

## 2 A.C.

### 'Fallen Angels'

Book 2 of the

' _After the Cleansing' series_

by

### W. Wm. Mee

Copyright 2011 W.Wm.Mee

Smashwords Edition

Revised in 2020

Please note:

These books do not need

to be read in order,

Also this is not a children's book.

Mature language & actions are depicted.

'Not for the faint of heart'

_***  
_

### Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1 Where's The Beef?

Chapter 2 The Good Doctor

Chapter 3 The Duke

Chapter 4 The Teacher

Chapter 5 Billy Raintree

Chapter 6 Neverland

Chapter 7 Two-Times Tyree

Chapter 8 The Major

Chapter 9 Suzy Creamcheese

Chapter 10 The Cowboy

Chapter 11 The Biker

Chapter 12 The Reverend

Chapter 13 The Circle 'G'

Chapter 14 Cut Bank

Chapter 15 School's Out

Chapter 16 The Biker Rally

Chapter 17 Headin'Home

Chapter 18 One The Road Again

Chapter 19 Paths Meet

Chapter 20 The Ranch

Chapter 21 Piece O' Cake

Chapter 22 Absolutely

Chapter 23 Payback's A Bitch

Chapter 24 The Widow Horn

Chapter 25 Cupid's Arrow

Chapter 26 A Change of Heart

Chapter 27 Lord Troy

Chapter 28 Negotiations

Chapter 29 The Best Laid Plans

Chapter 30 Of Mice and Men

Chapter 31 Often Go Arye

Chapter 32 It Aint Over Yet

Chapter 33 The Calm Before The Storm

Chapter 34 We Who Are About To Die

Chapter 35 The Game's Afoot

Chapter 36 Cry Havoc!

Chapter 37 The Dog's of War!

Chapter 38 We few, We Precious Few

Chapter 39 A Tangled Web

Chapter 40 Things Heat Up!

Chapter 41 As Ye Sow

Chapter 42 So Shall Ye Reap!

Chapter 43 You Get What You Need!

Chapter 44 Kill The Bastard!
INTRODUCTION

Please allow me to, introduce myself,

I'm a man of, wealth and taste.

I've been around for, many a long year,

Stole many a man's, soul and faith.

Pleased to meet you,

I hope you know my name.

***

A man-made virus escaped from a secret US lab and caused a global pandemic that killed over three quarters of humanity. These are the stories of those that survived 'The Cleansing'.

There are no mutants or vampires or walking dead in this tale. What _'monsters'_ there are come from deep within the frightened, scattered remnants of a civilization that is quickly slipping away into a growing the darkness.

Chapter 1: Where's The Beef?

Upstate New York

Several months after the

' _The Cleansing' swept the globe_

Of the dozen naked bodies hanging in the parkinglot, all but a couple of them were in an advanced state of decay. Raven's and crows perched on boney shoulders, digging in for scraps of sun-dried meat. Smaller, lesser birds flitted about, biding their time, their tiny, darting eyes never still. A pact of one-time pet dogs snarled and snapped at the base of the defunct streetlights, eagerly waiting when the bodies rotted enough to finally fall.

The man who now called himself The Duke, sat in a plastic lawn chair on the flat gravel and tar roof of the Price Chopper in Albany, New York. Up until The Cleansing he had been the supermarket's night manager. It was only after the Death Winds had passed that he had become ' _royalty'_ , and though his 'kingdom' was damn near depopulated, the influx of pilgrims ' _worthy enough to be invited to stay_ ' had picked up of late. The Kid and his 'Rangers' had been doing a great job of filtering out the less desirable ones they found.

His ' _Dukeship_ ' now placed the brass sight on the end of his 30/30 lever action Winchester on the big German Sheppard that seemed to be leading the snarling pack. He smiled as an old tune started playing in his head.

I met him at the candy store,

(He turned to me and winked,

You get the picture?)

That's when I fell for,

The Leader of the Pack!

The dog in question sat back on its haunches like a well fed General Patton, while the rest of its hungry troops growled and snarled beneath the dangling meat. Duke, despite seeing a good deal of himself in the four legged beast he was aiming at, sucked in a breath, let it half out like his daddy had taught him and gently squeezed the trigger.

The 30/30, a 'John Wayne Special', complete with its famous overlarge lever, went off with a ' _crack_ ' that reminded him of Brother Simon's heavy ruler coming down on the big, oak desk back in Loyola High. Ah, those were the days! Popcorn, pissing contests --- and pain.

' _Hail Marry, full of grace._

Now, James, hold out your other hand.'

The rifle's report was like a good-natured nudge from an old friend. He automatically worked the over-large lever, sending another shell into 'The Duke's' favorite weapon. He'd had this particular rifle for over twenty years now. As a young man fresh out of the army he'd bought it from a fellow John Wayne collector/fanatic who was going through a divorce and needed the money. This guy had collected everything even slightly connected to the bigger than life late/great 'western' movie star. Old posters, ashtrays, lamps, bits of clothing Wayne wore in some of his movies. There was even a 'Duke' plastic luchbox that, when opened, drawled out: ' _Walll, howdee there, pilgrim!_ '

Our dog-shooting Duke however had only been interested in the rifle.

It was called a 'Yellow Boy' because of its brass receiver and hardware. A copy of the 1876 model, it was one of only a hundred specially made to commemorate Wayne's death, and was so marked on the barrel. The original owner, as real collectors often do, had never fired it. Our dog shooter however, had used it deer hunting for the last two decades. He and his father would take a week off every fall and try for a buck or a doe up in the Adirondacks. After the old man passed away from cancer a few years back, Duke had kind of lost interest in hunting.

The pandemic or 'Cleansing' as it was now being called by many survivors, had certainly changed his rather passive point of view. Even though supermarkets everywhere were still had food in them, the meat had all gone rotten soon after the power went out. The Duke, like most of the transient group staying at the Price Chopper/Safe House, enjoyed a good steak every now and then. This had prompted him to pass the first of several 'decrees'.

' _Let it be known'_ he had grinned widely from his place at the head of a long dining table filled with cold beer, hot food and steaming venison, 'that henceforth hunting season shall be open all year long. That goes for any four legged creature fit for our table --- and also on any two legged ones caught looting, poaching, trespassing or disturbing the peace.'

As a result, while the bodies of looters, mal-contents and wandering _'crazies',_ swung in the breeze of the Price Chopper's parking lot, inside the store's meat locker, (now rigged with several portable gasoline driven generators), hung carcasses of local deer, moose and the remains of both a zebra and a giraffe that had escaped from the Albany Zoo.

' _Weeee-dogies! Where's da beef?'_

***
Chapter 2: The Good Doctor

Doctor Dave thought he was going insane.

Not just the 'a little short of a dollar' kind of bonkers that most people were after The Death Clouds rolled by, but the all the way around the mutherfukin' bend kind of bonkers! Pills didn't help. Booze neither. Nothing seemed to be able to stop the good doctor's slow slide into insanity.

Lately he'd been seriously contemplating suicide.

But then who the hell could blame him? After all the horrific things, soul-shattering things he had seen in the last little while! Why, the infamous Doctor Phil Dot Com 'Himself' might have 'slipped his caboose' and contemplated 'shuffling off this mortal coil'.

For you see, Gentle Reader,

the shit had really hit the fan!

New York City, where the good doctor plied his trade, that fabled megalopolis on the eastern seaboard of the late, great United States of America, was now a wasteland of wrecked cars, burning buildings, swirling ashes and recently rotting corpses. Well over three quarters the world had died as the deadly virus swept around the globe. Winds that had once carried Columbus and Magellan on their epic quests; that had once brought spices, gold and tea in Spanish galleons and swift clipper ships; winds that had once whisked Puritans, Pilgrims and ploughmen across the vast oceans to a 'Brave New World' now carried _Death_. And not just any old kind of death, but Death on a 'grand scale'! A pandemic-like apocalyptic death that spread over the land like an ever growing, malignant shadow! An amazingly swift, all encompassing Death that crystallized the organs, boiled the blood and transformed flesh, bone and brain into a grey, crumbling parchment resembling an old wasp nest. In less than a week the world was populated mostly with four and multi-legged creatures --- and millions upon millions of well-dressed, lifeless _'scarecrows'_.

But at first Doctor Dave had not despaired.

_Some_ people had not dried up and blown away!

_Some_ people had survived!

Each day small groups of those 'fortunate folk' slowly trickled into his hospital, seeking food, shelter, and above all, hope.

In those first few days after _'it'_ had happened, there was still _some_ kind of order to things. The president spoke on TV. The National Guard patrolled the streets. The news stations reported the rapid spread of the killer virus. They were dubbed _'Death Clouds'_ and they marched eastward on the Trade Winds, the Monsoons and the Westerly's, encircling the globe and casting an invisible, malignant shadow over the land.

People panicked. Soon _countries_ panicked. Accusations were shouted, threats were hurled, missiles were readied and buttons were pushed.

Then the electro-magnetic pulses from the nukes came, turning an already frightened world into scattered pockets of terrified children alone in the smoke filled dark!

The electricity was gone. That _'gift from the gods'_ that transformed humans from mere cave dwellers huddled around a pitiful little fire into magnificent _'modern man'_ with all his great works.

When the lights went out, so did most people's inner spark. That indefinable _'something'_ that gives us the will to carry on against all odds, snuffed out in a flurry of nuclear attacks and counter attacks by countries desperate to find someone to blame.

