One Helluva Bad Time- The Complete Bad Times Series

by Chuck Dixon

  Old Mother slept fitfully by the fire and, as exhausted as she was, Caroline could not join her. Sleep wouldn’t come, and when it did, she awakened seconds later from either physical discomfort or flashes of memory. Phillip screaming as they held him down. The horrible gurgling sound as the aborigine brought the heavy ax down again and again. Kemp’s keening pleas for mercy. The probing hands of the gaggle of crones. The expression of fierce rage on the face of the little shaman.

  She was weak from hunger, and certainly severely dehydrated. Old Mother offered her strips of rare meat dripping with grease, and she turned her head from it. She’d never be that hungry. At least, she told herself that. The only water she had was from a gourd ladle offered by Old Mother. It was brackish and smelled musty, but it cooled her throat.

  Back in college at Chicago, she’d dated a cute anthropology major and read some books he recommended. She knew that this was a typical primitive Neolithic culture, a matriarchal society run by a head female who held mystic powers over the tribe. There would be hunting chiefs and war chiefs but for anything beyond that Old Mother called the shots. The world as it was when the chicks were in charge. The arrival of Caroline and the others was seen as Something Big, and so she was placed under the care of the matriarch. Phillip and Miles were just meat.

  So what made Caroline special beyond her gender? What were they saving her for? Possibly a harvest festival or, she looked at the grotesque golden fertility statue and shuddered, a fertility rite. Was she to be a holiday meal, or married off to a tribe member?

  She contemplated those unpleasant possibilities as she gazed into the flickering fire and, without expecting to, dropped into a deep sleep.

  CAROLINE AWAKENED TO find a hand pressed tight to her mouth and another clamped to the back of her head.

  A hunched figure blocked the light from the guttering fire.

  “Caroline Tauber,” the figure said in an urgent whisper. “I am here to get you out of here. Your brother—”

  She didn’t hear any more because, over the whispering man’s shoulder, she saw Old Mother stirring by the fire.

  Caroline bit down hard on the man’s hand—it tasted like ashes and grease—and he jerked it away suddenly.

  “Behind you!” she called.

  The man turned in time to see Old Mother rising from her resting spot to stare at him with disbelieving eyes. Her mouth opened, and a cry began to well up from somewhere inside her. He released Caroline and sprang across the cave to deliver a punch to Old Mother’s face that dropped her back on her ass, where she began a wailing that echoed and re-echoed off the cave’s walls.

  He moved to grab her, and the old bitch spider-walked away on heels and palms toward the cave opening, growling like a cat. She picked up a rock as she scuttled away. Dwayne struck his head a glancing blow on the ceiling of the cave rushing in pursuit.

  Old Mother was up on her feet and flung the stone, striking him hard in the chest. He grunted and moved after her. She backed almost to the cave opening on the way to rouse the whole village when her feet were suddenly yanked off the cave floor and an arm drawn under her chin in an expert chokehold. She goggled and stretched her lips wide over her few remaining teeth, but no sound escaped. Her struggling slowed and then stopped, and her body went limp.

  Jimbo carried her into the cave and dropped her still form to the dirt.

  “Move your ass, Dwayne,” he said. “The skinnies are making noise moving around down there.”

  Dwayne bent down by Caroline and began sawing with a long-bladed knife at the leather thongs that bound her to the imprisoning log.

  “Get outside and work that bow like a good Indian,” Dwayne grunted as he cut her bonds. Jimbo ducked out of the cave and into the dark.

  The man named Dwayne cut the thongs at Caroline’s wrist, and she looked at him like something from a dream.

  “Can you stand?” he demanded as he kicked dirt over the fire and plunged the cave into blackness.

  “I can run the mile in three minutes if you have someplace to run to,” she said and stood and rubbed her wrists. Her hands were pins and needles and ached as blood rushed back into them.

  “You’ll stay here until I’m sure we have a clear route,” he said.

  “But—” she began.

  “Reach out your hand,” the man said. Her eyes were adjusting, and she could see his silhouette in the hazy moonlight from outside.

