motioned for the man to attend him. Bobby-Joe moved nervously forward. Stepping over a charred fallen roof beam, he bowed when he reached the soot-covered dais. Most of the time Jocco forgoes such formalities, but Bobby-Joe wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Any news, Bobby?”

  “Not much, Boss. I’ve got scouting parties out, but so far only those up in Fresno have reported in.”

  “And?”

  Bobby-Joe shrugged. “A few farmers mouthing off, but Reg and his boys shut them up real quick.”

  Jocco leaned forward, his dark eyes hard as coal. “What about the rebels?”

  Bobby-Joe suddenly started to sweat. “Not a hell of a lot. George the Man reported in last night that some bugger took a shot at them, but it was nothing.”

  “And just where is George?”

  “East of here. Up in the big trees.”

  Jocco’s eyes narrowed. “Find Ace. Tell him I want the copter ready to go in half an hour.”

  “But it was probably just some hunter pissed out of his skull.”

  “Get Ace.”

  Bobby-Joe caught the warning rumble and hurried backed away. “Sure thing, Boss. Anything you say.”

  Half an hour later Jocco climbed aboard the helicopter, followed by Tim Galt and Pam Gliss. Pam the Bitch carried a high powered tranquilizer gun. Tim took his place at the .50 caliber suspended over the open door. Ace Henson was already on board.

  “Where to, Boss?”

  “East.”

  Ace ogled Pam with hungry eyes, starting with her tight jeans and ending with her open flak-jacket. “Anywhere special, or is this just a ‘fun flight’?”

  Jocco drew his pearl-handled .45 and worked the slide. “Hunting trip, Ace. Now shut the fuck up and get us off the ground.”

  Pam’s throaty laughter was drowned out by the roar of the blades.

  John Two Trees and three others had been out hunting since early morning. They were heading back to Miracle Springs with a buck slung on a pole when the helicopter suddenly topped a rise. Wind and noise hit him like a wall. John yelled a warning and dove to the ground. Squinting through dust-filled eyes, he saw sunlight reflecting off the copter’s wasp-like body. A voice, amplified and menacing, cut through the manmade hurricane.

  “Drop your weapons and raise your hands.”

  Before Two Trees could decide on what to do, one of his men fired at the copter. That was all Jocco needed. He nodded to Tim Galt, who swung the .50 caliber around and opened fire. Heavy slugs tore up the ground all around the four men. Ginning like the Mad Hatter, Timmy-boy raked the open hillside. Rocks, moss and small trees flew through the air --- as well as bits and pieces of man and deer. When it was over two men lay dead. The third one, Billy Bluejay, lay screaming, frantically holding the remains of his shattered leg. John Two Trees hadn’t been touched.

  Hovering above, Jocco nodded to Tim, then picked up the mike. His voice took on the tone of an indulgent father talking to his wayward child.

  “That was not a very smart move. Perhaps we should try again. Drop your weapons and raise your hands.”

  John Two Trees glanced at Billy and decided to go out fighting. As usual, however, Jocco had other plans. As John reached for his rifle, Pam the Bitch shot him in his right shoulder with a tranquilizer dart, then turned her gun on Billy. Through a rapidly growing haze, John saw the copter float down towards him. Billy’s screams faded away as a man and a woman moved towards him. He felt their hands on him, lifting him like a newborn, then he felt nothing at all.

  When the scream reached its pitch, John Two Trees snapped awake. He found himself tied naked to a rusting bedspring. Billy Bluejay lay strapped to a table in the center of the room. A man with long hair and wild eyes was probing his shattered knee with a long knife. Billy screamed again, then fainted. John Two Trees shut his eyes, willing it to be all just a crazy dream. A velvet voice, however, cut through the pain, the drugs and the mind-numbing shock.

  “You’re awake at last? Too bad you missed the show, but then the main event is still to come.”

  The owner of the voice stood to one side. The man with the wild eyes joined him, the long knife still dripping. The owner of the velvet voice glided towards the bed and leaned down, his smile a cold threat.

  “I’m a busy man, so I’ll get right to the point. Unless you answer my questions, my companion here will cut off your friend’s leg. If you persist in being stubborn, he’ll cut off the other one. After that he’ll go on to more ‘private parts’.” The man’s smile widened. John was reminded of a hungry wolf. “So, what shall it be? Cooperation or amputation?”

  John Two Trees somehow managed to raise his head. “Go to hell!”

  The smile widened even further, then raised his cold eyes to the man with the long knife, who moved eagerly to the unconscious youth. As the bayonet began to do its grizzly work, John Two Trees cried out. The smiling man leaned closer.

  “You’ll answer my questions?”

  John nodded, hating himself but knowing he had no choice. Billy Bluejay was his brother’s son, all that was left of his family. If he’d been by himself...

  “Good,” the velvet voice gloated. “Now, tell me all about your other friends.”

  John Two Trees felt something die deep within him.