As the shadows crept closer, many of those that had somehow survived _'The Cleansing'_ found they had no desire to survive _'The Dark'_.

The number of suicides shot up through the roof.

The predicted 80 % death rate proved to be considerably short of the mark!

Yet some survivors found that they had a 'knack' for it; that all the death and dying had 'awakened' something in them \--- something ancient and slithery. Something reptilian in nature, found more in a Steven King novel than amidst the brave survivors of a global pandemic.

And down deep in his tired bones Doctor Dave feared that he was slowly becoming one of the ancient, slithery things!

***

Back at the Hospital the massive generators had kicked in, but it wasn't the same. Doctor Dave knew in his ever shrinking soul that nothing would ever be the same again. Sooner or later the generators would give out and the darkness, always waiting just beyond the small, flickering puddle of light, would smother all.

That's when the weird dreams began.

At first they came only when he slept, causing him to wake screaming, sweating and trembling with fear. But soon they began to encroach into his waking moments as well.

One dream in particular seemed to stalk him like a predator. It was strange, frightening, yet at the same time, erotic. In it the Norse god Odin's fiercely beautiful _Valkaries_ would fly in on winged steeds to collect the dead and dying for the feasting halls in Valhalla.

In his dream he tried to stop them, to protect the weak, the frightened and the sick, but these powerful, big bosomed ladies just laughed and casually brushed him aside, their harsh voices like nails scratching at the inside of a coffin.

' _Foolish mortal',_

they had glared at him with their amber eyes.

' _See you not that the Cleansing Time is at hand!?_

That the gods themselves are at war,

a war that shall bring about the ending of days!

Ragnarok !

When all that was and is shall cease to be,

And Death alone will rule the land!'

Real or not, it seemed to the good doctor that those infamous damsel's of Nordic legend did indeed scoop up the fallen and whisk them away on the wild wind!

It also seemed to our medical do-gooder that those 'fortunate fools' who did _not_ win a one way ticket to the feasting hall of the gods must have undergone a mass lobotomy of some sorts, for madness shown forth in the glazed eyes of many of those that survived. Some acted benign, almost childlike; some malignant and dangerous, but more and more lately seemed to have a sly look about the mouth or a cunning slant of the head or something ancient and slithery lurking deep in their eyes. A _'crafty kind of craziness'_ that made you wonder if that smiling stranger offering you a helping hand had _'other things'_ in mind than a shared can of Chef Boy-R-Dee.

In his dreams they took on the form of evil clown like creatures. Their leader called himself 'Mr. Nasty' and he seemed very interested in the good doctor.

Frighteningly so!

***

Three or four weeks after the wind-blown virus circled the globe, and the limited 'nuke wars' had run their course, the plagues started --- and from then on the shit got a whole lot deeper. Way the fuck over the top of your fancy fly-fishing waders deeper!

Bubonic. Typhoid. Diphtheria. A whole bunch of bu's & ty's & dip's popped up that neither Doctor Dave nor his ever dwindling number of colleagues had ever dreamed of! Billions had already died, but there were still millions left --- at least, for a while. However, by the end of the third month AC --- ('that's After the Cleansing, Einstein'), those millions in the greater New York area were down to thousands.

Those three ladies of Nordic nightmare with the _'nicen slitsen n' da grosen titsen'_ were kept busy night and day shuttling shades up to that great Octoberfest in the Sky!

Good ol' Walkin'- Talkin' Two Legs had been righteously cut back to a pale shadow of His former greatness and what had passed for civilization took one bitchin' step backwards!

Do not pas Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.

And get your mutherfuckin' ass into Jail toot-sweet!

It was about this time that Doctor Dave, still among the living after three rather difficult months, finally decided to take his act on the road. The number of people coming to the hospital had been dwindling steadily and, when the generators finally ran dry and the power died completely, he found himself alone in the dark.

It didn't really surprise him. In truth, he'd been expecting it, even waiting for it. The lure of the open road had been calling him for some time now, and when the lights finally did go out he decided it was time.

Yet those were not the only reasons for him wanting to hit the bricks. He had 'other reasons'. Dark, ' _desperate_ ' reasons. Ones he, like most of us, keep entombed in that black vault at the back of our brains. Desires best kept secret and best kept hidden --- even from ourselves. Like those country-rock prophets of old used to croon:

' _You've got your demons,_

You've got desires,

But I've got a few of my own!'

Like most of us, the good doctor did indeed have a few personal desires --- a little black bag just chucked full of 'em in fact! Most he had struggled to keep in check all his life. Booze, selfishness, two failed marriages, drugs for a time. And, when he was younger, a rather sordid interest in dark, mysterious, women of an 'occult nature'. Lately he'd gone back to the pills and booze. The neighborhood, however, was a little short on 'witchy women' with raven hair, ruby lips, and sparks flyin' from their fingertips.

However, this newer, decidedly 'darker' desire, kept pushing aside all his older ones. Oh, at first glance, it _'appeared'_ innocent enough, even the humanitarian thing to do. After all, he was a doctor, sworn to _'comfort the sick and ease the suffering'_

Over the past three months our fastidious physician had managed to piece back together and patch up a fair number of the human flotsam and two-legged jetsam that The Cleansing had washed up on his little island of hope --- but if the truth be told, for the great majority of his patients, there was really very little hope at all. Despite his best efforts, they would continue to suffer and, eventually, die. And not a painless 'go softly into the dark night' kind of death, but the screaming, cursing and shitting their pants to the bitter end kind!

So why not _'help them along'_ a little? Why not help the hopeless 'gently leave this veil of tears' --- all for the Greater Good you understand ! He told himself that he did it out of 'compassion'; that he did it 'because he cared'. Yet if the good doctor was being brutally honest he'd admit that he got off by _'offing'_ his fellow human beings. The first time, almost a month ago, it shook him to his very soul! Since then he had actually looked for reasons to 'help out' his patients! I mean, why not? Most of them were walking corpses anyway! And the rush it gave him! Better than sex, drugs and rock n' roll combined!

And so, when the generators finally gave out, Doctor Dave put on his walking shoes, packed his bag, took down his shingle, changed his underwear and become --- ta-daaa! You got it, Homes! _'Doctor Death!'_ Kitted-up in a black van stuffed with medical supplies from his previous employer, he traveled the less used byways in and around the Big Apple, looking for people whose suffering he could ease. He even had a hand printed sign duct-taped to the side of his van:

## Doctor Death

### Bring me your weak,

### your lame, your infirm

### And I shall help to ease their passing.

****

One sunny day, almost a month after he hit the road, the good doctor found himself on the outskirts of Albany N.Y. when he heard a shot!

He hit the breaks as he rounded the next bend, and there, in the middle of the road was a tall blond youth standing over a body. Blood dripped off the fingers of his left hand. In his right was a still smoking pistol.

As the Doc took a look at the young man's bleeding arm, the youth read the sign taped to the side of the 'Deathmobile'. A puzzled smile spread over his handsome face. "Hey Doc, why'd ya give yourself a crazy name like that, anyway? I mean, shit man, aint the world seen enough 'death' already?!"

Doc, busy stitching up the knife wound on the youth's left forearm, didn't bother to reply.

The man that had caused the wound lay spread-eagled on the road. At first glance one might think he was just catchin' a few zzzz's in the afternoon sunshine, but of course, one would be wrong. It seems that he had been a certified accountant, a father of three and a closet homosexual --- _not that there's anything wrong with it!_ Apparently it had been 'lust at first sight', at least on the part of the former accountant. The blond kid had obviously not felt the same. The Kid winced as Doc tied off the last stitch and bathed the wound in alcohol. "Jesus, Doc! What ya tryin' to do? Kill me?"

Doc faked a smile and gave the neat stitches another healthy soaking of Scotch, then took a long pull on the bottle himself. He did not offer any to the Kid.

"Hey Doc, you don't talk much, do ya?"

Doc ignored him and walked over to the dead homosexual accountant. He nudged the body with the toe of his boot, silently pronounce it dead, and walked back to the Deathmobile.

"Christ, Doc, wait a fuckin' minute, will ya? Where ya goin' anyways? Gotta hot date or somethin'?" Apparently Kid thought this was hilarious. Doc however didn't. As he swung up into the black van, Kid tried again, this time waving the gun for added effect. "Now hold on, Doc. I got a kinda proposition for ya."

Doc nodded at the spread-eagled body in the road. "And if I refuse, are you going to shoot me as well?"

A blank look flitted across the younger man's face and his gaze went from Doc to the gun, then back to Doc. Suddenly the light bulb went on. "Naw, I aint gunna shoot ya. Not unless I have to. But I gotta bring you back to the Safe House with me."

"The safe house?" Doc repeated. "Why?"

"Cause I got the gun?" The youth showed a wolfish grin, complete with dimples and a twinkle in his baby blues. In the good ol' days that deadly combination must have made the girls all hot n' bothered.

Doc just shook his head and turned away, gave the key a crank and the Deathmobile sprang to life. Suddenly the Glock's dark muzzle was thrust in his ear. "I told ya ,Doc, that I didn't _want_ to shoot ya. I didn't say I _wouldn't_!"

Doc looked squarely into those baby blues. "I'm leaving. Take care of that arm."

Frustrated, Kid shook his head. "Shit, Doc, you sure are one cool character." The blond youth thumbed back the hammer, the metallic 'click' sounded like Big Ben doing its thing. "But you _are_ comin' back with me."

