by Wayne Mee
Sergeant Phil McBride, trying his best to ignore the string of abuse being heaped upon him from the female prisoner, continued to scan the open slopes before him. The red-headed bitch, however, had a mouth on her that just wouldn’t quit.
“... and when he gets here, Limp Dick, you’ll wish your retarded father had of used a condom instead of bringing a gutless wonder like you into the world!”
“Let me shut her up, Sarj,” Private Joe Lions pleaded, raising the butt of his rifle to within inches of Flame’s face. “A few missing teeth should close that big mouth of hers!”
Flame’s green eyes bored into the skinny little man, making him feel smaller than ever. “Go on, Puke Face. Take your best shot. Once my man gets here there won’t be enough of you left to scrap off my boot!”
As Lions drew the rifle back to hit her, McBride shoved him roughly away. “Back off, Private! Jocco doesn’t want the goods damaged --- yet.”
Lions was about to reply when he saw Jessie staring at him. For a long moment their eyes locked. “What the fuck are you looking at?”
Jessie’s gaze never faltered. “A dead man.”
Despite the cool breeze, Eddy was sweating. The sight of Flame and Jessie tied up on the open balcony had shaken him badly. If Josh didn’t get there soon, he didn’t know what the hell he’d do. Crouching beside him in the underbrush, Bobby Stewart suppressed a nervous shudder. Through holes in the greenery they could see two guards standing at the edge of the forest. So far there was no sign of John Lonefeather and Charley Little Dog.
Eddy’s grip on Nate’s old Remington 44-40 tightened. When learning that Edddy had asked Lonefeather to take him back up to the lodge, the old man had offered Eddy his long rifle.
“Try this,” Nate had drawled, handing Eddy the heavy weapon and nodding his whiskered chin at Josh’s 30-30. “It’s got nearly three times the punch of that pop gun you got there, holds three 510 gram hollow points with room for one more up the spout. Kicks like a bastard, but it’ll stop an elephant.”
Eddy had reluctantly handed over the Winchester. “Josh gave me this the night he left for Bakersfield. I had hoped to give it back to him.”
Nate had smiled and cradled the shorter rifle. “I’ll hold it for you till you both come back, maybe even try it out down at the roadblock.”
Now, crouching in the forest near the lodge, Eddy hefted Nate’s heavier gun; its weight, however, gave him little comfort. There was no sign of Josh and time was fast running out for Flame and Jessie.
“What do we do now?”, Bobby whispered.
“Pray those two Indians know don’t blow it!”
Bobby drew his Python. The corm barrel caught the last rays of the setting sun. “Shouldn’t we move up in case...”
Just then they saw one of the two guards raise his rifle and step forward into the forest. The other hesitated, then followed. Bobby looked at Eddy, who shrugged an answer. Then the sounds of a brief scuffle reached them, a muffled cry and then silence. Off to the right a jay screeched its indignation. From up ahead an owl hooted, Lonefeather’s signal that all was well. Eddy and Bobby moved to meet them.
“Who are those guys?”, Cobb whispered, pointing at the edge of the forest where two shadowy forms had just overpowered the forward pair of guards. As he spoke, the two shadows became four.
Josh looked through the field glasses and grinned. “I don’t know about the others, but those last two look a hell of a lot like Eddy and Bobby!”
“Damn!”, Cobb beamed. “It is them!”
Moments later the four friends were reunited, each hugging the other and grinning widely. Bobby did a poor job of hiding his tears. Off to one side John Lonefeather and Charley Little Dog stood silent watch. Eddy made a fast introduction and all six moved deeper into the trees, taking the bodies of the two guards with them.
“God-Almighty, Josh,” Eddy sighed. “It’s good to see you back. I was starting to get a bit worried.”
“Me too,” Josh smiled.
“What about One-Eye, Mr. Williams?”, Bobby asked. “We heard he was chasing the both of you?”
“Scar’s dead, Bobby,” Cobb said.
Bobby grinned. “You get him?”
Cobb shook his head. “Josh did. Cut his throat.”
Bobby’s grin faded; the thought of his former teacher cutting a man’s throat, even a man like One-Eye, made his stomach want to heave.
Eddy touched his friend’s shoulder. “What do we do about Jessie and Flame?”