  She stretched her hand out, and he took it in one of his own. He pressed something rounded and metallic into her palm.

  “This is a two-shot derringer,” he said in a slow instructive tone. “No safety. Pull the trigger and barrel one fires. Pull again and fire one last time. It’s the best I can do.”

  She understood and took the derringer in both hands, feeling the smooth plastic grip and the cold steel of the frame and barrels. One way or another, she had a way out.

  “Watch the trigger. It’s sensitive. You understand me?”

  “Yes,” she croaked. Her throat was suddenly dry.

  He exited the cave and left her there in the deep dark with raspy breathing coming from Old Mother sprawled unmoving against the wall.

  THE KIDS AND DOGS were the first to arrive. The old hag’s howling was enough to rouse some of the camp out of their slumber. The dogs yapped and growled, and the kids began lobbing rocks like the first day of Little League. Dwayne was forced back into the cave mouth. Jimbo took shelter under an overhang of rock that ran along one side of the cliff face. It formed a natural bunker.

  Dwayne gripped his spear and weighed their shrinking options. They could only hold the cave opening for so long. The constant storm of stones would keep them pinned down here. The brats didn’t even need to be accurate, the sheer number of missiles made leaving the cave an unforgiving choice. They fell like hail, thudding to the sand and shattering on the cliff face. And a few of the little bastards had an arm on them. The bruises on Dwayne’s legs and arms multiplied. A blow to the head or an arm or leg bone broken and he’d drop. Then the dogs would rush in.

  He was almost glad when Fred and Barney burst through the mob of kids, leading some of the other skinny males behind them. The war chiefs held stout clubs with sharpened flint heads and swung them at the kids and dogs to disperse them. An ax blade neatly beheaded one of the mongrels, and it lay twitching as its lifeblood sprayed out.

  The grown-ups were here now, and if there was any killing to be done, it would be them doing it. For now, the rock-throwing was on hold.

  Dwayne stepped from the cave to meet the challenge. Fred and Barney rushed forward to flank him left and right. Barney straightened up to stare at the thin shaft that suddenly appeared in his chest. It was buried up to its black feathers between two ribs. He staggered a few more paces before falling to his knees, pink foam spraying from his lips. Jimbo sent a second arrow through the eye socket of another male, forcing the rest of the pack to slow their progress forward.

  Fred kept coming, unaware that his neighbor lay dead on the shale behind him. He swung the war club wildly, and Dwayne ducked aside. The little man was strong out of all proportion to his size and put everything behind the swing.

  His momentum carried him stumbling past Dwayne, who turned and jabbed with his spear. Fred took two inches of the fire-hardened point in the small of the back. He shrugged free with a deep grunt. The wound torn in his flank was bleeding freely. Dwayne stepped back and thrust out the spear again, going for the eyes to keep his opponent at a distance.

  The white-painted shaman muscled his way through the packed mob of skinnies. He began haranguing the clutch of armed males who backed away farther as two more arrows came out of the dark. One took a skinny through the throat, and he kicked and clawed in the sand, choking out gouts of blood. The other arrow buried deep in the guts of a male and he went to his knees, shrieking in pain through clenched teeth.

  The shaman gestured and shoved and barked to get the warriors moving, but their gaze was fixed on their dying tribemates. The
y jabbered defiance at the shaman. He spat at them and threw handfuls of dirt in an effort to get them worked up.

  Fred lumbered forward, swinging the war club back and forth to try and knock Dwayne’s spear aside. Dwayne kept himself between the cave opening and the growing mob of skinnies arrayed in a rough half-circle between the cave and the huts.

  Jimbo was down to six arrows and wanted to plant them where they’d do the most good. He was judging the mood of the restless males to choose his next target. The shaman was working the crowd to gin them up. Whatever he was screaming at them was starting to work. Jimbo was reminded of a jump instructor at Fort Benning; pint-sized little runt with a voice that could be heard clearly even at the top of the jump towers. You’d do whatever he said just so he’d shut the hell up.