"And just why the Hell should I do that?" Doc suddenly demanded. "Because you wave that gun in my face? Because you might shoot me? Fine! Shoot me! _Because I really don't give a shit!"_

Feeling both challenged and backed into a corner, Kid suddenly didn't feel like smiling. What he did feel like was putting a nine mill in this fucker's forehead just like he had with that fuckin' faggot! Rage boiled through him, threatening to spew out like molten lava, devouring all it touched!

_No, Dear Reader, the Kid hadn't always been this aggressive._ Oh, he was certainly a 'product of his age'; you know, a latch-key kid, growing up alone, no _'real'_ family, no _'quality time'_. Too much Internet, TV and Twinkies! Overindulged, over stimulated and, of course, over the top behavior-wise. In sort, he was your _'average'_ North American youngster.

But then 'The Cleansing' had come along and wham, bam, thank you mam! Those wayward teens --- along with a sizable number of green peacers, generation 'X'ers , politically correctors and most the other whining little shits that had somehow survived \--- went through one humungous transformation!

Granny n' gramps, even good ol' mom n' dad had one hellova time trying to cope with the changes the Death Clouds brought, but those video playing, instant gratification seeking, short attention spanned adolescents just blossomed! This _'Brave New World'_ was just tailor made for narcisstic little psychopaths like the Kid. In a world suddenly reatly depopulated, his demographic group was not only the largest one still alive but it was absolutely thriving! The _'Now'_ generation had finally gotten its long awaited moment in the sun!

And why the hell not? They were young, strong and healthy. They were ego driven, knew what they wanted, knew how to get it and didn't give a shit who got in their way! They had no religion, no morals and absolutely no conscious. They were the New Breed! The 'Terminator Generation'! The walkin', talking, gun-totin', faggot shootin' two-legged Teeee-Ran-O-Saurus Muther-Fucking REX Generation!

***

The Glock felt solid and cool in the Kids sweating hand. His legs were shaking and his heart pounding. His felt lightheaded, almost high. It was a familiar feeling; warm, friendly, though leavened with a good deal of anger, frustration and bad-to-the-bone violence. It was something he had lived with all his life, but one that had grown considerably stronger since The Cleansing and his weird dreams about evil clowns.

Casually, almost too casually, the Kid swung the Glock's barrel away from Doc's face, pumped two slugs into the chest of the already dead accountant and swung the smoking barrel back on track.

"My next one, Doc, will be in a _warm_ body. Catch my drift?" Kid then pressed the still smoking barrel up against Doc's knee. "You don't really need to _walk_ to be a doctor, do ya? I could always find ya a real nice wheelchair. But I'm hopin', Doc. _Really_ hopin', that it don't come to that." Those warm baby blues suddenly iced over, as did his voice. "So what's it gunna be, 'Doctor Death'? My way," the Glock pressed down harder, "or fuckin' my way?!"

There was a rather long, drawn out silence, during which Doc flipped a mental coin. 'Heads' he goes with this homicidal punk, 'tails' he tells the young shit to go fuck himself. His mind's eye could see the coin turning in the sunlight. Up, up and away! Heads --- tails --- **Heads!**

Hooo Raw! The boy's alive!

***
**Chapter 3** **: The Duke**

The Duke was a very good shot --- as the leader of the four-legged pack soon discovered. The hollow point slug, fired from the roof of Albany's Price Chopper, hit Fearless Fido high in its right shoulder, exited midway through the left ribcage, taking the remains of the canine heart and lungs with it. After the initial shock, the rest of the pack, ignoring the rotting bodies hanging high above them, began to tear apart their late, great and obviously unlamented leader.

The Duke watched the carnage taking place below him with somewhat mixed emotions. He might have been a very good shot, but he didn't, however, consider himself to be a very good man. Doris, of course, thought otherwise. _'Terrible times call for terrible decisions'_ she had said when he had ordered the fist looters shot. Having them stripped naked and hung up as an example to others had just seemed to him the most efficient way of getting his warning across --- namely that this part of town was off limits to looters, gangs and crazies.

Doris had simply nodded agreement and squeezed his hand. 'You do what you think best for all of us, James. Just like you always did before IT happened.' IT, of course, was the terrible change that the world had gone through five months earlier.)

Keeping 'order' within his own growing group of followers had proved fairly simple --- after the first few executions. As in ancient Japan, there was only one punishment for breaking any of the Duke's laws. Death.

The odd thing wasn't that these rather ruthless decisions bothered him all that much --- au contrair mon ami, it was that they didn't seem to bother him at all! To his surprise The Duke was discovering that being ruthless was turning out to be one hell of a lotta fun! And _that_ little realization scared the living shit out of him!

"My God, James!" Doris said --- this time she was actually standing beside him, not just a motherly voice he carried around as his ultra conscious. "There's more wild dogs every day! You can't possibly shoot them all!"

The proud owner of the smoking Yellow Boy looked back at the grey haired woman and smiled. "I'm hoping,Doris, once I take out the leader, the rest will soon just slink away."

Doris was a mother of three and grandmother of four, all dead now of course. Her husband as well. She was still grieving over her offspring. About her late spouse? Not so much.

Hubby, you see, had considered himself a 'real golfer', the results of which made Doris a 'golf widow'. As was his want since taking an early retirement, hubby had gone golfing the morning the virus filled 'Death Clouds' blew by --- and had never come back. Doris secretly hoped that his 'goddamned self-centered ashes' were scattered all over the 'goddamned Albany Golf and Country Club' for the 'sonovabitch had loved it a hell of a lot more than he ever had me or the children!'

Doris had worked as a cashier at the same Price Chopper where The Duke was the manager. They had been good friends for years. Doris had 'been there for James' both during and after the long, dragged-out death of his father. Ever since the world had gone in the crapper, 'James' was the only family Doris had left.

Doris was also the only person that ever called Duke by his given name. The rest of the people staying at the Safe House (the former Motel Six opposite the Price Chopper) were scared shitless of him! And not without good reason. Those bodies twisting in the wind didn't climb up there all by themselves! No sireebob!

"James, what's that over there by the pizza shop? Are my old eyes deceiving me or is that ---"

"A fucking lion!" Duke finished for her. He scrambled in a pack-sack by his chair and came out with a pair of binoculars. "Jesus, there's three of them! No, four! All females. Now where's the fucking male?"

"Mind your tongue, young man," Doris admonished casually, then pointed off to the left. "There, at the far edge of the parking lot. He's just sitting there."

Duke swung the glasses. "Ya, watching the dogs. The smell of the bodies must have drawn them." He stuffed the binocs back in the bag, grabbed his 30/30 and stood. "Let's go, Doris."

"James, aren't you going to shoot them?"

Duke smiled at her. "Not from here, Sweety. Too far away. Besides, the others would only scatter."

"But, we can't just let them run wild!"

Duke's smile widened. "Doris, in case you hadn't noticed, the whole fucking world has gone wild."

Doris, a good twenty years his senior, frowned. "Mind your tongue!"

Duke took a deep breath and nodded. "Sorry, Sweets. I'll get some of the group together and we'll go on a little hunting trip. That should chase the buggers out of the area."

"How did they even get here?" Doris asked. "At the zoo weren't they locked in cages?"

"Modern technology, Doris. All those wide open spaces for the animals, those 'natural habitats' the zoo people built for them had electric fences and gates. When the power went off ---"

"The bloody gates came open!" Doris said as the shoe dropped.

"Mind your tongue, young lady!" The Duke grinned and hefted his Winchester. "Now, let's go hunting!"

***

"Not much further now," the Kid said from the passenger seat of the Deathmobile. Doctor Dave glanced over at the blond youth, then back as he swerved to go around an abandoned eighteen-wheeler.

"Duke's been having us drag away the stalled cars from around the 'Safe House', but that bastard back there won't start n' is too dammed big to push! Just up ahead there, hang a right."

Doc did as he was bid and, topped a small rise and came face to face with the Price Chopper parkinglot, complete with naked bodies dangling from the lamp posts. Doc hit the breaks and swore.

"Relax, Doc," the Kid grinned, clearly enjoying his newfound companion's shock. "It's just Duke's way of saying 'Strangers, enter here at your own fuckin' risk!" Works too! We aint had no looters around here for over a month!" The grin widened. "At least, none that got away."

"Ya, well, I guess it pays to advertise," Doc muttered.

Kid smiled, chuckling to himself. "You kill me, Doc. You just kill me."

***

"And you call yourself Doctor Death?" Duke asked for the second time.

"Yes."

"That's your real name?"

"As real as yours is, Duke."

'Why?"

"Read the sign," Doc replied, pointing to the side of the Deathmobile.

Duke read, then grunted. "So you help the dying 'ease their passing.' With what, drugs?"

"And with dignity."

Kid chuckled some more. "I told you he was some'n else, Duke! He kills me!"

Duke ignored the grinning youth and took a step closer. "And you're a _real_ doctor, right? Not some asshole who once took a First Aid course?

Doc smiled agreement.

"Not some half-assed male-nurse who majored in cleaning bedpans?"

Doc's smile began to loose some of its luster. "Like I've already told you, friend, I'm a GP. Have been one for over a dozen years."

"In New York City?" Duke continued the interrogation.

"For the past five years. Boston before that."

Duke's eyebrow rose. "A 'city-boy'. What brings you out into the wilds of Albany?"

