The Mad Mick: Book One of The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  Those markers were on every road and trail in the region. By the following summer they would saturate the area Conor recognized as their community. As people from outside the area learned that the mark was one of protection, they carved them in their communities too. The sign began to have the power of some ancient talisman that warded off evil.

  People distant from Conor’s community, who knew the meaning of the mark but had never heard the story of its origin, were forced to make up their own Mad Mick stories. Through those, the legend grew epic and feats impossible for any man became attributed to him. Many were pure fabrication, but unfortunately many others were based on truth.

  Bad men would continue to come, wolves intent on preying on the good people of his community. Conor was ready for them. Barb and Ragus too. They would take on the fights. They would be the sheepdogs unafraid of violence, unafraid of unleashing a savagery that made people hesitant to meet their eyes. It was the cost of the role. It was the cost of being the shaman that kept the demons at bay.

  Epilogue

  In the midst of December, snow lay heavily on the ground. The full moon made travel easier for the three moving somberly to their dark duty. Ragus was at the lead. This was his trip. His mission. He was the only one who knew where they were going.

  The world was silent, muffled by the coating of snow. The road between Jewell Ridge and the town had a few sets of tracks, most made by this very group coming and going with their new horses. They’d ended up with nearly ten. Trading captured weapons they’d brought home on the pack horses had helped them secure feed for the winter. They had a better plan for next year and would store hay and grain, should order not be restored to the nation by that point.

  They brought lights but did not use them, choosing instead to preserve their night vision for the advantage it gave them. Nearly two hours later, they rode up a mostly abandoned street in a neighborhood on the fringes of town. Wood smoke hung in the air, an indication that some people were alive and making it. It was the scent of survival in the post-electric world. Fire was life.

  Ragus stopped in front of the house. He remembered it vividly. Remembered the beating he took in the back yard. He remembered lying on the ground being kicked, worried about everything but his own wellbeing. He’d hoped they wouldn’t hurt him so badly he couldn’t make it home to help his mother. He’d worried that his appearance, bloody and bruised, may upset her. He’d been concerned that the longer they beat him, the longer it delayed him from continuing on his mission to find pain medication for his dying mother. He’d sworn then that he’d be back one day. He would take his revenge.

  The day was upon them.

  Ragus dismounted and handed his reins to Conor. The boy carried a full-auto AK pistol. He chambered a round, slid the awkward safety to the fire position, and walked through an opening in the chain link fence. He recalled there once being a gate there. Shadows in the snow showed a constant stream of visitors. Trash was piled in the yard and deposited against the fence by the winter wind.

  There was laughter inside. Obviously the drug-impaired were still able to find their moments of joy despite the despair in the world. There was the glow of flickering light from a lantern or candle. Ragus raised the weapon and pulled the trigger, raking the front of the house. Windows shattered and screams erupted from the darkness. When the mag ran dry, he switched it with a recently-acquired smoothness and lit the house up again. This time he stopped before he dumped the entire mag.

  He stood boldly in the front yard, confident that he’d be difficult to spot since the people in the house were accustomed to the light. The occasional ting of glass dropping from window frames and breaking against hard surfaces was the only sound. Tattered and bullet-riddled curtains flapped within the damaged window openings.

  “Get your ass out here!” Ragus yelled.

  There was no response.

  He pulled a grenade from his pocket, hefted it in his hand, pulled the pin, and tossed it through the dark chasm where the picture window had once been. The grenade popped and irritating clouds of CS gas spilled into the living room. There was coughing and choking.

  “Get out now!” Ragus ordered.

  “Don’t shoot!” came a male voice from the inside. “We’re coming out.”

  Three men Ragus recognized even in the dark streamed onto the porch. They huddled against the cold, struggling with whether to wrap their arms around themselves in an attempt to stay warm or to keep them raised so Ragus would not shoot them.

  “You remember me?” Ragus asked.

  There was silence, then one man spoke. “Remember you? I can’t even fucking see you.”

  “I came here to buy pain pills for my mother. She was dying of cancer. I had money. You all beat me and took my money.”

  There was a moment of silence. The men exchanged glances. Across the distance, in the pale moonlight, Ragus was unable to see their expressions. He hoped there was awareness. Recognition. Fear.

  “You shouldn’t have come here with such a lame-assed story,” the man said. “Do you know how many times we’ve heard that shit? Hell, most of us have even used it a time or two to try and score.”

  “I was serious. My mother was dying. I was desperate. I needed help and you all decided beating and robbing a kid was something worth doing. Do you know how that made me feel?”

  Silence.

  “We’re sorry, kid.”

  “Somehow, I doubt your sincerity,” Ragus replied. “But I’ve thought about you guys. A lot. I thought about you while I watched her die. I thought about you while I dug her grave. I promised myself that this moment would come.”

  “Listen, kid, you don’t need to do anything stupid,” the man urged.

  There was a scratching sound and a road flare illuminated in Conor’s hand. The trio on the porch noticed the other riders for the first time, their ominous expressions harsh in the glare of the flame. Ragus nodded at Conor, who heaved the flare into the house. It hit the curtains and flames rose within seconds.

