by Wayne Mee
Turning to the pimple faced private, Cozens smiled. “That’s right, asshole, he’s the Lone Fucking Stranger and I’m the his trusty Indian sidekick, Chief Shit-Kicker! Now, haul your sorry ass up there before I show you how I got my name!”
Haskin shot him the Finger, then moved off up the slope. Private Jerry Billings, the other soldier Cozen’s had ‘volunteered’, quickly followed. In his efforts to stay clear of the sergeant, Billings missed seeing the nylon trip-line Cobb had set. The second his boot became tangled, he knew he was up the infamous Shit Creek and with very few prospects of ever having a paddle. As though in a dream, Billings watched the fishline go tight, heard the scrape of the support stick being pulled away, and felt the mountain above him begin to shift. First one boulder, then another, came tumbling down. On the way they dislodged others, creating a major landslide.
The first boulder struck Billings on the shoulder. The second one crushed his skull. Haskin, being further up, had most of the larger rocks pass over his head. He was showered by smaller ones, some of which left him cut and bleeding. Heller, sheltered by the overhang, didn’t receive a scratch, though the wet stain in his crotch would prove embarrassing. Cozens, the furthest down the slope, managed to get behind a protective outcropping just before the avalanche washed over him.
At the bottom of the cliff, Scar and the remaining nine men scattered off the trail. All but one of them made it. Corporal Lester Duglaw, a slow moving good old boy from Alabama, had his back broken by the same boulder that crushed Private Billings’ skull.
The fleetest of foot was Corporal Nicoro Omoto. Before being kicked out of Golden Gate High for dealing drugs, Nicoro had been a star runner on the track team. After that his career really took off. At the time of The Change, Private Omoto was known as Nico the Snake, third man in the Red Dragon street gang that terrorized San Francisco’s Japanese community. The morning after The Change, Nico the Snake found himself the number one man; everyone else having dried up and blown away. After a drug-induced binge of two or three weeks, Nico drifted south, where he was picked up and recruited into Jocco’s growing army. Amoral and sadistic, he’d risen fast, making sergeant in four months; only to be busted back down to private for running his own drug and prostitution scam. Not that Jocco disapproved of either, it’s just that Nico conveniently forgot to give the self-appointed king his rightful cut.
Now, as the boulders bounced their way down the mountain, Nico the Snake slithered through the tangle of brush and bodies and lightly bounded down the trail, his thin lips forming a cunning smirk. ‘If Fuck-Face Fewster could see me now!’, he thought, conjuring up a vision of Golden Gate High’s red-faced track coach. The smirk turned to surprise, however, as he tripped the line holding the bent evergreen. The tree, aligned to hit someone coming up the trail, not down, almost missed. The dung-smeared stakes at the bottom and middle of the tree swept harmlessly by. The one at the tip, though, found its mark, punching deep into his back, through his heart and out his chest. Driven to his knees, he hung there like a overlarge Christmas tree ornament, his running days definitely over.
From the shadows a figure came, swift, silent and deadly. It held a crude spear, the wood at the end whittled to a narrow point. Lifting Nico’s head, the shadowy figure looked briefly at the already glazing eyes, then quickly stripped the body of weapons. Cobb had done this many times before and so wasted little time. Seconds after he appeared, the forest once again swallowed him, only now, besides the spear, he carried a modified M-16, a Colt .45 Mark IV and ammo clips for both weapons. Nico had had a long bladed combat knife as well, but Cobb had decided against it. Too heavy for real fighting and too clumsy for throwing. That shit about thrown knives only worked in the movies anyways. Most of the time you’d do better to chuck a rock. Besides, Cobb had another reason for not taking the knife --- he wanted to leave Scar a personal message. The fact that it would scare the shit out of the rest of them wouldn’t hurt either. The knife was left buried in Nico’s right eye.
While Cobb was busy with Nico, another form crouched in the shadows near the base of the cliff. Through the swirling dust, Josh saw a soldier, desperately fleeing from the avalanche, running directly towards him. As the man sprinted by the large pine where Josh hid, the ex-history teacher thrust his spear out into the path. The running soldier tripped and fell flat on his face. Josh was on him before he could draw a breath. Knees on the man’s back, Josh yanked off the helmet and, tangling his hand in the long, thick hair, yanked back, exposing the neck to the blade of his Tanto.