'The stink, mostly. That and the lack of power. The plague bodies all turned to that greyish dust, but those that survived and died later were rotting and breeding disease." He frowned at the decaying bodies still twisting in the wind. "The rats and feral dogs can't eat them fast enough. Now, if you don't mind --- and even if you do \--- I'll be on my way."

Doc turned and started back towards his black van. Duke nodded at the Kid and then at Doc's back. The Kid sprang into action. Once again his gleaming smile appeared, as did his handgun.

"Hold on there, Doc." Kid beamed, waving the gun in Doc's general direction. "Don't rush off all pissed. Duke didn't mean nothin'. He's gotta check out the people me 'n the other scouts bring in is all. Christ, you shouda seen the asswipe Stretch brought in last week. Thought he was fuckin' Rambo!"

"You sent him on his merry way, I take it?" Doc commented, ignoring the Glock.

The grin went from ear to ear as Kid waved his handgun in the direction of the parkinglot. "Sorta. He's decoratin' the last pole on the left."

After a very long moment, Doc asked: "And just what was his crime? Poor acting?"

"Cute, Doc," Duke answered. "I see what the Kid meant about you having a 'weird sense of humor'. No, that fellow's crime was attempted rape. We took him in and that was how he repaid us. Such actions are not tolerated around here." Now it was Duke's smile that widened. "Like you, Doc, we're in the business of helping people, not hurting them. So, I put it to you again, won't you reconsider staying with us? At least for a little while?"

Doc looked around. Except for the dangling bodies, it looked like a busy little New England type village. People were bustling about, a couple of men were working at the garage across the street. A towtruck went by pulling a smashed car. A woman and two children were working in a large garden out in front of the Motel Six. One old lady sat in a rocker with a baby in her lap. Up on the hill behind the Price Chopper a tractor was preparing a field for planting.

"Come on, Doc," the Kid beamed. "Give it a couple of days."

Doc drew a deep breath, glanced around once more, then nodded.

"Good!" Duke said, holding out his hand in welcome. As they shook, the leader of the Safe House asked if Doc liked hunting.

"Never fired a gun in my life, and I don't intend to," came the reply.

"Well, that's your decision," Duke replied. "These days though, it does come in handy. Let me know if you change your mind."

"Thanks, but I doubt I'll feel the need."

The Duke draped an arm over the slighter man. "Doc, ya just never can tell what's around the bend. Now the reason I asked about the hunting is because a few of us are off on a little trip tomorrow and I'd really like you to come along."

"Thanks, but like I just said, I'm not into guns and shooting."

The arm tightened slightly around his shoulders. "I've got plenty of shooters, Doc. What I didn't have was someone to patch them up if they get hurt --- until now."

Doc's eyes narrowed. "And just what will 'we' be hunting --- more potential looters?"

Duke gave a 'friendly squeeze' and let go. "Yes, Sir, I do like your sense of humor! Kid was right about you on all counts. As for tomorrow's hunt, well, looters are always a problem, but what we're really out to bag is something a whole lot more dangerous."

"And just what, prey tell, would that be?"

Duke leaned in and smiled. "Lions, Doc. A whole hungry pride of African lions."

***

"He's one big mother!" Jewels, a pretty twenty-something blonde with an athletic build, muttered as she looked through the scope of her modified M16. Her target was a male lion just over a hundred yards away.

A soldier on leave from Iraq visiting her folks when The Cleansing happened, Jewels had stayed with her family until the last of them, her younger sister, had died of the virus. A month ago one of Duke's 'scouts' had found her on the road and brought her in the Safe House. (actually, she had found him). Duke quickly saw her military training as a huge asset and soon promoted her to Head of Security. She set right in organizing what she called 'The Guards'.

"You got that right, Jewels!" Kid exclaimed in a voice a little too loud for the situation. But then he was nervous. Not of the lions, but of Jewels. In truth, he had 'the hots' for her, but she also intimidated the shit out of him!

Though they were approximately the same age, she just _'seemed'_ so much older, more 'mature' --- waaaay the fuck outta his league! Still, he was smitten. One look into her baby blues (a deeper shade than his own); one sway of that slender, ass-kickin' bod and he was a gonner!

So naturally, he acted like a fool around her.

For her part, she acted like he didn't exist.

Doris thought that it was a match made in Heaven.

Duke thought the old gal should mind her own bloody business.

The pretty blonde made a hand sign and two of her camo-clad 'Guards' began to slowly flank the lion.

There was a _'healthy competition'_ as Duke liked to put it between the Kid's laid-back, devil-may-care 'Scouts' and Jewel's by-the-book, well drilled, well disciplined 'Guards'. One group tended to dress as sloppily as they trained, while the other looked, dressed and acted like a well run SWAT team. Both groups however, got excellent results, and that was all Duke really cared about. He'd gladly leave the 'Dear Abby/ Opra' bullshit to Doris.

"Where's the females?" Stretch asked nervously, glancing around as though expecting a lioness to spring upon them at any second. Stretch got his name from his height, especially his extraordinarily long legs, which he now seemed in danger of tripping over.

"For Christ sake, Stretch, calm the fuck down!" Kid hissed too loudly. Jewels took a deep breath and rolled her pretty eyes. Her silence spoke volumes.

"I _am_ calm, goddamn it! Just a bit hyper is all."

"Then _hyper_ -the-fuck-down!" Kid replied, whishing not for the first time that his guys were more like Jewel's gang than he wanted to openly admit. ' _Maybe I can talk her into some kind of 'combined maneuvers' or something'_ he inwardly mused. _'Ya sure! When pigs fly!'_

Just then the big male let out a deep-throated roar that made a few assholes pucker.

"Holy shit!" Wrench, another one of Kid's 'Scouts', exclaimed. The Latino mechanic was clutching a double barreled 12 gage as though it was a blessed relic --- which he unclutched only long enough to cross himself.

Duke, watching from a few yards away, motioned for Jewels to join him. The ex soldier flowed towards him like water.

"Ya, Top?"

Duke was secretly flattered whenever she referred to him by the military term. 'Top', as in the 'top-man-in-charge'.

"You have your best shooter ready?"

"Of course, Top. Just say the word and that big boy goes down."

Though a recreational hunter off and on for most of his life, with age had come something new into Duke's rather humdrum life --- not counting, of course, the recent ending of the fucking world! It was a phenomenon that happened to a large number of lifetime hunters as they reached their 'mature' years --- a strange, deep reverence for Nature and a strong resistance to kill those beautiful, innocent creatures they had hunted all their lives.

Duke's own father had spoken of it several times towards the end. The last time they had hunted together 'Duke senior' had refused to take a magnificent eight point buck that had crested a hill directly in front of the father and son team. Duke often recalled how his father had looked actually disappointed when the son had brought the buck down with his prized 'Yellow Boy'.

Duke, however, felt absolutely no such compulsion when it came to ending the lives of looters, dangerous crazies or any other two or four legged creature that threatened the safety of 'his people'. The lions were magnificent animals, certainly equal to that eight pointed buck of years gone by --- but Duke knew that once the lone male was taken out of the picture, the females, unable to reproduce, would eventually die off. He only hoped they moved off to wilder places where deer and other animals were more plentiful.

"Jewels, it's a go."

The blonde soldier pressed a button on a small throat-mike. "Queenie, Top says it's a go. Do you have the target?"

"Roger that, Jewels. Male cat in the crosshairs," came back from a speaker earpiece.

"Take the shot," Jewel whispered.

The male roared a second time, almost drowning out the sound of the sniper rifle firing from the hill off to the left. At leas two hundred yards from shooter to target, but then Jewels had trained her squad well. Besides, Queenie, a red headed farm girl who grew up with a daddy and five brothers who loved to hunt, had already known her way around firearms. A month's daily practice with a sniper rifle had honed here special skill to a razor's edge.

"Big Boy's down, Top," Jewels said. "And the females are scattering. You want my crew to take them out?"

"No, let them go. Kid's bunch can keep an eye on them. Nudge them along a bit so they leave the area."

"Already on it, Duke!" the Kid grinned, motioning for Stretch and Wrench to follow him. "Some of my boys are already movin' in on the bitches!" As he and his two Scouts began to move down the hill, three or four shots were fired from off to the left, followed by a scream that was suddenly cut off.

"What the...?" Kid demanded?

Several more shots then rang out, the last one from a high powered rifle. Jewels again spoke into her throat mike. Static crackled, then a voice came back. Jewels listened, then turned to Duke. "One of the females attacked a Scout. Mauled him and then attempted to drag him away. Queenie shot her."

"Which Scout?" Kid demanded.

"She can't tell --- there's too much blood. But he's still moving."

Duke turned to Doc, who had stood back silently watching events unfold. "Doc, let's haul our asses down there. It looks like were going to need your services after all!"

***
**Chapter 4** **: The Teacher**

Billings, Montana

The Day Before The Change

Candice Winifred Brown never had a nick-name. No-one ever called her 'Candy' or 'Winnie'. Not even 'Freckles'. Nobody had ever called her Princess or Buttercup or any of the long list of 'sweet nuthin's' people attach to someone they care about. The rather sad truth of the matter was that no-one had ever cared enough about Candice to call her anything but what her rather unemotional suburban Chicago parents had jotted down on her birth certificate lo these twenty-six years past.

Oh, the adolescents, (read that juvenile delinquents), at the high school in Billings Montana where she taught had lots of names for her, but Princess and Buttercup they were not! The Windy City Bitch-Witch was perhaps the 'nicest' of them. Miss Stick-Up-Her-Ass was a popular one. Miss Deep Freeze was another. Miss N. Double B. (Never Been Banged) however, seemed to be the favorite, especially with the pimple faced boys.

