One Helluva Bad Time- The Complete Bad Times Series

by Chuck Dixon

  True pandemonium arrived with the first sightings of ape-men within the compound. Homer and his crew were moving through the village in a wandering pack looking for trouble and finding it. They roamed the periphery of the hooches picking out isolated villagers and falling on them like wolves, clubbing and tearing. Awareness of their presence in the hood spread to others who fled in all directions to escape the wrath of the flesh eaters.

  “Yabba dabba doo, motherfuckers,” Chaz Raleigh said. He was stalking toward the sounds of rifle fire he’d heard earlier. With N’itha by his side, he picked his way well around the center of the village away from the explosive inferno of the largest structure. He picked off adult males, dudes who looked Chinese trying to pass for brothers. These were the guys N’itha was talking about. At close range, the rifle rounds took the wild looking assholes and lifted them off the ground. Shots over the heads of kids and women were enough to send them running if the sight of a giant black man didn’t already have them flying in the opposite direction.

  Closer to the center of the village, the original Beastie Boys sensed the tide turning.

  Once Homer and the skinnies grasped the extent of the fear, they inspired in the populace they raced into the lanes between the hooches in numbers. The blue men retreated before the unexpected onrush of claws and teeth. Those who remained to defy the skinnies were brought down and torn to bits by gangs of the smaller hominids. The skinnies were closer to animals than men with the proportionate strength and fearless ferocity of beasts.

  Homer led them into the routed villagers, swinging the Winchester Model 70 by the barrel as a flail.

  Bart and Millhouse chased a terrified indigo warrior who was shrieking, probably, for his god or his mother. Bart snagged his legs while Millhouse landed hard on his shoulders, and the poor bastard went down in the mud. Millhouse sank fangs into his neck while Bart tore an arm off at the shoulder like a drumstick off a roasted chicken. Working together the pair pulled ropes of greasy viscera from where they’d torn open the corpse’s abdomen. They squatted over their impromptu picnic, munching with contentment in the rain as their cousins rushed past for their own servings.

  These were man-eaters by nature, and here was more prey than they’d ever seen in one place in their lives. Their hunger drove them, and so their hunger sated slowed them. As enough victims were brought down the skinnies, who’d been on the run without full bellies for more than twenty-four hours, stopped their attack long enough to feed. These were gorgers, and soon they were full. Their bellies stuffed and fur slick with clotting blood.

  The blue warriors realized that the momentum of the flesh-eaters’ assault had slowed to a stop. They regrouped under the barked orders and kicks of a self-appointed war chief; a broad-shouldered bastard a head taller than most of his troops. He whipped them into a loose wedge formation, and they went on the counter-attack.

  Homer and the others, thinking the fighting was over and the buffet begun, were taken by surprise. A few fell to thrown clubs, and the rest ran away into the shadows. The crew tasked with carrying the Ma Deuce decided that it wasn’t all that sacred after all and rabbited away. The skinnies could easily outrun their pursuers. Even logy as they were with the weight of fresh meat in their stomachs, they made it to the gate and through to the causeway with no further casualties. The mob of chattering skinnies fled down the causeway forgetting their alliance of convenience with their gods.

  So much for religious faith.

  45

  Together Again

  Lee Hammond distributed all his available weapons to the others. Bat got his big Smith 500 revolver. Byrus, recovered enough to stand on his own, got his tomahawk. Ricky took the Gil Hibben, a broad-bladed Bowie knife with a honed razor edge.

  “Sorry, Jimmy. Nothing for you unless you want my Zippo,” Lee said.

  “Thought you’d give me the tomahawk,” Jimbo said, stooping to pick up a fresh pair of discarded stone clubs.

  “I didn’t want to seem racially insensitive.” Lee shrugged.

  “Neeta. Have you seen Neeta?” Ricky said through teeth clenched with pain. Bad off as he was, he was more concerned with the girl than himself. Lee realized they really were seeing a brand new Rick Renzi.

  “She’s with Raleigh. Neeta’s the one who brought us here,” Lee said, embellishing the girl’s role a little.