  “What the fuck, dude?” one of the men screamed.

  “You have to leave,” Ragus announced. “You have to go far away.”

  “Like where?” the man said, his voice cracking. “It’s cold. It’s snowing. All our shit is in there. Our coats, our boots, everything.”

  “You’ll find no sympathy in this heart. You can start walking now,” Ragus said. “We’re going to follow you to make sure you don’t bother decent folks. If you stop walking, I’ll tie a rope to you and drag you through the snow. If you try to escape, I’ll kill you. If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you. You’d best go as far away as you can and you don’t ever come back.”

  The crackling inside grew as the fire spread. It was beyond anything the three men could extinguish now. Anything they had inside—clothes, guns, gear, food, drugs—would be lost in the flames.

  Ragus turned his back on the men and returned to his horse. In the glowing flames, he looked at Conor and Barb, bundled in heavy winter clothes, weapons leveled on the drug dealers. They were his family. He slung the rifle on his shoulder and mounted his horse.

  Conor leaned forward to pat him on the shoulder. “You did good, son.”

  Ragus found he could not reply. So much of what was dammed inside him had been breaking loose lately and a chunk of it was stuck in his throat right now. This was the last piece of an old puzzle. He could now lay it to rest with a lot of other things that haunted him. Life was different now. Ragus was different too.

  There seemed to be understanding amongst the three. Barb and Conor expected no words from him. They understood and rode in silence, three abreast on a cold, dark night with the smell of wood smoke in the air, three sheepdogs of the apocalypse. They followed the freezing men to the boundary of their territory and waited until they disappeared into the night.

  “Do you think they’ll come back?” Ragus asked.

  “Probably,” Conor said. “Some folks never learn.”

  “You’ll end up k
illing them eventually,” Barb pointed out.

  Everyone understood that was probably the truth. It was a fight for another day though. They turned their horses and began the long ride home.

  “Sugar,” Barb said to no one in particular. “Your mother named you after sugar.” It was as if the memory of this confession hit her again and she felt compelled to bring it up.

  “Yes, and yours named you Barb.”

  Also by Franklin Horton

  The Borrowed World

  Ashes of the Unspeakable

  Legion of Despair

  No Time For Mourning

  Valley of Vengeance

  Switched On

  Locker Nine

  Grace Under Fire

  Random Acts

  Please Enjoy This Sample From

  RANDOM ACTS

  By

  Franklin Horton

  Random Acts - Chapter One

  The thick hood over his head prevented Mohammed Karwan from seeing anything, but the dank smell reaching his nose convinced him he was standing on the earthen floor of one of Frankfurt’s ancient buildings. He suspected his two other roommates were there with him but when he tried to ask in the back of the van he had been struck in the head with a fist. Although not an injurious blow, it was substantial enough to clarify that conversation would not be tolerated. He would have to wait as patiently as a hooded man could wait to see what fate lay ahead of them.

  Mohammed and his roommates each received a text message several hours ago asking them to be at their flat by eight P.M. Fifteen minutes after the appointed time, a man they did not know arrived at the flat and instructed them to be at the mosque in thirty minutes. There was no confusion as to which mosque. There was only one mosque to which they were ever summoned.

  "Do you think something is wrong?" Machmud asked. He was the most high-strung and nervous of the roommates, always concerned that he was in peril. Perhaps he was not cut out for this business of theirs, but that was irrelevant. This was their life. This was where they found themselves.

  Mohammed, the senior of the men, shook his head at Machmud’s question. "I don't know, my brother. I assume we will find out in due time." He was the stoic one, his fatalistic attitude the result of a life filled with brutality and violence.

  Machmud did not speak again. The men filed onto the street and loaded into the used Renault Megane they shared when a vehicle was required. When they reach the mosque, they parked in an alley and entered through a side door. They were met by four men who gestured for them to turn around and face away from them. These were strong, menacing men dressed as laborers. They were not men to be argued with.

  The laborers placed a hood roughly over each man’s head. Mohammed was startled.

  Machmud tried to twist away and face the laborers. “But why?”

  The man attempting to place the hood on Machmud’s head twisted his mouth in anger. He let loose with a powerful jab that sent Machmud staggering into the wall. The man twisted Machmud’s stunned body and shoved him face-first into the wall.

  “That was not a request,” he growled.

  The man made another attempt with the hood and this time Machmud did not protest. Mohammed was grabbed roughly from behind, his wrists clamped together by a strong hand before being bound with flex-cuffs. From the ratcheting sounds surrounding him, he could tell the other roommates were being cuffed also. Mohammed knew he’d done nothing wrong, but he still found the circumstances to be terrifying. He was also painfully aware that innocence was no guarantee he would return home this night. People in his line of work disappeared all the time and no one ever asked questions.

  They were marched out the back door and shoved into the rear compartment of a windowless work van. Mohammed heard Machmud protest again. It was followed by the dull thud of a physical reprimand and the accompanying cry of pain.