She had been teaching for five years; three of those at an inner-city Chicago school and the last two at the more rural (but just as difficult) Lyndon B. Johnson High in beautiful downtown Billings, Montana.

Lyndon B. was located on what her recently widowed mother referred to as the 'poor side of the tracks' _'Waaaay too many 'non whites' for my taste'_ , dear old 'Mommy Dearest' also liked to say.

As you have no doubt already gathered, Gentle Reader, the elder Mrs. Brown had a lot to say on a lot of subjects \--- a fact that also had a lot to do with both Mr. Brown's early death and his only daughter's sudden move to Billings Montana shortly thereafter.

That fateful morn when the principal interrupted all classes and spoke over Lyndon B's rather tinny sounding intercom, Candice had been reading to her ninth grade remedial class. The tome in question was one that she had used several times before both back in Chicago and here in Billings. It was a much shorter, high interest-low vocabulary version of Melvile's classic, _'Moby Dick'_. She had been trying, mostly in vain, to interest her rather inattentive 'Sweat Hogs' in Ahab's appeal to his crew to help him 'seek out and destroy the white great whale'.

 _  
_

' _Aye, me hearties! Twas Moby Dick that dismasted me!_

Moby Dick that brought me to this dead stump I stand on!

Aye! And I'll chase him round Good Hope,

And round The Horn, and round the Norway Maelstrom!

Aye! And round perdition's flames before I give him up!'

She had felt a glimmer of hope herself at that point, a hope glimpsed but briefly in the eyes of one or two of her more keener charges; Little Jamar Washington chief among them! Sweet little Jamar, whose father had been shot dead the year before in a drug deal gone bad and whose mother had gifted her young son just last week with the sight of her sitting vacant-eyed in a blood-stained bath with both her wrists slashed. It was only Jamal's quick wits and an even quicker 911 team that had 'saved' the mother from her second suicide attempt.

' _This is what ye signed on for, men!_

To chase that white whale on both sides of land

And over all sides of the earth,

Till he spouts black blood and rolls fin out!

Now, what say ye?!

Will ye splice hands on it now?

For I think ye do look brave!'

And 'brave' one or two did look, especially little Jamal, caught up as he was in the long dead writer's powerful words. For Candice, Gentle Reader, was a big fan of the classics and brought them into her remedial English classes whenever she could. She firmly believed that buried in their antiquated, often flowery rhetoric, were 'kernels of truth' that could raise us up from our everyday, humdrum lives and let us see something greater than our own petty needs, wants and desires.(Obviously, Candice was what we more cynical mortals laughingly call a 'hopeless romantic'!)

Though more prone herself to the 'chic-flic' type of oldies & goldies such as _Jane Aire_ , _Lorna Doone_ , and _Sense and Sensibility_ , she knew the boys would go for the more 'action packed themes' found in _Oliver Twist, Treasure Island, The Last of the Mohicans_ and good ol' blood-thirsty Cap'n Ahab chasing Moby ' _round perdition's flames_!'

And so it was in a state of dream-like shock that Miss Candice (Never Been Banged) Brown listened to Principle Al (The Kiddies Pal) as he announced on the intercom that there had been a _'terrible accident'_ and that somehow a new virus' had escaped from someplace ' _far, far away_ '. The Kiddies Pal had gone on to stress that there was ' _no need to panic_ ' and that, just as a ' _safety precaution_ ' school would be 'dismissed early' so that the children could go home to the _'safety of their loving families'_.

' _Ya, sure!'_ a seldom heard voice inside Candice mocked _._

' _Tell_ _that one_ _to little Jamal!'_

***

The school emptied out quickly, some of the students looking worried, but most just happy to have the day's drudgery cut short. Susan Hemmings, a science teacher and Candice's best and only friend at Lyndon B, took her by the arm as the filled buses pulled away from the school.

"Candice, look at this!" Susan said. Her urgent whisper verging on hysteria, Susan thrust one of those multi-task internet cell phone thingies at Candice. Still in a daze, Candice saw on the small screen a worried looking anchorman delivering a very strange and terrifying message.

" _This just in from WKPC in Oregon!_

The so called 'Death Clouds' have now engulfed most of the West Coast and are being blown eastwards!

California has gone off-line. Nevada, New Mexico and Arizona have all declared Martial Law and called in the Army Reserves!

A 'Dawn to Dusk Curfew' has gone into effect in all three states and Texas, Louisiana and Colorado are said to be about to do the same!"

The anchorman, obviously shaken, did his professional best to put on a calm face, though his voice had taken on a darker tone when, after drawing a deep breath, he continued.

" _The number of sick and dying are staggering!_

The hospitals and all local medial facilities are swamped!

There are reports of hundreds of bodies just laying where they fell!

Another pause and a quick swallow of water, then:

Airplanes are reported to be falling from the sky!

Roads and all major highways have come to a virtual standstill as the occupants of the vehicles are stricken by the air-borne virus!"

The haggard reporter was handed a paper from the sidelines, scanned it and turned several shades paler beneath his 'make-up tan'. He spoke to someone off-camera. "This can't be right? 'Wasp nests'?!"

Something unintelligible was said and the reporter, clearly shocked, turned back to the camera. His voice, when he found it, was dead calm.

" _Ladies and gentlemen._

What I am about to read will be upsetting,

even frightening, to most of you.

Please try to remain calm.

God, and your own inner strength, will prevail."

A long, deep breath, followed by a quick glance off camera, then back to the paper in his trembling hand.

" _It has been confirmed and reconfirmed_

that the air borne 'biochemical virus' that escaped

from a top-secret Army laboratory in White Sands California,

has both the capability to reproduce quickly

and to mutate or 'adapt' to its surroundings.

Once ingested into a human organism,

this virus quickly attacks the central nervous system,

causing seizures, strokes and almost instant heart failure.

Death, for most people, occurs in less than an hour."

Another deep breath, then the man looked directly into the camera. There was a hitch in his voice and, incredibly, tears in his eyes.

" _Moreover, and this, ladies and gentleman, is the hard part!_

Once dead, the bodies somehow 'transform'

into something that resembles a dry, grey wasp's nest

\--- crumble to dust and --- are blown away by the wind."

***

Back at the apartment she shared with Suzan and two cats, the sun was just coming up on what, for the relatively few good folks of Billings Montana still alive, was the first day in a Brave New World. During the night, when most were glued to their computers, TV's or phones, watching in horror as the world died all around them, a smaller, wayward ' _Cloud of Death_ ' had silently drifted over Billings, Montana.

Candice and Suzan had watched in disbelief as report after report told of the chaos that was taking place as the winds spread eastward across the continent. Neither Canada nor Mexico was spared, as the ever growing, ever mutating virus found its way into the upper atmosphere and was born away in all directions by the thermals created by the eastward march of the rising of the sun.

So called _'specialist'_ debated, even argued on camera, about just 'how far' these Death Clouds could travel before they dispersed. Would they span the entire continent? Would the Atlantic Ocean somehow 'shield' Europe? What about the southern hemisphere? Asia? Australia? Would these Death Clouds encircle the earth itself?

The argument raged on, while report after report told of deaths in the thousands, if not the hundreds of thousands, as the winds swept the deadly virus ever eastward. Cities where the winds had not yet reached reported mass panic, gigantic traffic jams, and widespread looting. Airports were closed as planes fell out of the sky. Death, it seemed, was stalking the land.

Shortly after midnight the President went on TV.

' _My fellow Americans,_

as of this moment I am declaring a state of martial law for the entire country.

Try to remain calm and look to your families.

The government will do all it can to set things right.

Go to your homes and stay safe.

Troops will be deployed to assist the local authorities to keep order.'

He spoke slowly and calmly. Behind him was the great seal of his office. He attempted to smile, but it only made him look all the more worried. He seemed ten years older than he did when he first took office just eight months earlier.

' _Do not give up hope!_

And do not, for one moment, think that your government will let you down!

Scientists assure me that this deadly virus has a very short life span.

That it won't last more than a day or two.

Be strong, people!

Prey to your God, look to your loved ones and do not despair.

I will contact you again very soon.

May God be with you all.'

***

Oblivious to the pounding on her door, Candice stood trembling in the golden rays of the rising sun, her throat raw from screaming. Tears streamed down her face as she looked at the remains of the only real friend she had ever had.

Susan Hemmings was no more. Even her body was gone! All that remained was a dry, grey wasp nest that had crumbled to dust. In a state waaaay beyond mere shock, Candice recalled the last words of the reporter she had listened to yesterday in the school parkinglot: ' _And blown away by the wind._ '

'That's what will happen to all of us!' screamed a voice from somewhere deep inside her. 'The whole fucking world will just dry up and blow away!' Incredibly, the tune _'Dust In The Wind'_ began to play in her head. _'All we are is dust in the wind.'_

Was it only a few hours ago that she and Suzan had sat there watching the horror show on TV? Suzan had been alive then! Both of them had been frightened by what they had seen on TV and by the sounds of panic they had heard from outside. Sometime after the President's short speech Suzan had produced a bottle of wine and some sleeping pills.

"Here, Candice, take two of these. Perhaps things will be better in the morning."

Both women had taken a couple of pills, washed them down with cheap white wine and, fully clothed, had laid down on Suzan's bed. Candice, still holding Suzan's hand, had eventually drifted off to sleep. The last thing she remembered hearing before the pills kicked in was a distant siren and the close, liquid sound of Suzan breathing.