Piercing gray eyes, slightly slanted, glared back at him. Pretty gray eyes and a woman’s oval face. Private Mitsu Hikora’s attractive mouth formed a curse. “Fuck you, farm-boy! Do it if you’re gonna!”
Startled by the contradictions, Josh hesitated. That hesitation nearly cost him his life. Unlike Nico, who was mostly all mouth, Mitsu Hikora was mostly all action. Her hundred and eight pound body had been honed to a fine edge by years of martial arts training. Even before she joined Jocco’s merry band she had been a killer in thought, if not in deed. Jocco’s boys had just given her the green light she had secretly longed for.
Twisting to the right, she turned her face from the blade and rolled. Thrown off balance, Josh was forced to use his knife hand to stop from falling. In the split second that took, Mitsu was all over him like a dirty shirt. Slender fingers, hardened by countless hours at a practice bag, struck his body, expertly seeking out vital parts and pressure points. Josh felt his ribcage pummeled, his back pounded and his right hand go numb. The Tanto fell to the ground. Wanting only to curl into a protective ball, he knew he had to reach the knife before this hell-cat on top of him did.
‘Fat chance of that, old buddy!’, a rather sarcastic voice inside him said. Josh was neither in the mood nor had the time to argue. Instead, he tried to make his useless right hand move towards the knife. Naturally Cat-Lady reached it first.
“Now, farm-boy!”, she hissed, raising the knife high above her. “THIS will teach you to fuck with me!”
As the Tanto swept down, Cobb’s heavy boot struck her in the stomach. The air whooshed out of her slender frame and once again the knife fell to the leafy floor. Cobb followed up the kick with a right cross that sent the woman flying.
Josh winced as Cobb pulled him to his feet. “Rough date?”, Cobb asked.
“Ya,” Josh grunted. “I must be loosing my charm.”
Cobb scooped up the Tanto. “You nearly lost more than that. Let’s see what she’s got.”
Josh, the M-16 on full rock & roll, stood guard while Cobb grabbed the woman’s weapons. The sounds of yelling and cursing still came from the base of the cliff. A minute later they were sprinting away into the shadows.
Mitsu proved to be a walking armory. From her unconscious body they had taken a Browning 9 mm. and three extra clips, a 12 gage pump and a bandoleer of #4 shells, a wicked looking boot knife and three grenades. Cobb had also brought her shoulder webbing, complete with canteen, holster and first-aid kit. Now, a good two hundred yards off the trail, they stopped to divide up the loot. Cobb kept two grenades and passed the third to Josh. “Take your pick of the hardware.”
Josh surveyed the small arsenal with distaste. In the last year he’d handled far more guns than books. That saddened him. “I’ll take the shotgun.”
Cobb checked the safety, worked the slide and handed the stubby shotgun to Josh. “A Winchester Defender. Eight shots with an open choke for maximum spread. Hell on wheels up close but not worth shit over thirty yards.”
“You’re the sharpshooter, not me.”
“Ya, well, you might as well take the Browning too. It’s a bit lighter than your Beretta was, but close enough. The Colt kicks like a mule.”
Now, armed to the teeth, they had to decided what to do; head for the lodge or follow along nipping at Scar’s heels. Cobb was for taking the fight to them, Josh for getting to his son as soon as possible. In the end, they decided on a compromise.
“Son-of-
a-bitch!”, Heller growled as the body count grew. Five in all, with the cunt Mitsu looking like her jaw might be broken. She’d been a real fox before, with half the squad aching to get into her pants. Now, with a swollen nose, a split lip and two teeth missing, there was no way she’d make prom queen. Heller had had the hots for her as well, but now his fantasies were all for the two farmers that had made him look like a Grade A asshole.
“Sergeant Cozens!”, Heller bellowed. “Assemble the men! Everyone to move out in five minutes! And Cozens, make damn sure Swan has a trail for us to follow!”