  They stuck close to the remainder of the trail back to the village. They used smoke and shadow for cover. Lee led them on a circuitous path toward the exfil point he and Chaz had chosen earlier. But the way was blocked by a mob of armed blue warriors milling around the gateway in the wake of their pursuit of Homer and the mob of fleeing skinnies. The ragged group changed course and made their way along muddy lanes between scorched hooches toward a far point in the encircling fence wall.

  They made best speed, meeting little resistance along the way. The villagers they did meet fled before them. Finally, they came to the wall of posts and woven buckthorn.

  “Step back,” Lee said, loading a fat frag round into the chamber of the launcher underslung on the rail in front of the forestock of his rifle. They withdrew into the uncertain shelter of some thatch hooches. A loud plop was followed by a sharp crack and a cloud of the chemical stink of cowshit and turpentine that came in the aftermath of a C-4 blast.

  Lee stood by a fresh gap in the fence wall. Two stout posts were torn off at ground level, taking three sections of woven branches with them.

  “Wait until you hear two more bloopers and run like hell for the causeway.” He pulled the smoking 20mm spent canister from the open chamber of the launcher.

  The group hustled through.

  Lee figured the Kentucky windage and sent off two grenade rounds, a frag for carnage and an HE for effect. The frag arced over the village, landing with a dull thump where he imagined the gateway was. A chorus of shrieks reached him to let him know he’d caused some shock and awe. He launched the high explosives round on the same course. It raised a gout of muddy water he could see over the rooftops of the hooches. Probably a miss but enough to scare the blue fuckers shitless.

  He was moving to follow the others and stopped at a call.

  “Hoo-ah!”

  Lee turned to see Chaz Raleigh coming at a run out of the crazed shadows caused by flames still rising from the skin palace behind him. Little N’itha was close on his heels.

  “These people need Jesus,” Chaz said, panting hard.

  “I’m surprised you’re not carrying a new television set, muh brothuh,” Lee said.

  “Fuck you, white trash.” Chaz grinned.

  They exited through the fence to find their comrades waiting in the dark. Their forward progress was slowed only by Ricky and N’itha sharing a brief embrace before setting off for their next encounter.

  The two grenade rounds did their job. The gateway at the head of the causeway was clear of opposing forces. The only sign that there had ever been a clutch of warriors there were a few bodies lying on the smoking shale. No way to tell how many. There were bloody pieces everywhere. A few dozen 9mm BBs spreading out at ballistic lethality will do that.

  The troop moved on to the causeway and only slowed when they lost sight of the fence line behind them. All were exhausted. The captives were beat from their long run away from Bedrock and their suffering at the hands of the blue meanies. Their rescuers reached the ragged end of their stamina from an almost non-stop twenty-four slog done at best speed. They took a moment to rest and handle necessary logistics.

  First things first. Chaz handed his Dan Wesson over to Jimbo and his tomahawk to Rick. N’itha had his combat knife already. Jimbo kept one of the war clubs, shoving it under his belt. Water was shared along with protein bars.

  “Where’s my Winnie?” Jimbo asked.

  “Homer’s carrying it with your ammo. Beats the shit outta me where he is now,” Chaz said.

  “We’ll run into him down the road. Need to keep moving, people. Take your calories walking.” Lee rose from a crouch to g
esture them along.

  “Think they’ll follow?” Rick asked. The flesh around his lips was white from the pain he was suffering in his bad leg.

  “You got to know them better than me. They pissed off enough to dog us?”

  “They’re persistent pricks,” Jimbo said. “We burnt down their holy place and fucked with their party. They’ll give pursuit for a day or more. Until then they’ll be on our ass like dingleberries.”

  “Okay, then. We have until daybreak to build as much of a lead as we can. They’ll be after us when the sun is up.”

  “At least it’s not raining,” Chaz said, shouting to be heard over the bucketing downpour.