She had awoken to a world filled with silence and bright sunshine. Suzan, however, was gone. Her clothes were still there, but instead of the warm, soft flesh, a dry, grayish dust now spilled out.

It was then that Candice had begun screaming. Now, minutes later, as she stared down at what was left of her friend, the knocking at her door slowly began to register, cutting through the line from that hateful song that had been repeating itself over and over in her brain.

' _Dust in the wind._

All we are is dust in the wind.'

***
**Chapter 5** **: 'Billy Raintree'**

Billings, Montana

Day One AC

Billy Raintree was a full blooded Blackfoot. Born on the reservation just outside of Cut Bank, Montana, he was in his fourth and final year of Forestry and Animal Management at Billings University. He lived on the floor below Candice Brown in a rather seedy apartment building with the unlikely name of the _'California Hotel'_.

It was the screaming that woke him. High-pitched and prolonged, it had cut through his tangled, twisted dreams --- dreams of sirens, shouting, panicked people and evil, grinning clowns.

He'd been up most the night watching the chaos unfold both on the internet and just outside his own window. Several times he thought of venturing out, but the sirens and shouting and what most certainly had been gun shots kept him behind his locked door. Just before dawn he must have drifted off in the chair in front of his laptop.

Raintree, a good natured lad in his late twenties, came out of the trouble sleep with a muffled scream of his own --- the image of dirty white greasepaint and filed teeth lingering like a bad taste in his mind. Heart pounding, sweating, he swept the long, black hair out of his eyes and bolted for the door. The screaming was coming from directly above him. He paused just long enough to snatch up the deer handled antler hunting knife his grandfather had made for him, a gift to mark his right of passage into manhood. At age thirteen Raintree had tracked, shot, field dressed and carried home his first deer. Taking the stairs two at a time, he arrived at Candice's door and knocked loudly.

He held the much cherished knife behind his back as he knocked loudly on the door. "Excuse me! Are you okay in there?!"

Halfway up the stairs the screaming had suddenly stopped, replaced by silence. Not the usual kind of 'noisy silence' with all the background clutter of distant traffic, doors opening and shutting, toilets flushing and muffled conversations. This was a deep and utter silence found only in the wilder, still 'savage' places of the world. The sweet, _natural_ silence that had greeted his people every morning for hundreds, if not thousands of years. A world fresh and clean and teaming with life --- but with very few people.

Raintree knocked again, this time a little harder. "Excuse me. Is there anyone there? I live in the building and..."

The door suddenly was yanked inward and Raintree was confronted with a wild-eyed young woman who looked both terrified and relieved at the same time. They stood staring at each other for several seconds, then he tried again. "Hi. I'm Billy Raintree. I live right below you. When I heard the screaming I..."

"You're _alive!_ " the young woman said, tentatively reaching out a hand to verify her own question/statement.

"Yes, I am," he smiled, quickly stuffing the knife into the sheath at the small of his back. _'This one's skittish enough!'_ , he thought. _'She doesn't need to see a long haired Blackfoot with a knife. Probably think I'm going to scalp her.'_

"Well," he said into the awkward silence. "If you're okay I'll just ..."

" _No!_ Don't leave! _Please!_ " Candice yelled. "I need help with Suzan!"

***

In the end, after covering her remains with a blanket, they left Suzan where she was and went down to Billy's room. It was both messier and smaller, but it had one huge advantage --- it didn't have a body in it.

"Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?" Raintree bustled about, moving piles of books and clothes from one place to another. Finally he gave up and put on the kettle. Candice sat glassy eyed in an armchair that had certainly seen better days. Raintree wondered if she was on drugs or just in shock.

' _No,'_ he reasoned. _'It's probably just all this strange shit going on. A good cup of tea will fix her right up.'_

' _Ya sure! You really believe that. Don't ya Billy boy?!'_

Candice fell asleep half way through tea and toast. Raintree covered her with a blanket, quickly scrawled a short note, left it on the table by her glasses and quietly slipped out the door.

Just gone out for a quick look around.

Won't be too long. Stay inside and

keep the door locked. Be back soon!

Billy

Despite the bizarre situation he found himself in, or perhaps, because of it, as Billy glanced back at the hotel's name over the double doors an old song started playing over and over in his head. After five or six times it started to creep him out!

' _Good night', said the Doorman,_

' _We are programmed to receive._

You can check out any time you like,

But you can never leave!'

Still trying to shake that old (and by now, _very_ creepy!) tune from his head, Billy began checking out the neighborhood. _'I mean, Jesus, there has to be somebody else alive!'_ he reasoned, his 'inner voice' sounding more than a little shaky. He glanced nervously back at is hotel. _'Me and What's-Her-Name back there can't be the only other survivors!'_

And then a dime dropped in that ol' juke-box in his mind and --- BINGO! That oldie n' goldie kicked in once again!

There she stood in the doorway,

Beside the mission bell.

I was thinking to myself this could be

Heaven or this could be Hell.

Ten minutes of searching around and nothing. Nada! Zilch! Not another living soul to be seen! What he did find were plenty of bodies; or rather plenty of half-filled piles of clothes with grey ashes leaking out of them! They were slumped over in the hundreds of cars and trucks that clogged most streets, they littered the sidewalks and lay sprawled on lawns. He even saw one hanging half out a second story window! All of them dribbling a fine, grey ash!

As he stood watched the wind swirled and eddied, causing a miniature dust storm that settled over everything like a thin, grey blanket.

Mirrors on the ceiling,

Ashes on the ice.

We are all just prisoners here,

Of our own device.

***

Billy was crossing the street when he heard the shot! Not a backfire or a bloody door slamming, but a goddamned shot!

_How could Billy be certain it was a shot you ask_ _?_ Gentle Reader, our boy grew up on a Blackfoot reservation in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Of course he knows about guns.

You also might recall that young Billy had shot and killed his fist deer when he was thirteen. His grandfather had sung a ritual prayer over the animal, made some odd waving motions over both the carcass and his grandson, then, to mark the boy's passage into manhood, the old gentleman had smeared Raintree's forehead with the animal's still warm blood.

Later he had made his grandson a flint bladed knife with a handle from the antlers of Billy's kill. That same knife was now in the grandson's hand.

Another shot followed, then another. Suddenly a large plate glass window in the Best Buy Food-Mart exploded outwards. Billy ducked into the long line of unmoving traffic, crouching behind a Chevy van that still had its motor idling. _'Must have had a full tank when the shit hit the fan sometime last night'_ he thought. The passengers inside however didn't seem to care, deflated and dusty as they were. Then a cat suddenly appeared at the window, its large eyes wide and pleading. Without thinking, Billy opened the door and both the cat and its owner spilled out onto the street. The difference being the cat flitted away while the owner had to wait for the wind.

Then laughter! He actually heard laughter! Not the soft, gentle, sane kind either; but more like something you'd hear in one of those Fun House Monster Rides --- the laughter of a pack of evil clowns!

' _A shotgun!'_ Billy thought as a second Best Buy window blew outwards.

Billy however instantly knew that he couldn't just slink away back to his hole; back to the frightened woman waiting for him and pretend that everything was hunky-fucking-dory!

Another shot. More glass on the sidewalk. More weird laughter.

Billy knew what he had to do --- _had_ known it from the start. Probably he'd been waiting for this moment all his life.

He knew that his father would have slunk away. _'Christ!'_ he swore inwardly. _'The old man has been slinking away all his pathetic life! Crawling up inside a bottle of cheap booze and blaming everything and everybody but himself for his 'bad luck'._

His grandfather, Hawk Wing, on the other hand, had never slunk away from anything in his life. He always met things head on. Good or bad, he'd always faced life with a stoic dignity and a quiet pride.

Now his grandson would try his best to do the same.

Billy moved quickly over to the Best Buy, where the blown out windows ended and the brick wall began. His heart was pounding. He had no idea who, what or how many were in there --- but he also knew he had to find out. There'd be no slinking away for Billy Raintree, for he carried with him his grandfather's twin gifts: his knife and his courage.

"No, you brain dead little maggot!" a deep voice suddenly yelled. "I don't want no fuckin' _light_ beer!" Another blast of the shotgun followed and the mixed sound of laughter, whimpering and broken bottles floated out the shattered window.

"Light fuckin' beer is for pussies like you, asswipe!" the voice continued. "Now, go find me something for a _man_ to drink!"

Billy heard a muffled reply, then the sound of a grocery cart squeaking away from him. _'Sounds like Shotgun and his buddy Asswipe are doing a little shopping'_ , he reasoned. Taking a deep breath, he glanced quickly through the shattered window. Sure enough, there they were. Two men walking away from him. A big bastard with a pump shotgun and a skinny little fella up ahead with a cart. The Blackfoot legend of _'Bear and Weasel'_ flitted across his mind. Braintree wondered if the little fella in there with 'Bear' had the smarts that Weasel had in the story. Without pondering it any further, he decided to find out.

***

'Weasel' was scared shitless. He'd somehow lived through the horrors of last night only to be _'captured'_ by this maniac with a shotgun! Even now he couldn't really believe all this was actually happening.

' _Any minute now I'm going to wake up',_ he kept saying to himself. _'Any moment now I'll open my eyes and this will all just be a very bad dream!'_

But a part of Weasel's mind, the sharper part that had brought him all those high marks in school, knew that this _was_ real. It shouldn't be, but, God help him, it was!

