by Jason Beech
“Raid Chicago once,” West said. “I’ll take a team of three. We’ll sneak in, forage what we can, and get out. When we get back, set sail north for Milwaukee, check things out there.”
“I actually heard Green Bay isn’t too bad.” From Jo again. Everyone sensed the blind hope in her voice, but no one tried to dispel it.
“Green Bay, then,” West said.
Dwight nodded. “That sounds doable. Everyone else agree?”
A few yeahs and grunts of assent from those around him. None of them sounded very eager. He didn’t blame them. They’d all hung their hopes on the stories of Chicago being true. Now things were starting to revert back to the early days of the zombie apocalypse, when everyone prepared themselves for the inevitable end of civilization and their own lives.
“That’s it, then,” he said. “Lieutenant, pick your team and prepare to embark on your mission. Ellis, ready the lifeboat for launch. Grafton, set anchor.”
Everyone went their separate ways, and Dwight stepped up to the fore of the boat. Just beyond the head of the wood-carved naked lady at the bow, he could see the city of Chicago on the horizon. Gray and dirty, it looked like a layer of scum floating on the lake. He thought about what he’d hoped to find here, and he thought about what Gables had said. He prayed to any god who might be listening that this didn’t turn into another Detroit.
TWO
CAPTAIN METH-MOUTH slit the woman’s throat and backed away so he could admire her flailing body and the spraying blood and the way her friends all stared aghast at him. Yes, moments like this made his dick hard, and he instantly regretted not sentencing her to the brothel instead. Still, this bitch and her companions thought they could overthrow him as the King of Chicago.
Dumb. Real dumb.
Her man roared and tried to break free of the guards grasping his arms and shoulders. “You bastard! I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill you!”
Captain Meth-Mouth nodded to Claudio, who then stabbed a fist into the prisoner’s guts. The guy doubled over, gagging. A string of bile swung from his lower lip like a pendulum.
Captain Meth-Mouth grabbed the prisoner’s chin and jerked up his face so they could see eye to eye. “You’re him? The Turk?”
The Turk spat in Captain Meth-Mouth’s face. A fat, bubbled glob struck his cheek and oozed down to his jaw line.
The captain moved like a mongoose. His bunched up fingers snaked around the Turk’s nose and squeezed, forcing a choked groan from him. Then, Captain Meth-Mouth twisted his wrist so hard he felt the Turk’s nose creak like a rusty hinge. He held it on the very brink of breaking.
The Turk screamed and strained against the guards to no avail.
“Is it true you killed Murdock with your bare hands?” the captain asked. “Jerked his head back so far his neck broke, and his spine stuck out his throat?”
The Turk made a muffled sound, maybe a curse. Blood dripped from his pinched nostrils and colored the tip of his chin.
“I heard you call me Captain Faggot. Is that true?”
This time, all the Turk could do was groan.
“A real tough guy,” Captain Meth-Mouth said. “Let’s find out how tough. One hour. In the arena. You win, you and your friends live. You lose, your friends get butchered. It’s been a while since I skinned a man alive.” He turned to one of the other prisoners—-this one had to be Quaid, since the others were women—-and made a kissy face at him.
Quaid couldn’t meet his gaze. Pale, he looked at the ground.
Captain Meth-Mouth released the Turk’s nose and made a dismissive gesture. The guards took the prisoners away, leaving the captain alone in his throne room. He regarded the kingly seat, an ancient Egyptian masterpiece he’d taken from the Field Museum. He didn’t know which pharaoh had sat in it all those centuries ago, but whoever it had been, he’d been pimp as all hell. The only thing it had needed were skulls on the arm rests, which Captain Meth-Mouth had added near the beginning of his reign as King of Chicago. One belonged to a former friend who had boned his favorite girl, and the other was a rival drug dealer who’d had the same idea to rule the city.
Whoops.
Behind Captain Meth-Mouth, someone entered and started cleaning up the Turk’s woman. He slipped into his chambers to prepare himself for the coming battle.