  They came upon the platoon of skinnies sleeping in piles in the woods beyond the foot of the causeway. They lay about, dead to the world in the undergrowth of ferns on the forest floor. Farting and snoring, with bellies distended from their hasty meal of raw flesh.

  Jimbo fired the big-bore revolver in the air. They leapt to their feet, fangs bared. He handed off the Dan Wesson to Rick. Homer looked petulant, all sad eyes and protruding lower lip when Jimbo gestured for the return of his rifle.

  The skinny chief handed it over with reluctance, along with the belts of ammo pouches he’d been wearing like a primordial Pancho Villa. He only paused to retrieve his last packs of Marlboros from one of the pouches. He expertly peeled the cellophane away with his teeth and tapped a butt clear to stick between his lips. He gestured for a light from Lee. He blew a stream of blue smoke skyward, mollified by the nicotine over having to surrender the rifle.

  The Winchester was operable but probably way off alignment after being used as a club. The Rynex stock survived the beating, although the butt end was dented and clotted with dried blood and brain matter. Lee offered the 30x scope for Jimbo to reattach.

  “Keep it on you. The barrel’s probably so out of true the scope’s worthless. No time to zero it.” Jimbo slung the rifle over his shoulder.

  “No time for anything but a shit and a piss. We need to get humping,” Lee said.

  “That’s my boyfriend, everyone,” Bat said with a weary smile.

  “Chaz and I will walk drag,” Lee said. “You make the best time you can. And I mean the best time, Rangers. Walk off the pain. We’re going to have trouble on our six in the morning.”

  “Which way?” Jimbo said.

  “Back around Cannibal Lake and hook a right for Malibu. We’re going home.”

  46

  The Long Walk Back

  Lee and Chaz hung behind, walking a long drag.

  Tired as they were, their every fiber screamed for them to move at a run. To put distance between them and the carnage they’d created. Instead, they held their pace down to a crawl, maintaining an interval between them and their slow-moving comrades. They watched and listened for pursuit, ready to set up a rearguard action to delay anyone coming after them. The trail behind was free of howling blue men through the night.

  In the hour before dawn, the two Rangers rejoined their company at N’itha’s ruined village. They were all at their limit. Some beyond it. Except for the skinnies, who were still acting like kids on a field trip. Just watching Bart and Millhouse run around the scorched huts looking for goodies made Lee feel even more tired than he was.

  In addition to fatigue, there were the wounded. All had cuts, bruises, and sprains. Those they could work around. Bat and Jimbo managed to stop the bleeding from Byrus’ leg wound. He was looking pale from blood loss but willing to soldier on.

  Worst off among them was Rick Renzi. His leg below the knee was swollen three times its size and an angry red color. He was grinding his teeth. N’itha knelt by him, hugging his arm and speaking softly. Words of comfort, words of love, or words of prayer. The tone was like music.

  The girl was alone in the world. All around lay the remains of her people. The last of them had died under that stone hammer or in the panic that followed Lee’s attack. N’itha was the sole survivor of her entire culture. The language she spoke, her gods, her way of life, ended with her. She lay holding on to the last familiar thing she had left to her.

  “We’re going to have to rig something up to carry you, bro,” Chaz said. “You keep putting weight on that leg, and you’re looking at an embolism or something.”

  “I’m becoming a goddamn inconvenience,” Rick said.

  “Becoming?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “There’s my man, Renzi.” Chaz gave Rick’s face a gentle slap.

  Lee watched their back trail while Chaz and Jimbo lashed up a travois from poles found in the debris field that was all that remained of the village. When it was ready, they moved out with the skinnies leading the way.

  The sun was full up when they came to the shores of Cannibal Lake.

  “We have a choice,” Lee said to the group gathered on the beach.

  “I’ve been weighing things too,” Jimbo said.

  “We hook a right here and keep on back to our ex-fil site. Or we go to Bedrock and fort up. Maybe the blue fuckers will be scared to come into skinny country. One is a dick-busting hump, and the other gives us a chance to rest up and recharge.”

  “We’re bringing Neeta with us, right? That discussion is closed, right?” Rick said from where he lay raised on an elbow on the travois.