"Hey, Asswipe, get me a couple of couple of steaks! Make that a bunch of fuckin' steaks! Real thick bastards! We're gunna have ourselves a little Bar-B-Q right out front on main street!

The twelve gage went off again. This time Bear, the Great White Hunter, had killed himself a stand of watermelon.

***

Billy looked around for something to use beside his grandfather's knife. As fine a blade as it was, it came up wanting against a twelve gage --- unless of course, he got 'up close and _real_ personal', and only a fool brings a knife to a gunfight! So, he'd have to outfox the Bear, just as Weasel had in the legend his grandfather had told. Billy looked around again and suddenly saw what he needed. It was just sitting there in the hardware section two isles over. A plastic bin full of hardwood axe handles. Selecting the longest, he hefted it and smiled. A line from one of Clint's many westerns flitted across his mind. _'Nothin' like a good piece of hickory!_ ' Now all Billy had to do was lure the Bear into his trap with a little honey.

***

Bear guzzled down his third beer, crushed the can with one hand and let out a belch that would have gladdened the heart of many a desert dwelling Bedouin. Up ahead the skinny little shit he had found cowering in the store when he first came in was now busy filling the cart with steaks.

"Get some of that bar-b-. steak shit too! The extra hot kind, Asswipe!"

Weasel scurried off to do as he was bid, rounded a corner and came face to face with a long haired young man brandishing a very big club. Before Weasel could utter a sound, Longhair lowered the club, smiled and placed a finger on his lips. Weasel, a hellova lot smarter than he looked, caught on tooot-sweet!

Smiling back, Weasel rolled his eyes back in Bear's direction. Longhair nodded, and using hand signs, indicated that Weasel should position himself away from Longhair and then call for Bear.

"Yell out that you found a woman!" Billy whispered. 'Lead him past this corner, then..."

Both men glanced down at the axe handle. Weasel's grin made him look almost handsome. He nodded agreement, walked out and away from his longhaired savior then stopped. He could now see both men. Bear was already walking towards the corner where Longhair waited.

"Hey, Asswipe! Where the fuck ya get to?" Bear demanded, rapidly eating up the distance between himself and the waiting axe handle. "Ya weren't tryin' to get away now, was ya?"

"No, no!" Weasel squeaked. "I found someone! A woman! Back there!" He pointed a trembling finger down an empty isle.

"A woman?" Bear growled, lumbering forward even faster, the shotgun held across his massive chest in the high port position.

As he passed by the corner where Billy waited, the heavy axe handle suddenly slammed into the big man's shins just above his shit-kicker army-surplus boots. All three men heard something go 'crack'!

In the Master's chambers,

They gathered for the feast.

They stabbed it with their steely eyes,

But they just can't kill the Beast!

Billy felt the shock of the blow pass through his hands, arms and shoulders. Weasel felt it in the pit of his stomach and a tightening of his balls. But Bear felt it in every single fiber of his massive body!

Something akin to liquid fire shot through the big man's veins, courses through his nerve ends and exploded in his brain. Wreathing on the floor like a downed grizzly, he thrashed about cursing and swearing at the top of his considerable lungs!

"Oooooh you fuckers! You goddamned fuckers! I'll rip your hearts out! I'll tear your arms off! I'll ---"

THWACK!

Billy smacked him again, this time alongside the head.

"What you're going to do, Bigmouth, is shut the fuck up!" Billy yelled, his own adrenaline pumping like gangbusters! However, despite his earlier warning to himself not to get too up close to this asshole, he foolishly did just that. Feeling elated that he had taken down this abusive 'Goliath' so easily, he leaned in to savor his victory --- and got three inches of a five inch switchblade thrust deep into his left thigh!

"Aaaaahh! My leg!"

Billy instinctively backed away, dropped the axe handle and placed both hands over the protruding knife. Bear meanwhile, with at least one, if not both of his own legs broken, began crawling towards his fallen shotgun "Oh you fuckers!" he growled. "I'll fix both of you bastards _real_ good!"

"Get his gun!" Billy screamed. He then attempted to pull the blade out and nearly fainted from the pain. Able to see blurred shapes but no details, Billy yelled in Weasel's direction. 'Pick up the bloody gun!"

Weasel, for all his book smarts, was no Einstein when it came down to the nitty-gritty shit. By the time Billy's instructions sank in, Bear had almost reached his objective. However, as the massive paw-like hand made to grasp the cut-away stock, Weasel right foot came down hard on Bear's wrist.

SPLAT !!!

Though no Stompin' Tom Connors, Weasel's one hundred and thirty-something pounds was enough to make Bear sit up and take notice!

"Jeeee-sus-fuckin-Keee-rist!" Bear wailed. "You bastards are gunna _burn_!"

Like they say in the movies: _'What happened next happened fast!'_

Bear reached for the gun again.

Weasel raised his Nike size eight again.

Bear's bruised hand began to close on the 12 gage.

Weasel swooped down like an avenging budgie.

And then --- Bear caught the foot in mid-air, heaved upwards and tossed the wide eyed little weasel back on his ass!

Bear then scooped up the gun, rolled into a sitting position, pointed the stubby barrel directly at his one-time little buddy and awkwardly worked the slide.

Snick-snick!

'Payback's a bitch, Bitch!

Ka-BOOOM!

The startled look on Weasel's thin face was wiped away by a dozen and a half steel pellets of double ought buckshot. The body, now almost headless, was bowled over backwards and lay in a crumple heap. Blood began to spread outwards in a widening pool.

Snick-snick!

"Your next, Pretty Boy!" Bear rumbled, turning towards Billy.

But Billy was already there. His right hand thrust upwards and a wet, smacking sound was heard, followed by Bear grunting then sighing ever so softly.

"Aaaahhhh...."

The razo sharp flint blade of Billy's deer-antler knife had pierced the soft skin under Bear's jaw, gone up through the mouth cavity, severed the tongue, filled the nasal passage and continued on up into the brain itself.

Billy, kneeling before the transfixed Bear, thrust upwards one more time for good measure, then released the smooth, bone handle. Bear slowly flopped over and joined Weasel in yet another senseless death.

Welcome to The Best Buy,

Where there's a surprise in every isle!

***

He wasn't sure exactly how long he sat there. Probably only a minute or two, though the shock made it seem like hours. Finally it came to him that he had to do something with his bleeding leg or he'd soon join those two dead strangers laying at his feet!

"But that bastard's knife is still in my leg!" he moaned out loud.

' _Be calm, grandson'_ , a familiar voice whispered inside his head. _'You are 'Of The People'. A Blackfoot warrior! Be both strong like the mountain, yet soft like the breeze. Be like water and flow smoothly, grandson, and all will be well.'_

"But how, grandfather?" he wailed to the empty store around him, to the dead bodies scattered about.

' _Leave the knife where it is for now, grandson, and tie your belt above the wound. Then make your way to the one who waits for you. She will bind your wounds and make you whole again. But you must act quickly, or Old Crow Woman will feast on three bodies this night.'_

Billy quickly made a tourniquet from his belt, and, using Bear's shotgun as a crutch, headed for the door. He had gone but two steps before he stopped and turned back. Painfully he managed to retrieve his deer-handled knife, them, limping like an old man, he made his way back to the California Hotel.

The last thing I remember,

I was heading for the door.

I had to find the passage back,

To the place I was before.

All the way back that freaky song kept playing over and over in his head. At times it seemed like his grandfather was with him, helping him place one foot in front of the other, singing to him. Another part of his brain wondered if Candice would still be there. Then he suddenly wondered if she ever really _had_ been there? If she was even _real_?

No! She _had_ to be there! He'd seen her many times, though they'd never really spoken before. She seemed so shy, even frightened.

Besides, he'd left her a note! She was sleeping and he'd left the note on the kitchen table. _'Or was it all a just bad dream? The virus, the bodies, the wasp nests! Candice, Weasel, Bear?'_ Panic started to set in, to grip his pounding heart with cold, icy fingers. _'All dead like the rest of the world?'_

'No! No, it can't be! Grandfather, help me! Help \---'

The old man's weathered, smiling face seemed to drift just in front of him. _'Of course I will help you, grandson. I will always help you.'_

***
**Chapter 6** **: 'Neverland'**

Deep in the 'Old South'

The night of The Cleansing

Norman Nevland II was a great man. He had to be, right? I mean, if he wasn't, why the fuck would they name a state penitentiary after his sorry black ass?

True, he had been the warden for one hell of a long time, he had a Masters degree in Prison Administration and he had run (and lost) for governor of the late great state of Alabama twice and yes, not to put too fine a point on it, he was of African-American decent.

The bottom line here however, is that Norman Nevland, for whatever goddamn reason, once he passed on to that Great Correction House in the Sky, had one of the largest, oldest and nastiest maximum security institutions named after him in the good-old-boy state of Alabama.

Now, in a media-run age when _nick-names_ and _catch-phrases_ are the vogue, when powerful, important men are jokingly referred to by such glib, disrespectful names such as 'Trickie-Dickie, 'Bush-Light', 'The Govonator' and 'Obama-Yo-Mamma!', just what cute little moniker do you think the degenerated denizens of Norman _Nevland_ Maximum Security Prison called their venerable establishment?

You got it, Homie! Neverland!