He sloughed off his royal robes and shucked out of his boxers, and standing naked in front of the mirror, he flexed, smiling at the way his muscles bulged and danced under a thin layer of skin. Not bad for a former junkie. He could have been an MMA fighter, maybe even a Hollywood star. He wished he could grow out his hair and look even scarier, but he’d gone bald at an early age, before he’d even dropped out of high school. Not that it mattered; he shaved his head everyday, and he still looked pretty scary.
The only thing that bothered him was his smile. Meth had done a number on him, reducing the remaining teeth in his mouth to blackened, monstrous fangs. Every time he saw them, he wanted to have them pulled and maybe replaced with silver piranha teeth, but there were no dentists around these days. Even though it hurt, he could still chew, and he wanted to continue doing so for as long as he could.
He stepped into his workout pants and did a few stretches to make sure he had full mobility. Then, he donned a wife-beater and slipped his feet into heavy duty boots. How often had he cleaned blood and bone off of them? He couldn’t remember, but these boots had taken more lives than his sword.
He belted his rapier to his waist and gave the blade a quick examination. It looked kind of silly in his giant, scarred hands, but he knew how to use it and use it well.
Only one thing remained now. He went to his stash and pulled out a fifth of Myer’s Rum. Not his favorite brand—-rum was hard to come by these days, unlike corn whiskey—-but it would do. He belted down three swallows and felt his gums burn and tingle.
More than ready, he made his way to the arena. He had another throne here, but it wasn’t as majestic as the other. This one had been taken from an SUV and had been overhauled to his liking. It was made of velvet and bone with a cup holder made from the skeletal hand of an enemy. Above the headrest was a skull, mounted in such a fashion that it seemed like a crown when he sat in the throne, which he did now.
Below, in the arena, jesters pretended to do battle in kind of a pre-game to the main event. Already a crowd had gathered and was laughing at the antics in the pit. Even Captain Meth-Mouth cracked a smile at the jangle-headed fools.
Soon, the hour drew to a close, and the jesters finished their show. Captain Meth-Mouth abandoned his throne and descended to the arena, ready to meet his rival.
Shortly, the Turk made his appearance, struggling against the guards who practically dragged him to the pit. He’d been stripped to his waist and cleaned up a bit, but he certainly didn’t look ready for this.
Captain Meth-Mouth removed his sword and handed it off to one of his gofers. “Rules are simple. You die, or I die. You ready?”
The Turk tried to harden his face, but his eyes betrayed his fear. Too bad. Captain Meth-Mouth had been looking forward to a challenge, and he’d heard the Turk was a bad ass. He’d killed the Turk’s girl, for Christ’s sake! Didn’t the anger overcome the fear?
“I’ll give you the first shot,” Captain Meth-Mouth said. Maybe that would make this more exciting. Probably not, though.
The Turk uttered a prayer in his own language, and it seemed to bolster his rage a bit. The fear left his eyes, and Captain Meth-Mouth felt hopeful for a moment.
The Turk bared his teeth and roared, rushing the captain with fists at the ready.
Not smart.
Captain Meth-Mouth sidestepped with ease, and he hooked an arm under the Turk’s shoulder, flipping him like a burger into the chain-link fence that protected the audience from the violence. The Turk got up right away, and when he tried his next attack, he dropped his shoulder before trying to deliver the blow.
Pathetic.
Captain Meth-Mouth hammered on him for a while, just
to wake him up a bit, and he backed away to see what his opponent would do next. The Turk, blood running freely from his nose and the sockets in his gums where teeth used to be, took his stance, like maybe he’d watched too many kung-fu movies when he was a kid.
Captain Meth-Mouth couldn’t help but laugh. He played with his quarry for a while, trying to make things interesting for the audience, but after a few broken bones and a lot more blood, things got too slow.
The crowd was bored. They’d seen all of this before, so the captain got the Turk on the ground and straddled his torso. He leaned an arm on the Turk’s throat and placed his reeking maw over an eye. Sucking with all his nicotine-addled lungs’ ability, he felt the eye protrude from its socket as the Turk screamed. He screamed harder when Captain Meth-Mouth fit his charnel teeth around the orb and bit it from his head.
The Turk rolled on the ground, bleating out his pain with both hands clamped to his face. Captain Meth-Mouth turned to the crowd and held the eyeball in his teeth, proudly displaying it to his cheering fans.