  “She’s coming with,” Lee said.

  “Then let’s get the fuck out of here,” Rick said and lay back down.

  Most of the skinnies had already run off along the beach toward home. Homer and a score or more remained behind. They looked to be waiting for the company to move on, and they would follow. Lee stepped up to them and pointed.

  “Head back to Bedrock,” Lee said. Bat stood by him, holding out a handful of protein bars as a parting gift.

  Homer’s brows knitted. His eyes shifted from under beetled brows.

  “Move! You are dismissed!” Lee put a hand to Homer’s chest and shoved.

  Homer bared his teeth. Some of his bruisers stepped up to defend their chief. Lee fired three rounds into the mud before them. The skinnies backed off, startled. Some turned tail and ran full out into the trees.

  “Go! Go home!” Lee stabbed his finger in the direction of Bedrock.

  The skinnies spun and made their way over the shale beach and away. Homer was the last to join them, turning from Lee and the others, looking for all the world like a child being sent to bed early. Though the ciggie hanging from his lower lip diluted the effect.

  “I feel bad for them,” Bat said.

  “Save it. We’d do them no favor letting them tag along over strange country. They’d never find their way back,” Lee said.

  “You couldn’t have reached us without them,” she said.

  “They had their fun,” he said and rejoined the group.

  The company allowed themselves an hour’s break. Bat and Byrus dropped off where they lay. N’itha reclined on the travois close to Rick, and both were sound asleep in seconds.

  Jimbo sat with Lee, watching their back trail. Chaz was up in the tree line where he had a better view of the north shore of the lake.

  “Can’t sleep?” Lee said.

  “Too worked up still. And my eye itches.”

  “Wherever the hell that is.”

  “I was thinking about Morris Tauber,” Jimbo said.

  “That’s messed up, bro. Should be thinking about cold beer or pussy.”

  “We left a lot of shit out there. Anomalies all over the AO. The Ma Deuce, ordnance, lots of brass.”

  “Couldn’t be helped. Most of your shit got blown up.”

  “Still lots of plastic scrap and wires laying around. Parts of weapons. Parts of the drone. Mo will freak.”

  “Let him. It’s all Big Foot anyway. Someone finds an iPod in King Tut’s tomb. So what? Who cares? Who’d listen? No way to explain it, so the world moves on.” Lee shrugged.

  “He’ll still bitch us out.”

  “That dude needs to get laid. Hour’s up.” Lee rose to wake the sleepe
rs.

  They filled the remaining two CamelBaks from the lake and rucked up as best they could. Bat and Jimbo dragged the travois with Chaz walking point. Byrus and N’itha could pull when they got tired. Lee walked drag.

  The company was well into the trees above the lake on the return route west when they heard a high braying sound echoing over the waters below.

  A hunting horn.

  47

  The Hardest Mile

  Choices.

  There were always choices to be made.

  Make the right one and live. Live a while longer anyway.

  Make the wrong one and die.

  Their pursuers were going to catch up them. It was only a matter of where and when. They couldn’t really choose the time, but they could choose the place.

  “We move to higher ground. Make them come for us,” Lee said, walking with Jimbo. It was N’itha and Byrus’ turn pulling Rick on the travois.

  They were on high ground in the trees above the lakeshore, heading for the place where the dry river bed met the muddy marsh. The route kept them out of sight from below, but the going was rough on the sloping terrain.

  “Defend a static position? Not very Ranger. I don’t like it,” Jimbo said. His voice was hoarse. His eyes were red. He was near his limit.

  “A stand-off. We drop enough of them; they have to give up. There has to be less than a hundred left. I say they’ve already had enough.”

  “That’s what we thought last time. Remember? Turned out the skinnies were an extended community. These assholes could be at brigade strength by now. We just don’t know if these fuckers are all there are.”

  Lee nodded. “Yeah. You’re right.”

  “Could explain why they took their time coming after us. Might have spent the morning making up a coalition,” Jimbo said.