As Cozens began rounding up the remaining soldiers, Scar sauntered up to Heller’s side. “Well Roy, still think you’ll have them by sundown?” Scar’s voice dripped sarcasm.
“Unless you’ve got something useful to say, fuck off!”
Scar’s distorted face attempted a grin. Heller though he widely missed the mark.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Ya? What?”
Scar sighed. “So far they’ve been leading us down the garden path and sticking it to us at every corner.”
“So?”
“So, we know where they’re going. If we haul ass and get ahead of them, we can set up a little ambush of our own.”
Heller’s frown slowly turned into a sly sneer. “Fucking A! But where?”
Scar took out his map. After some discussion, they decided on a narrow valley about a day’s hike away. A river ran through a deep gorge called Hell’s Gate. Steep ridges on both sides made it a natural path through the mountains. Jocco’s lodge lay on the other side.
“What if they get there ahead of us?”, Heller asked.
Scar’s response was to call his radio man, Corporal Phil Givens, over to him. “Givens, get Jocco on the horn. It’s time our self appointed king started earning his keep.”
As Givens unslung the powerful short-wave and began fiddling with the dials, Scar explained that he and Jocco had worked out a little emergency plan.
“I told him that this little duck hunt of his would go sour. I also told him I wanted some back-up when it did. He agreed to have a troop ready to send in from his side when I called. I also insisted on some air support. He said he’d have two copters standing by. Well, the shit’s hit the fan just like I said it would, and now, Roy old pal, it’s time to call in the cavalry.”
Givens held out the mike. “He’s on the line, sir.”
“Jocco?”, Scar said into the mike.
“Major Scar. How nice to hear your voice. I trust you have good news?”
Scar grunted. “That depends on how you look at it, your kingship. Half of us are still alive, but your two farm boys are now heavily armed and running free.”
“They got the collars off?”, Jocco demanded.
“Does a bear shit in the woods?” Scar quipped. “I told you these good ol’ boys were good. Following them has got half of us killed, so we’re going to try and get ahead of them and pick them off at a place called Hell’s Gate. I’ll need chopper recon and that back-up you promised.”
Silence. Despite the cool wind, Roy Heller found himself sweating. When Jocco finally did respond, his voice had lots all its casual banter. “Two choppers will soon be in your area. Shoot up a flair when you hear them. As for the ground support, they’ll be in position by tomorrow morning.”
“Sounds good to me,” Scar said, winking his good eye at Heller.
“And Major?”
“Ya?”, Scar casually replied.
“Fuck up again and you’re a dead man.”
Static filled the airways.
Chapter 48: ‘JUDGEMENT DAY’
Jocco’s Hunting Lodge
Sequoia National Park
California, May 26th
‘Lord’ Walter Pinkton had a very bad case of the shakes. Dry mouth, sweaty palms, queasy stomach, the works. The fact that his bowels rumbled like Vesuvius didn’t help either. He’d had the shakes for almost a week now, ever since Bobby-Joe Burlis and his squad had burst into his private apartments and accused him of treason. He’d denied it of course, called Burlis all the foul names his twisted, inventive mind could come up with and demanded to see Jocco. The king however, being preoccupied with the rebels and his plans for his eastern invasion, left Walter to stew in his own juices.
Not that Walter wasn’t guilty. Power hungry, Walter the Wicked was up to his scrawny neck in plots and counter-plots. But he thought he’d been careful. Always using a middle-man and never putting anything in writing, he thought he’d covered his ass pretty well. Obviously Bobby-Joe Burlis had thought differently. Now, sitting in Jocco’s hunting lodge, Walter watched the beefy red-neck sweat as Jocco barked out orders. ‘Eat shit and die, both of you!’, Walter thought.
Something had obviously gone very wrong. Yesterday Jocco had been in the highest of spirits, laughing and joking with his officers; today, however, the monarch’s demeanor had taken a sudden and rather drastic turn for the worse. Ill tempered and impatient, he seemed barely able to contain his rage. All morning he’d been chewing out his officers, Bobby-Joe in particular. The guards had been tripled around the lodge, the red head and the boy were tied up in the cellar and both copters were constantly coming and going.
“And where the hell is George?!”, Jocco demanded. “The drunken bastard was supposed to be here last night!”