Josh’s look hardened. “Whatever we have to.”
Jocco couldn’t sit still. The waiting was really starting to get to him. By the looks of the four others in the room, it was getting to them too. Pam was pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, her hand nervously resting on the pearled grips of her Browning automatic. Eva Madeau was sitting on the edge of the couch, her Uzi in one hand and her third Jack Daniels in the other. Bobby-Joe Burlis, an M-16 hugged to his chest, stood looking out the large patio doors, his gaze fixed on the backs of the two captives suspended from the eves. The only two in the room who seemed unruffled were Pussbag and Ace. Pussbag because, like the calm before the storm, never felt more at peace with himself than just before a killing; Ace because he was already dead.
Sergeant Phil McBride, a walkie-talkie in his hand, stepped in from the balcony and spoke to Bobby-Joe in hushed but urgent tones.
“What is it?!”, Jocco demanded.
Bobby-Joe shrugged nervously. “Probably nothing, Jocco. It’s just that Phil here can’t get two of the guards on the radio.”
“What two?”
McBride drew himself up to attention. “Peterson and Hobbs, Sir. They were our advanced perimeter, out by the edge of the forest. One minute they were there, the next they weren’t.”
“Maybe they heard something and went in to check it out,” Bobby-Joe put in. “They’ll show up.” Despite the bluster, tone of his voice gave him away. Peterson and Hobbs had already shuffled off this mortal coil, bit the bullet, bought the farm, took a long walk off a short pier --- and all there knew it.
“What the fuck...?!” Eva, on her way for another shot of Jackie D, was now staring wide-eyed at a cloud of smoke billowing out of the kitchen. Apparently Peterson and Hobbs, along with buying the farm, had also burnt the biscuits.
“Fire!”, Pam the Bitch screamed.
Eva the Butch complied. Dropping her Jack Daniels, she gripped her Uzi with both hands and sprayed the kitchen with a liberal helping of 9 mm. led. The half opened French doors exploded, splinters of wood and shards of glass joining the heavy pall of smoke that was rapidly filling the room.
Since even before Josh set the fire in back of the lodge, Cobb, from his position on the first ridge, had Private Leo Lions in the cross-hairs of Scar’s captured H & K. At the same time as a befuddled Eva was emptying her clip into an empty room, Cobb squeezed off a shot. The powerful rifle seemed to cough and Leo the Lion’s skull suddenly became a gory mess of brain, bone and blood. Punched backwards, what was left of Leo shattered the plate glass window of the balcony and lay leaking blood on the polished pinewood floor. Cobb shifted slightly, searched for the second guard that had been standing on the far side of the balcony. Jessie’s swaying body was blocking his view.
Cobb taking out the two men guarding the prisoners was the signal for Eddy and Bobby to open fire. As planned, their targets were the two soldiers standing out front on the grass. Bobby’s Python boomed once, twice, three times. His target went down, then started returning his fire.
At the same time, Eddy, sighting down the long barrel of Nate’s 44-40, squeezed off a shot at the second man as he turned and sprinted for the lodge. As Nate had warned, the gun kicked like mule and walnut stock slammed into Eddy’s jaw. Where the powerful bullet hit, a chunk the size of a hand went flying from the log wall of the lodge. Stars swirling, Eddy cursed and worked the bolt. Bobby, his Python empty, was fumbling more shells out of his pocket; in doing so he presented a clear target to the sold
ier he had wounded. The man, fixing Bobby’s head in his sights, was about to squeeze the trigger when Cobb made his second head shot of the day.
The second guard, the one Eddy had missed, had by now reached the lodge, sprinted into the basement and slammed the heavy door shut behind him. His breath coming in ragged gulps, he leaned against the solid door, a satisfied smile on his flushed face. Then something struck the door hard. The vibration seemed to pass right through him. Directly behind him an ancient snowblower jumped as though hit by an invisible hand. Through dimming eyes the man noticed that a large hole had been punched in the snowblower’s metal hood. Looking down at himself he saw that an even larger hole had been punched in his chest.
“Shit!”, he hissed, his legs going out from under him. He was dead before he hit the floor. Nate’s 44-40 could be a real bitch indeed.