Then, he saw Claudio by the fence. His second-in-command wore a grim expression on his face, so he clearly had bad news. Bad news took precedence over everything else, so Captain Meth-Mouth spat out the eyeball and chopped the edge of his hand down onto the Turk’s throat as hard as he could. He felt his enemy’s windpipe collapse like a drinking straw, and he walked to Claudio to find out what was wrong.
“Ship’s been sited on the lake,” Claudio said.
“So? Find someone to fuck their shit up and salvage what they can.”
Claudio watched the Turk trying to breathe against all odds. He even went as far as trying to reach down his own throat, but he had no chance.
“What’s up with you?” Captain Meth-Mouth asked.
Claudio turned back to his boss. “Sorry. This ship is different.”
“Different? How?”
“It’s a pirate ship, sir.”
Captain Meth-Mouth froze, trying to process this piece of information. Finally, he said, “Don’t you bullshit me. If you’re lying, I’ll fuck your ass ‘til your momma feels it.”
Claudio didn’t pause. “It’s real, all right. It should be here within the day.”
Captain Meth-Mouth motioned, and his gofer brought the sword. Distantly, the captain strapped it to his waist.
Could it be? For as long as he’d been alive, he’d wanted to be a pirate. Now, he had a rival? This opportunity could not go to waste.
“Prepare my ship. We leave within the hour.”
“Aye-aye, Captain.”
Captain Meth-Mouth strode off, eager for this new adventure. He was so distracted by this new development that he didn’t bother to watch the Turk finally roll over and die. He didn’t even wait to see his men tear the Turk’s companions to pieces in an orgy of rape and blood.
All he could think of was a battle on the high seas of Chicago.
THREE
DWIGHT AND West discussed some last minute items while the men prepared the lifeboat to be launched on this desperate mission. They didn’t get far into it. From the corner of his eye, Dwight saw Dandy Jim scuttling down the mast. He hit the deck running and rushed over to Dwight.
“You’re not going to believe this, Cap.”
Dwight recoiled at Dandy Jim’s breath. He’d been homeless in Atlanta, and even though they had a supply of toothbrushes, he never used one. His missing lower teeth stood testament to the fact that he’d never been much for oral hygiene. The crew had voted him for look-out duty not because of his eyesight—-which was exceptional—-but because of his wretched halitosis.
“What’s up?” West asked.
“I saw a pirate ship. It’s coming right at us.”
Dwight supposed a part of him had thought Gables’s story of Captain Meth-Mouth had been bullshit, or at least blown out of proportion. Now, he felt his stomach ice over a bit. He extended his telescope—-another prop from the Treasure Island Adventure Show—-and peered out toward the city. He braced himself against the rail and cast the telescope back and forth until he saw it.
And the cannons on the side.
The S.S. Stevenson had cannons, too, but they were merely decorative.
“Lt. West, your salvage mission has been scrapped. Get all hands to the armory and have them battle ready ASAP.”
“Aye-aye, Cap.”
As West moved to follow orders, Dwight took another look at the approaching vessel. This time, he could see people, and one of them wore a tri-corner captain’s hat, much like his own. This man towered above everyone else, and his outfit strained against bulging muscles. The savage look on his craggy face really put him over, though; he was pirate-mean, no doubt. Blackbeard had nothing up on this guy.
In that moment, Dwight felt the urge to retreat. Just run away. There was no way in hell they’d be able to take this guy. But no, Captain Meth-Mouth would probably chase them down. This would end in bloodshed one way or the other. Might as well make these bastards work for their victory and maybe even take a few of them down to boot.
Someone gently touched his shoulder, and it startled him enough to jerk away from the railing. Heart pounding, he turned to see Kelly standing at his side, holding a cloth-wrapped bundle. She handed it to him, and just by the weight alone, he knew what it was.
“You might need it,” she said.
“I hope not.”
“Just in case. I’ve lost too many of my loved ones. I don’t want to lose you, too.”
Before he could respond, she rushed swiftly away. He watched her go, puzzled. Did she sense the same doom he had? Hell, they all had to. One look at Captain Meth-Mouth was enough to turn his guts to worms.