  Mohammed apparently failed to learn from Machmud’s treatment. “Is everyone okay?” he asked. “Are you all here?”

  He was rewarded with a blow to the head that rattled his brain and made his eyes water.

  Mohammed chose to remain silent from that point and focus on the right and left turns. He was familiar enough with this area that, for a while, he was able to keep track of their direction of travel. It became clear the driver was attempting to confuse them, and he eventually succeeded.

  The drove aimlessly for hours before Mohammed found himself standing on the packed dirt floor somewhere in the city. He assumed the location to be an abandoned factory or warehouse. The city was full of them. All he could tell with his senses muted by the hood and the noise of the van was they’d entered through a pair of rolling doors and parked inside the structure. When the engine was turned off, the van doors were opened and they were shoved out into a heap.

  When the hoods were yanked from their heads, the roommates found themselves staring at six robed men seated in folding chairs. Propane lanterns were scattered around the room, providing a bright yellowish light that created long shadows and did nothing to reduce the grave appearance of the seated men. Mohammed recognized two of them. One was their handler, the man who came to the roommates for progress reports and updates. He was the man who brought them their instructions, the man he assumed carried news of their progress–or lack of it–to the leaders of their organization. If he were a betting man, Mohammed would assume these unfamiliar men in front of him were part of that senior leadership, fellow Syrians from back home.

  The other man he recognized was the Imam, the prayer leader from the local mosque. Dressed in traditional robes and with a long gray beard, the Imam kept his hands folded in his lap, his eyes moving between the faces of the roommates. To the side of the seated men was a crude wooden table. A cast iron kettle sat atop a small stove, flames spilling out around it as the kettle heated. Mohammed did not expect they were going to offer him a cup of tea.

  A man Mohammed had not met before addressed him. "Do you know who I am?"

  Mohammed nodded, a slight bow of deferral. “We have not met, but I think I recognize you.” He thought the man was a leader within his organization. Perhaps a man named Miran.

  "Do you know why I am here?" Miran asked.

  Mohammed shook his head.

  Miran stood. He appeared to be in his forties, beginning to gray but still dangerously strong. He moved like a soldier, efficient and powerful. He walked to the wooden table and lifted the wire bail from the lid of the kettle, peering inside. He appeared to be satisfied with what he found as it brought a slight smile to his face. He looked from the kettle to Mohammed.

  "Did you know an apartment with four of our brothers was raided yesterday?"

  Mohammed nodded. "I saw the story on the news.”

  Miran left the table and stood directly in front of him. Mohammed didn’t feel as if he’d done anything wrong but this man made him question that. This was a man who would not hesitate to kill someone who had failed him.

  "Their arrest makes you our most senior group in the field. That’s unfortunate for us because you've not produced any fruitful results. It’s unfortunate for you since the pressure of a successful mission now lays upon your shoulders."

  Mohammed did not know how to respond.

  “We do not have the deep pockets some organizations have,” Miran said. “We cannot support people living in expensive city apartments and not producing results. Many men work hard to allow you to live this life in the city, to allow you to work with computers instead of stone and concrete.”

  “We are working hard too,” Mohammed said. “Work is all we do. Exactly as we were instructed. As we were trained.”

  Miran tilted his shoulders in a gesture that indicated he thought the sincerity of the statement was questionable. He gave Mohammed a disbelieving look. “Well, I think not all of you work as you should.”

  “We do,” Mohammed assured him.

  “Are you willing to stake our life on that?” Miran asked.

  Mohammed looked down. “I assume it to be s
o. I do not look over every shoulder.”

  “Wise decision, not staking your life on it,” Miran said. “Your fellow man will disappoint you as often as he will impress you.”

  A pop from the kettle drew everyone's attention. Miran smiled at Mohammed and rubbed his hands together. "Ah, it’s ready. Finally."

  Miran went back to the table, peering into the top of the kettle again. He reached into a pocket of his robe and drew out a potato. From a sheath on his belt he drew a traditional dagger, its point curved and wicked. He placed the potato on the table and cut it into slices. All eyes were on him, some curious, some terrified.

  Miran stabbed the tip of the dagger into one round slice of the potato and dropped it into the kettle. There was a hiss and pop.

  “Oil,” he explained. “If you thought I invited you over for tea, you are to be sadly disappointed.”

  Miran walked back around the table and faced the three roommates. “Which of you is Machmud?”

  “Why do you ask! I’ve done nothing!” Machmud burst out.

  Mohammed turned and regarded his roommate. Why was the man so agitated?

  Miran approached Machmud and smiled broadly. “Why are you so upset, my brother?”

  “I feel like I’m being accused,” Machmud sputtered. “I’ve done nothing.”

  “Perhaps that feeling is the jagged edge of your guilt sawing against your guts?” Miran said, leaning close to Machmud. “Perhaps your body betrays what the mind tries to cover up?”

  Miran walked back to the table and used the blade of his dagger to fish the potato slice from the oil. It was browned to a crisp. Miran looked past the roommates to the silent row of laborers who’d delivered them here.