  Half an hour later Jocco was having multiple copies made of the information John Two Trees had reluctantly supplied. As well as information on Jim Carrol and his rebels, Jocco now had a detailed description of Josh’s group, including the LAV and the two Westfalia. Within an hour every one of Jocco’s soldiers had a copy.

  Jim Carrol gently replaced the blanket and stood up. Neither of the bodies were easily recognizable. Rage and sorrow warred within him, contorting his weathered features. At last he turned to the man beside him.

  “You saw them land?”

  The man nodded. “Heard them first. Then a hell of a lot of shooting.” He raised his hand, pointing at a distant hill. “By the time I topped that rise the copter was already down. They hauled something inside and left. Headed back west towards Bakersfield.”

  Jim Carrol walked over to Nate and the strangers, but his eyes were on Josh. “J
occo’s men. They took John and his nephew. I want them back.”

  “Easy Jim,” Nate put in. “If they’re not dead already they soon will be. Jocco’s not known for his hospitality.”

  Big Jim ignored him, continuing to stare at Josh. “I’m going after them. I’ll need your truck.”

  Josh held the large man’s gaze. “Are you asking or telling?”

  “Take your pick.”

  “Wait a minute,” Nate said, stepping in between the two men. “This is just what they want, for us to ride in with our guns blazing. Why do you think they took them alive in the first place?”

  Jim glanced quickly at Nate, then back to Josh. “I’m still going and I still need your truck.”

  Josh looked at Jessie, Cobb and Flame. All three nodded. Josh turned back to the rebel leader. “We’ll go with you, but on one condition. Some of us go in and scout around first. Then we’ll see.”

  Big Jim Carrol grunted, turned and began striding back down the hill, calling to his men as he went.

  Nate took off his hat and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “I don’t like it. The odd ambush is one thing, walking into the lion’s den is another.”

  Josh smiled. “Let’s start with a peek inside the door.”

  “And after that?”

  “One step at a time, Nate; one step at a time.”

  A half hour later they were headed east along Highway 178. With the LAV in front, followed by the two vans and the rest of the rebels crowded into three trucks, the unlikely caravan reached the outskirts of Bakersfield just before sunset. Using an abandoned community center as their base, they hid the LAV and the trucks, then Josh, Cobb, Flame and a young half-breed named Gill Sweetwater took the Westfalia into town. At the corner of 158 and Panorama Drive they came to their first roadblock.

  Chapter 45: ‘TRAIL’S END’

  The Trail’s End Bar

  Bakersfield, California

  May 20th

  “I don’t like this,” Gill whispered.

  Josh geared down and prepared to stop. It was full dark now and the makeshift guard post was lit by a single lantern. A man armed with a rifle stood by the lowered barricade. Another sat just inside the small shack. A sheet of paper with a complete description of Josh’s group lay unread on the table beside him. Apparently the guard was more interested in where the staples were placed in Miss September than in any ‘hurry up and wait’ orders from on high.

  “Just smile and keep quiet,” Josh replied. “Flame knows what to do.”

  Gill Sweetwater sat back, nervously fingering the snub-nosed .38 in his belt. He’d gone to school in Bakersfield and had willingly volunteered to come along as guide. Now, however, he wished he had kept his big mouth shut.

  A flashlight beam splashed through the passenger window. Flame smiled sweetly, her Smith & Wesson cocked and ready on her lap. The light flickered over the inside of the van, then back to Flame.

  “Hello there, Sweet Thing,” a voice behind the light said. “Where have you been all my life?”

  Flame’s smile broadened. “Looking for the right man.”

  The light moved down to her ample chest, then back up.

  “Consider him found.”

  Still smiling, Flame grabbed the man’s wrist with her left hand and yanked. As his arm came inside the cab she shoved the barrel of her .44 into his open mouth. “Consider this, asshole!”

  Cobb was out of the van and inside the small shack before the second guard knew anything was wrong. Slamming the heel of his hand under the man’s jaw, Cobb was checking for a third party before the guard slumped to the floor. He need not have bothered. Except for a plentiful supply of glossy centerfolds, the tiny hut was empty.

  Back at the van Jessie had the first guard tied and gagged by the time a wide-eyed Gill Sweetwater stepped out. “Kee-rist!”, he said in awe. “You white men don’t fool around!”

  Flame winked at him, shoving her S & W back in her shoulder holster. Gill’s eyes followed her, torn between watching the large gun and her equally large breasts. “Stick around, sonny. You aint seen nothing yet.”

  Gill’s tanned face reddened.

  Cobb returned, the unconscious guard draped over his shoulder. Josh grinned at him, then spoke to Jess. “Help Cobb drag those two into the bushes. Gill, lend a hand.”

  “You’re not going to kill them?”, the young half-breed asked.

  Josh smiled. “No, I’m not. And neither are you. Now move it.”

  “But,” Gill protested, “they would have killed us.”

  Jessie put his hand on Gill’s shoulder, his smile a carbon copy of his father’s. “Only if we’d given them the chance.”