While the gun battle was taking place out front, a battle of a different kind was taking place out back --- a battle against time. Josh knew he had only minutes to reach Flame and his son before Jocco had them killed. Cobb, having been part of several hostage situations in the now dead past, knew that those first few minutes could easily shrink down to seconds. Hence the reason for the fire.
“You need a diversion,” Cobb had reasoned. “Several if possible. Fire. Explosives. A sudden killing. Anything to keep them disoriented.”
They had had the killings and the fire. Now it was time for the explosives. While Charley Little Dog tossed two grenades into the burning backdoor of the kitchen, John Lonefeather and Josh rushed up the steps leading to the front balcony. From his position high on the ridge, Cobb laid down a continuous cover-fire, spacing his shots on both sides of Flame and Jessie, still hanging helplessly out front. Both prisoners could hear the hot led screaming past their ears. Dangerous but necessary, for Cobb’s constant barrage kept everyone well away from the front windows.
Everyone but Pussbag.
In the year since The Change, most of those who had survived had gone through some profound personal changes of their own, sounding the depths of their souls and finding their true selves. Private Theodore ‘Pussbag’ Smith however, had gone through a metamorphosis. Never very stable at the best of times, the horror unleashed at Nellis Airforce Base had driven him completely over the edge. A brooding sociopath to begin with, the shocking events of June 21st had crushed his already twisted brain and bruised soul to such an extent that what remained was hardly human. Though he walked on two legs, any remnant of Theodore Smith was gone forever, leaving in its place the psychopathic creature that answered to no one but its own inner ravings and its one true friend: Jocco, The Dark Stranger.
‘Follow me and I shall make you great,’ Jocco’s eyes had told him on their first meeting. ‘A promise is a promise.’ Pussbag had followed his new friend willingly, blindly. The Dark Stranger, embodied in the man called Jocco, had accepted him, sheltered him and given him his life purpose; an empty, perverted purpose, but a purpose none-the-less. Pussbag had become the Dark Stranger’s avenging sword, his mighty right hand, his Angel of Death.
“Kill them!”, Jocco screamed. “Kill them both!”
Pussbag lifted his shaggy head. His friend’s voice seemed to come from far away; cold and cruel, edged with anger and eager anticipation. ‘As it is said, so let it be done!’ A distant quote from a dead past. Pussbag instantly moved to obey. Ignoring the fire, the bullets and the bodies, Pussbag, bayonet in hand, stepped through the shattered patio doors. The sun had set and darkness was squeezing the land in its inky grip. All was as it should be. The victims waited, watching his every move. King Jocco’s Angel of Death strode forward. Which one would be first? The woman with the hair of fire or the boy with the old eyes? It really didn’t matter, for blood was blood. The boy was closer so the boy would do.
Jessie saw the man approaching, saw the long knife in his hand and saw also that he had but seconds to live. In the past year Jessie had faced many dangers, seen good people turn bad and bad people turn into monsters. Something told him that the man moving towards him was worse than all those other horrors combined. Pure evil on two legs. Instinctively Jessie kicked the evil thing.
The youth’s thick soled hiking boot caught Pussbag squarely in the throat, all but crushing his larynx. Pain coursed through Pussbag like an electric current. Starting at his throat, it spread outward, weakening his knees, stabbing at his heart and causing a strangled groan to escape through his clamped jaws. The bayonet fell to the balcony floor as his hands went instinctively to his throat. Gasping for breath, he doubled over. As he did so Flame’s long legs wrapped around his neck, her ankles locked and her muscular thighs began to squeeze. As Pussbag’s hands came up in a reflex motion, Jessie kicked him again. And again --- and again.
Phil McBride, seeing Pussbag’s plight, stepped over Lions’ body and came up behind Flame. He was about to put a bullet into the back of her brain when an explosion rocked the kitchen, caused by the grenades Charley Little Dog had tossed in the back door.
Shrapnel shrieked about like angry killer bees. The windows blew out, as did a good portion of the fire. Eva Madeau, still standing in the kitchen doorway, took the full blast. One piece of red-hot metal struck her in the forehead, sizzling its way into her brain.