  Jimbo stood up from behind his rock shelter and pulled back on the string. The reed bow strained under the pressure. Jimbo laced the point of the arrow squarely on the shaman’s center mass. He let the shaft fly just as a jabbering skinny stepped in the path. The skinny took the arrow through the temple and crashed back into the shaman, knocking them both to the ground.

  For some reason, this inspired two skinnies to bolt from the crowd to make a rush at Dwayne. Jimbo nailed one through the side just under the armpit. The skinny stumbled and dropped, awkwardly pulling at the shaft buried in his lungs. A second shaft went deep into the upper thigh of the other local hero, but it didn’t slow the guy down at all. He came on for Dwayne’s unprotected back.

  Dwayne felt himself pinned from behind by powerful arms that were trying to drag him to his knees. His arms were pressed to his side. The skinny with the arrow through his thigh was riding Dwayne in a piggyback.

  Fred bounded forward with a holler and swinging the club over his head in wide circles. The blade cut through the air with a thrumming sound. Dwayne gave into the downward pressure of his rider and crashed with his full weight on the skinny who was gripping him from behind. He drove the skinny hard to the ground and threw himself to one side.

  The skinny was gasping to refill his lungs, but would not loosen his hold and rode atop Dwayne’s back. He didn’t release his grip until a poorly aimed swing from Fred took the top of his skull off. The grappler let go and fell to the sand, brains slopping from the disastrous wound that opened his head from the brow line up.

  Dwayne freed himself from the twitching skinny and got to his feet. He still had the spear in his hands and sprang forward as Fred drew the club back for a backhand blow. With all his weight behind the point, Dwayne rammed the spear hard into the solar plexus of the attacker. Fred made a sound like a deep cough as his forward rush impaled him on the point and drove it out his back next to his spine.

  It was a mortal wound, but the war chief wasn’t ready to die yet and continued swinging for Dwayne’s head. Dwayne was staring in disbelief at the ferocious little skinny, who was actually forcing the spear deeper into his chest to get within striking distance of his enemy. With a mad glint out of his eyes and foam flying from his mouth, he kept swinging away. Before he could release the spear shaft, the flat of the ax blade took Dwayne in the side of the head. It was a glancing blow that jarred him. He stumbled and let go of the spear.

  That was all the encouragement the rest of the skinnies needed, and they sprinted forward with a roar of triumph exploding from them as though from a single throat. Three spun to the sand with shafts in them, but their comrades trampled the falling bodies to race for Dwayne. The shower of stones picked up again and a fist-sized rock slammed into Dwayne’s forehead. He fell back.

  He felt fists and clawing hands. Animal growls and the laughter of children filled his ears as the darkness closed.

  14

  Running Late

  A cab marked Alamo Taxi Service pulled into the compound in a spreading cloud of dust. The rear door flew open, and Renzi ran from it even as the cab brodied to a stop. The driver burst from the cab to chase after him. Renzi could feel the frisson of static still hanging in the air.

  “When did they leave?” Renzi demanded as he trotted into the Tube control room.

  Tauber turned from this computer array in surprise at the sudden arrival. Renzi was wearing hospital scrubs and docksiders. He had a large patch of his hair shaved off the back of his skull and an angry line of fresh sutures visible there stained with Betadine.

  “Ten minutes, a little more,” Tauber said. “Pay for the cab!” Renzi called, and ran into the cold cloud of mist falling away from the Tube and was gone. Tauber stared after him and was startled by a strange voice behind him.

  A red-faced man in a guayabera shirt, Bermuda shorts and sandals stood behind Tauber looking around.

  “Where’s the guy I drove up here?” the red-faced man said. “I saw him run in here.”

  “Um…can I help?” Tauber said.

  “He told me he’d pay cash,” the red-faced man said. “Both ways. That’s three hundred bucks. And he took my Marlboros!”

  “I don’t have that on me,” Tauber said. “You’ll have to wait twenty minutes until this shuts down.”

  “The meter’s running, amigo. Double fare, remember?”

  “If you take a seat and shut up, I’ll pay you a thousand.”

  “Cash, right?”

  “Cash.”