West approached, holding out a rifle to Dwight, butt out. Dwight shook his head and patted his holster. “I’d rather have this one. I was never any good with the big guns, anyway.”
“Suit yourself.” West passed it on to Sully, a guitarist from Boston. His instrument had been destroyed in Detroit, blown to pieces by a shotgun, and a lot of his soul had gone with it. He took the rifle, but he did not seem to care much about it.
“Besides,” Dwight added, “I hope I can talk our way out of this.”
West cocked an eyebrow, testing the waters for Dwight’s sense of humor. Finding nothing, he said, “That’s crazy.”
“It’s worth trying. These guys can probably kick our asses. Let’s try to avoid that, if we can. Hey Hector!”
Hector emerged from below deck, holding an assault rifle. “What’s up, Cap?”
“Look at our stock. See what we can barter. I’ll bet this guy has a taste for rum, so bring up a bottle. The good stuff.”
Hector stared at him for a moment, his mouth twitching. Finally, he said, “What?!”
West shook his head. “Guys like him don’t barter. They take. This is a bad idea.”
“Maybe he won’t,” Dwight said. “If not, we go out in a blaze of glory. But maybe he will, in which case we set sail for Green Bay with our lives.”
“You can’t be serious!” Hector practically stuttered, he was so incredulous.
“We have to try,” Dwight said. “Follow orders, all right?”
Hector looked to the lieutenant like a convict begging for a last minute reprieve.
West shrugged. “It could happen.” Then, he held up his own assault rifle and nodded toward it.
Hector understood. He opened his mouth as if to try one final time, but he knew it would be futile. He went back below.
Dwight and West stood at the bow of the ship, watching Captain Meth-Mouth’s approach. The lieutenant said, “You’re crazy, but I’ll back you, even though we’re probably going to die in a few minutes.”
“Jesus, man. Try not to get my hopes up.”
West cracked a smile, but his eyes remained flat and calm. “Might as well make ‘em work for it.”
Dwight remembered thinking that very thing not too long ago, but coming from West, it meant more. From Dwight, it felt like false bravado, but We
st meant it. Dwight shivered. It was always cooler by the lake, right?
“I don’t know if his cannons really work,” West said, “but he doesn’t know that ours are just for show. It’s worthy of a bluff, if you really intend to talk this guy down. Regardless, don’t take chances. Don’t let him turn his side to us. He doesn’t have artillery at the bow or aft, so let’s keep on those sides, just in case.”
Dwight could now hear the devilish war cries of Captain Meth-Mouth’s crew, and he suddenly wished he was back in Miami, smoking a bowl with Julio and watching some stupid movie on late night TV. The chill clawed at his bones again, and he pocketed Kelly’s bundle, hoping he’d never have to use it.
FOUR
CAPTAIN METH-MOUTH saw the pirate ship about a mile out from the city, and when he did, he felt his heart flutter for the first time since he’d named himself King of Chicago. He hadn’t believed Claudio at first, but now that he saw it—-a ragged Jolly Roger flapping against the wind at the top of the mast—-he knew he was about to fulfill a childhood fantasy.
When he was five and staying with his grandma because his mom was too much of a junkie whore to take care of him, he’d seen a movie called CAPTAIN BLOOD on the broken down black and white Zenith the old lady kept in the basement, where felonious eyes would have to work really hard to notice it. The slow parts of the film didn’t appeal to him, but the action scenes? He’d gotten his first hard-on that day while watching the swashbuckling adventure. He longed to be in sword fights, knife in his teeth, swinging from boat to boat amid gunpowder flashes and flying cannon balls.
He peered through his binoculars and saw his adversary had cannons on each side of his ship. While Captain Meth-Mouth had many cannons, all taken from historical markers from around the city, only one worked: the one he’d taken from thefield Museum. It was still enough to have a cannon battle, though. He shivered with anticipation.
A skinny fellow perched on the mast, and he shouted down to the others. People scrambled to and fro on the deck, probably getting ready for Captain Meth-Mouth’s imminent arrival. He saw one guy—-a giant who could have been a WWE wrestler—-and hoped that he was the captain.