  Gill shook his head, bending over to lift the legs of the first guard. Jessie had Duct taped him into a living mummy. “Crazy whites,” he muttered.

  Twenty minutes later Gill had them turn into what was left of the East Hills Mall. Rusting cars sitting lopsidedly on flats littered the once tidy parkinglot. Most of the store windows were broken. Glass and unwanted loot sparkled in the Westfalia’s headlights. Several of the buildings had been burnt to the ground.

  “Why here, Gill?”, Jessie asked.

  “There’s a bar. At least, there was a few months ago.” The half-breed shrugged. “Good a place as any to start nosing around.”

  Flame slapped Gill on his knee. “You’re learning fast, kid.”

  The Trail’s End Bar was at the far end of the mall. A lantern dimly lit the once proud neon sign. The adjoining building was a burnt out hulk. Several vehicles still in working order were parked outside. As they watched, a dented pick-up pulled in beside them. Four men and two women poured out and headed for the watering hole, though by the drunken laughter, the Trail’s End hadn’t been their first stop.

  “Who goes and who stays?”, Cobb asked.

  “Gill and I go in,” Josh replied. “You follow three minutes later. Jess and Flame watch the van.”

  “Bullshit!”, Flame said, putting all her considerable emotion into it. “Same old bullshit every time! You get all the action and I get to mind the kids! Well, not this time, Lover.” A second later she was out the van and striding towards the bar.

  Josh swore, then turned to Jessie. “You and Gill stay here.” Then he was out of the van and heading towards the bar. Cobb flowed along beside him like a second shadow.

  From his place behind the bar, a balding man with thick glasses perched on a drinker’s nose stood frowning at the four men and two women who had just entered his humble establishment. Hairy Legg, born Harold Manny Legowitz some fifty-two years ago in L.A.’s poor Jewish section, had both seen and been many things in his life; chief among them were a stand-up comedian and an alcoholic. The one thing he still was, however, was an excellent judge of character. Handling twenty years of drunken hecklers in hundreds of third-rate lounges had honed his cutting-humor to a fine edge. The world, according to Hairy Legg, was made up of two very uneven categories: one tenth assbusters and nine tenths assholes. The four men and two women sitting before him all fell into the latter category. Loud-mouthed, dangerous, sullen or simply hangers-on they might be, each according to their own bent, but assholes one and all.

  Mage, Hairy’s waitress-bookkeeper-bedwarmer had hurried over to them and was now doing her best to ignore one of the men’s hand working its way up her thigh. From his chair in the corner, Big Glen the bouncer tightened his grip on the sawed-off 12 gage across his lap and watched Hairy for a sign. Hairy’s own hand moved towards the Colt Double Eagle beneath the counter, fluttered over the walnut grip, then pulled away. ‘Fuck it!’, Hairy reasoned. He had never liked guns much, and was a piss-poor shot at best. Besides, Mage could take care of herself. If not, there was always Big Glen.

  One of the men uttered some witticism that sent the mousy broad with him into a fit of drunken laughter.

  ‘Snorts like a sow!’, the comic inside Hairy quipped. ‘Probably smells like one too!’ He signaled Big Glen to relax.

  The door o
pened and Flame stormed in, her luxuriant hair flowing about her, her temper reaching even further.

  ‘Now there’s a real assbuster!’, Hairy thought. The comic inside him agreed wholeheartedly.

  Flame marched up to the bar and fixed Hairy with her emerald eyes. “A shot of your best, Baldy. Make it a double.”

  Hairy smiled, then dug out a dusty bottle of Johnny Walker. As he poured the liquid fire into a clean glass, two men followed the red-head through the door. The bearded one in a faded jean jacket looked like he wouldn’t take too much shit from anybody. The taller one with the crew-cut and the ankle-length coat looked like he wouldn’t take any shit at all.

  “Hit me again,” Flame said, holding out her empty glass.

  Hairy looked at her over the rim of his bifocals. They weren’t worth a pint of piss any more and he badly needed a new pair. ‘Not much chance of that’, Hairy thought. For once the other voice remained quiet. Poor glasses or not, there was no mistaking the anger in the redhead’s eyes --- nor the large gun snuggled against her equally large breasts. ‘Twin 45’s and a big gun too!’, the comic quipped. Hairy forced the acid-tongued little prick back into his corner and poured another drink. “I suppose you got the coin for this?”

  Flame dug into her tight jeans and tossed two silver dollars on the polished wood.

  “Christ, Red!”, Hairy exclaimed. “What’d you want to do, buy the whole friggin’ bar?”

  “Just leave the bottle,” Flame said.

  Hairy shrugged, scooped up the coins and looked at the bearded man coming up behind her. The taller one stayed by the door. “What’ll it be, friend?”

  “A clean glass and a little privacy, if you don’t mind.” The tone was warm and the smile was easy, but the eyes were colder than a mortician’s convention.