Bobby-Joe wiped his brow. “George will be here, Jocco. He’s probably having trouble with the roads. Last weeks storm washed out a couple of bridges.”
“Fuck the bridges!”, Jocco yelled. “The retarded bastard can drag his ass through the mud for all I care, just as long as he gets his men here!”
Bobby-Joe poured himself and Jocco a drink. Walter noticed that Bobby-Joe’s was a double.
“Take it easy, Boss. George knows what he’s doing. Besides, the choppers will spot them long before they get close to here.”
Jocco downed half the glass. “George couldn’t find his dick in the dark! As for the copters, it took them half the bloody morning just to locate Heller’s group!”
Pam Gliss unfolded herself from the couch in front of the roaring fireplace. Dressed only in lace panties and an open flack-jacket, the flames silhouetted her lush body, turning the beads of sweat into liquid diamonds. Purring like a kitten, she handed the bottle of Southern Comfort she’d been sucking on to Eva Madeau, stretched and sauntered over to stand behind Jocco. Her undulating hips drew Walter’s gaze like a magnet, his beady eyes fastening on the crack of her ass. She and Jocco had been very tight lately, a fact that Pam the Bitch played to the hilt.
“What say we go out hunting ourselves, Jocco?”, she breathed. “Ace can fly us to this Devil’s Gate place and we can kick a little butt.” Leaning against his back, her hand moved slowly down to his crotch. “Who knows? You might even get lucky.”
Eva Madeau, her shaved head reflecting the firelight, chuckled from the sofa. Bobby-Joe shot her a warning look and she shot him The Finger.
Jocco pulled the blonde to him, cupping a heavy breast in his left hand. “I make my own luck, Kitten, but then, why not? We’ll all go, even Lord Walter. The fresh air will do him good!” His left hand suddenly squeezed harder. Pam moaned softly, her blue eyes brightening. Jocco applied more pressure, the pliable flesh like putty in his cruel hand. Sinking to her knees, Pam fumbled for his belt. A cruel smile twisted Jocco’s handsome features.
“Bobby-Joe, you and Eva take Lord Walter out to the copter and watch him. Tell Ace I’ll be there when Kitten here is finished.”
Eva Madeau’s throaty laughter danced along with the flames.
Josh and Cobb, following a fast flowing creek as it cut its way over the ancient rock, were now high up amidst the weathered boulders and stunted pines. They’d spent the last thirty-six hours on the run, scrambling to stay ahead of the men hunting them, stopping only long enough to set a trap or take a quick shot at their pursuers. They’d managed to snatch a few hours sleep last night, wolf down a cold can of beans and still stay ahead
of Scar and Heller. They were tired, hungry and cold, but they were alive. Josh intended to keep it that way. Now, with a freshening wind blowing away last night’s rain, Josh scanned their backtrail with the dead ranger’s binoculars.
“Here they come.”
“I see them,” Cobb said, sighting along the M-16. With no scope it would be another long shot. Not much chance of hitting anything, but with Josh spotting the shots through the field glasses, it sure as hell was keeping Scar and his boys on their toes.
The weapon barked once. Cobb had it on single shot so as not to waist ammo. A quarter mile below them a hollow point slug chipped a piece of rock off near the front man’s head.
“Nice!”, Josh grinned, still looking through the glasses. “A little to the right of the lead guy, but nice.”
“’Nice’, hell!”, Cobb growled. “I was aiming at the two behind the point man!”
Josh shrugged and began moving up the steep slope. “Coming?”
Cobb made a slight adjustment to the rear sight. “Now that I’ve got the range, one more should hold them there for awhile. Give us a chance to get over the top. You go scout out a path.”
Nodding, Josh began to climb alongside the gurgling stream.
The bullet that hit the rock close to Private Swan’s head arrived almost two full seconds before the muffled report from the rifle reached him. “Shit!”, he muttered, crouching low. “That bastard can shoot!”
“Where the fuck are they?!”, Roy Heller demanded from further back down the trail. Since the incident the other day, he had been more than willing to let Swan to take the point.
“Ahead of us,” Swan replied dryly. “Probably up in those high rocks.”