Turning from his position behind Flame, Sergeant McBride saw Josh Williams and John Lonefeather running up the outside stairs. Startled, he began to swing his M-16 around --- and took three hits in the chest from Josh’s Browning. Knocked backwards, he came to his final rest atop his ol’ buddy Leo the Lion.
John Lonefeather, having left Josh to free the prisoners, dove into the room, rolled over some broken glass and came up behind a smoldering sofa. Ace’s dead eyes stared up at him.
“Shit!”, he exclaimed, stepping back. At that moment Pam the Bitch came out of the smoke and shot him twice in the stomach. Knock backwards, Lonefeather went down hard, loosing his rifle in the process. Grinning, Pam advanced. Kneeling by the body, she pressed the silver plated barrel of her revolver into Lonefeather’s ear. As she pulled the hammer back, the body suddenly rolled. Something flashed in the dying light. Pam screamed and pulled the trigger. Lonefeather died with a bullet in his brain, but not before giving his murderess something to remember him by. Blinking back the tears, Pam looked down in disbelief at the knife buried up to the hilt in her left shoulder. As the pain set in she started to scream.
Bobby-Joe had had enough. After emptying his clip at the open doorway, he bolted for a side window. Shielding his face with his hands, he crashed through the heavy glass, cutting himself badly in the process. Landing in a clumsy roll on the sloping grass, he came up with his legs and heart pumping. The sheltering trees were only fifty feet away. If he could but reach them he might just ---
A young man suddenly materialized between him and the forest.
For a frozen moment their eyes locked. The world shrunk to the few green yards between them. One man trying to flee, the other determined that he would not. With bleeding hands the one raised his weapon, the other did the same. Shots were fired, several from both combatants, their staccato barks adding to the roar of the fire and the screams of hate and pain. Then both men went down.
Eddy, seeing Bobby fall, yelled out his name. Rushing forward, Eddy was nearly struck by Pussbag’s body as it tumbled from the balcony above. The body smacked the heavy log railing, folded in a way human bones were never meant to fold, then flopped in a mangled heap at Eddy’s feet. Glancing up he saw Josh cutting Flame and Jessie free.
“Eddy, I’m hit!” Bobby’s voice seemed more surprised than hurt. The youth was sitting up cradling his left arm. Eddy had covered half the distance when he saw the man Bobby had shot rise like Lazerus from his grave. Covered with blood from his dive through the lodges window and two of young Bobby’s bullets, Captain Bobby-Joe Burlis, his lower jaw hanging by a flap of skin, pointed his revolver like an accusing finger at Bobby’s kneeling form.
“Noooo!”, Eddy screamed, raising Nate’s heavy 44-40.
The bleeding man that had once been Mrs. Burlis’ baby boy, swung his deadly finger in Eddy’s direction. There was a puff of smoke, followed by a wine near Eddy’s ear. Then the long rifle bucked, slapping his already bruised cheek for the third time. As though in a dream, Eddy saw the man spin around, his weapon going one way, his lower jaw another. Landing on his stomach, the gaping hole in his lower back steamed from vaporized organs.
Inside the lodge chaos ruled. A woman was screaming. Flames licked at the aged wood, bodies smoldered, smoke filled the rooms and seeped out the windows. Josh, having cut Flame and Jessie free, pressed them back against the outside wall. Someone had just fired wildly through the open doorway.
“You’re fine now!”, he repeated, holding them both in his arms. “It’s over.” Flame kissed him and pushed herself up straight. Taking the shotgun from him, she chambered a shell.
“Not yet, Lover.”
Jessie squeezed his father’s hand, then, pulling the Desert Wind from Josh’s belt, looked into eyes identical to his own. “Flame’s right, Dad. He’s still alive.”
The parent in Josh wanted to shout out a warning, wanted to clutch his child to him and shield him from the cold, cruel world. The man in him however, knew that his son was right. It would never truly be over as long as Jocco lived.
Josh nodded.
Jessie smiled and father and son turned towards the shattered doorway. Flame was waiting.
Inside the woman had stopped screaming.
“Can’t see a bloody thing!”, Flame growled through the smoke.
Two shots suddenly rang out, followed by a muffled scream.
“Out back!” Jessie yelled, already sprinting for the kitchen.
“Wait!”, Josh called, but both Jessie and Flame were gone. Browning in hand, he followed.