  “Sure,” the driver said and sat down on a bench against one wall. “It’s nice and cool in here, anyway.”

  15

  World Of Hurt

  Dwayne came awake, still fighting.

  His arms and legs were weighted down and immobilized. His mouth tasted like copper. With each breath his nostrils filled with a shithouse stink. His head was a ball of agony, and each beat of his pulse turned up the pain dial.

  He opened his eyes to find his entire field of vision filled with the grinning faces of his captors, backlit by the flames of a roaring pyre.

  In their large eyes, he saw only deep longing and delight. They pressed down on his arms, and a pile of barking and chirruping brats lay across his legs, their amusement stoked by his struggles to free himself. They were like kids on a pony ride, giggling and whooping. His clothes were torn away. Only his boots and boxers remained.

  An adult bastard with a milky walleye sat down heavily on his chest. This guy had red paint smeared on his face. Or maybe it was blood. Walleye lifted a handful of ash and spread it on Dwayne’s bare chest over the tattoo there; a garish skull over crossed rifles and the legend: Mess With The Best, Die Like The Rest. He got it one drunken three-day leave in San Diego. He always regretted it but never more than now. One of these assholes would be wearing it soon.

  The mob crowded all around and grew hushed. They leaned in as Walleye raised a long-bladed flint knife in his fist. Dwayne jerked and bucked, but the fingers gripping him only increased their painful pressure.

  Walleye uttered a series of glottal chants and reared back high, both hands overlapped on the knife handle held above his head. His good eye spun in his skull. His muscles tensed for the plunge.

  From somewhere high above, there was a whistling sound followed by a pop. The sky turned a brilliant white that washed all shadow and color away in an instant.

  The crowd, including Walleye, craned to look upwards. Night had turned to day over the village, and they all gazed transfixed at a single point of light slowly descending toward them. More whistles and pops and the newly-created star was joined by two more. The villagers turned away to shield their eyes, their inhumanly large pupils shrunk to dots.

  All around him, hands released Dwayne’s arms and legs. The dogpile of brats atop him melted away, and Walleye stood with the others to gaze at the trio of lights drifting down in wobbly progress far above the huts.

  Flares on ’chutes. Chaz was back. Dwayne prayed he brought Hell, in the form of Lee Hammond, with him.

  Dwayne drove the heel of his foot deep up into Walleye’s crotch with all the force he could muster. Walleye sucked in a lungful of air and folded in two. Dwayne snatched the flint knife from Walleye
’s nerveless fingers. The Ranger was trying to stand and finding it to be hard work. The crowd’s fascination with the light show waned, and they turned back to their midnight snack. He fought down the urge to retch since standing turned up the pain in his head.

  Skinnies closed from all around, feinting and dodging as he whirled all about thrusting with the knife. He was weak from blood loss or head trauma or both. It was only a matter of time before one of them slipped through his feeble defense or he passed out. His Ranger training in knife fighting kicked in and kept him moving.

  A few paces from him, he could now see Jimbo lying motionless. He was stripped to boxers as well. He was filthy and covered in blood drying black on his skin. Dwayne had no way of knowing if it was Jimbo’s blood or not. The man wasn’t moving. Dwayne made his way to Jimbo’s side, jabbing the point of the knife in sudden thrusts to back the skinnies off. They bared teeth at him and hissed. The crowd was seconds from picking up rocks to pelt him and Jimbo to jelly.

  A row of skinnies nearest Dwayne crumpled to the ground. The sand and ash all around them kicked up into the air in a sudden storm. Bits of bone and blood spattered the mob. They fell back more in confusion than fear. It was a What The Fuck moment for them and wouldn’t last long.

  Another spray and Walleye was flung to the ground, a lifeless sack of bones. A spray of black blood exploded from his mouth.

  Dwayne heard the burr of automatic fire from somewhere out in the dark. More skinnies crashed kicking to the ground, and more spun away missing limbs and trailing innards. Dwayne crouched low. Someone was expertly working an automatic weapon in close fire support. He wanted to make himself as small as he could until he knew it was clear. He covered Jimbo’s body with his own.