A place where the warden was called 'Daddy Darling' and 'Captain Hook' was the head guard. A 'Wendy' was some fresh-meat pretty boy that you made your 'Bitch' and a 'Nana' was one of the ass-kissing prisoners who worked as a trustee. And every other motherfucker in there, one way or another, was a 'Lost Boy'!

And what of the 'star of the show', that ever lovable, little scamp known to us all as 'Peter Pan'? Well friends and neighbors, that sweet little tyke was prison slang for any of the many mood altering drugs that were found there in an over-fucking abundance.

***

Several hours before the Death Clouds passed over the section of rural Alabama where _Neverland's_ grey, crumbling walls brooded over the land like a decrepit dinosaur, a full blown riot was already in progress deep within the brick bowels of the beast. Word of the approaching death had leaked out and the general population had generally gone absolutely bat-shit!

Hey, it's just like good ol' Bobby D. used to sing:

' _When ya aint got nothin', Shithead, ya got nothin' ta loose!'_

By midnight Neverland was in complete chaos!

Half a dozen guards and over two dozen inmates had been killed in the riot. Most mattresses were either on fire or smoldering out noxious flames, sirens blared, men screamed, the sprinklers were soaking everyone. The infirmary had been looted and the two nurses on duty, one male and one female, had both been gang raped repeatedly.

Captain Hook, the burly leader of the prison guards, shouted into his throat mike. "Warden! The rubber bullets and water canons are just not enough, Sir! Permission to use live amo is requested!"

The warden, 'Daddy Darling', was the complete opposite of the late great Norman Nevland II. Where Norman had been quiet and soft spoken, 'Daddy D' was an opinionated, abrasive loudmouth white cracker; where Norman had believed in therapy, kindness and rehabilitation, 'The Dadmyster' believed in that age old adage of 'spare the rod and spoil the fucking child'. So, when Captain Hook requested the use of lethal force, you can just guess what that southern gentleman's reply was:

"Hell ya! Fuck the rubber bullets! Waste the bastards!"

***

Tattoo was in heaven. He paused in his work of bashing in the brains of yet another captured guard and took a deep breath. The smoke from the smoldering mattresses and blazing bed sheets was like a breath of fresh air on a sunny morn, mixed as it was with sweat, piss and that low down _'funky'_ aroma of dried cum.

"Please!" the already battered guard moaned, attempting to cover his bleeding head with his hands. "I've a wife and two children!"

Tattoo paused in mid swing, the sparkle from the ring on the guard's hand stopping him more than his plea for mercy. "Wife, eh? She any good in bed?" Then, without waiting for a reply, he bent down and bit the guard's finger off to get to the ring.

***

Unlike Tattoo, Neverland inmate Enrico the Spider was literally shitting his pants, but it wasn't the violent mayhem all about him that was giving ol' Spidy the Hershey Squirts. Not at all! Violent mayhem was 'mother's milk' down in the 'Barrio' where Spider grew up. A blooded member of a Latino gang when he was eleven, Spider soon developed a _'specialty'_ that endeared him to his older brethren. A few deft slashes of his infamous straight razor and, wham, bam, thank you mam! the foolish foes of El Scorpions fell by the wayside! As time marched on, Spider developed a certain _'taste'_ for his work, (sort of like Doctor Death you crossed path with back in Albany). Spider _perfected_ his skills on gays, transvestites and lesbian hookers. He was caught slicing and dicing a 'sweet young thang' that landed him an all expenses paid life sentence in Neverland.

So, if it _wasn't_ the chaotic violence of the riot that was causing Spider's body fluids to exit so freely, what was it?

Taa-Daa! I already told ya, Num-Nuts!

' _The answer my friend, is blown in the wind._

The answer is blown in the wind.'

Part of Spider's fuckedup background included a fucked up view of that 'Good Ol' Tme Religion' so for him, the global pandemic now raging across the world was seen as 'God's Breath' cleansing the earth as it once had in the Land of Herod long, long ago.

And just what the fuck has all this southern bullshit have to do with a sick Spick psycho shitting his drug-fried brains out?

Why, Elementary my dear Watson!

Spider had the dubious distinction to be the _very first_ , but far from the last inmate of Neverland to show symptoms of what dear ol' retired and some say 'retarded' George W. used to _'affectionally'_ call his ' _Weapons of Mass Diss-Truction'_.

***

Nurse Judy-May had the graveyard shift that week at Neverland. The other nurses hated it, but not Judy-May. So much so that she'd often trade off with the other nurses

Why, you ask? Because, Gentle Reader, the wee hours of the night was the only real time these degenerate assholes ever truly shut the fuck up!

Now Nurse Judy-May didn't always talk like that. No siree-Bob! She came from a solid god-fearing Baptist background where the Good Book and a bar of Lye soap went hand in hand. ' _You cain't have a clean soul if you got a foul mouth!'_ her Mama used to say.

Many's the time Judy-May saw one of her brothers, either Tommy-Lee or Billy-Bob, get their mouth washed out with that big ol' cake of Lye soap! Judy-May only had a taste of it once, but like Mama used to say: _'Once bitten, shy forever!'_

Dear old Mama had a saying for just about everything under the sun. 'The early bird gets the worm; handsome is as handsome does' to mention but a few. Mama had a whole bunch of sayings from the Good Book too. Not that watered down sissified 'New Testament' kind either! Mama favored that _'Old Time Religion'_ , the kind that comes from the stern Father more than from his sissy Son. 'The Lord helps those who help themselves; The Lord works in mysterious ways. And the ever popular: _'An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth!'_

Judy-May firmly believed however that Mama's all time favorite was _'Spare the rod and spoil the child!'_ Yes Sir, _that_ was one golden oldie Mamma put a _whole_ lot of faith in!

And we're not talking just mumbled prayers, fumbling with beads or quietly reading the scriptures! Mmmmm-Mmmmmm! Nooooo Mam!

' _Action speaks louder than words'_ was another one from her Top Ten List, and Mama put both the Lye soap and the Rod of God into action many a time!

***

Though no-one in the family would come right out and say it, Judy-May believed it was all that _'soapin' and swattin'_ that drove everyone away.

Tommy-Lee was the first to go. He up and joined the army the day he turned eighteen. Seemed like he couldn't get away from the 'ol' homestead' fast enough! He was so proud and fine looking in his fancy new uniform when he visited a year later. That was just before they sent him over to Iraq or Iran or one of those A-rab countries. A letter came six months later saying how _'they were very proud that such a fine young man had given his life for his country'_. He'd been killed by something called an I.U.D.

Billy-Bob took off next. Not to the army, but to Montgomery. Mama didn't like big cities, said they were _'wicked, sinful places'_!

"You mark my words, young lady!" Mama often said of her one remaining son. "That boy never did have a lick of common sense! Foulest mouth I ever heard! Now he's run off to chase painted Jezebel's in those human cesspools! I swear, Jackson and Montgomery are Alabama's Sodom and Gomorra! It won't surprise me one bit if your brother don't get his fool self turned into a pillar of salt or some such!"

Judy-May's daddy didn't go anywhere, but then that's not quite true. For years now he mainly just went to work at the post office, came home and watched TV. It didn't seem to matter what was on, just so long as he had something to look at and listen to besides Mama. Judy-May secretly believed her daddy had _'gone away'_ a long time before either of his sons.

In time she went away too. She had always wanted to be a nurse, but there was no money for fancy schoolin'. Then one day a friend told her that she could become an army nurse for free! It wasn't free exactly, but if she singed up for five years, they'd pay all her medical schooling and at the end of it, she'd be a real nurse! Well it seemed like a dream come true! She signed up, packed her bag was on the next Greyhound out of town.

After all, didn't Mama always say that ' _The Lord helps those who help themselves'_?

***

Nurse Judy-May didn't always swear like a trooper. That started during Boot Camp. You see, she and several other girls had to do their training with fifty guys --- all young, horny and _very_ foul mouthed. Mama would have needed a whole goddamn _case_ of Lye soap for Boot Camp!

But the real cursing started when she came to work at Neverland.

The army was a piece of cake compared to the things that went on there! Mama would likely expect God to turn the entire institution into one giant _mountain_ of salt!

The Big Warden in the Sky however, did a hell of a lot more than even Mama could have wished for! Fuck the salt! _'He worked His Mysterious ways'_ so that almost everyone on the whole fucking planet was turned into crumbling heaps of grey ash. _Can I get a halleluiah_ and _an amen?!_

***

Judy-May came to work early that fateful night just before the prison, because of the riot, went into 'total lock down'. She had just signed in when the ancient klaxons started screeching to high heaven.

"What the fuck?" she asked to no-one in particular.

All about her was controlled chaos! Electric gates slammed shut. Guards ran to and fro, yelling orders. The riot squad _'suited up'_ and dog-marched into position. The guards on the walls locked and loaded their carbines and searched eagerly for a target.

Neverland had gone into _'Code Red'_!

"Judy-May!" a voice called out. "Judy-May, get your ass over here right now!" It was the warden, Daddy Darling., waiting for her just inside the main entrance. "Where you been, girl? I've been waitin' on ya! Get down to the infirmary n' make sure the drugs are all locked up good n' proper! Go on, girl, get!"

As she headed down the stairs she thought about how the Warden had looked. All red faced and puffy. Sweating too! He was usually so calm and collected when the shit hit the fan. Maybe he was coming down with something?

At the bottom of the stairs she met Captain Hook. The Head Guard was with a dozen of his boys. They were dressed in riot gear, with batons and large see-through shields. Several carried the bulky looking rifles that fired rubber bullets. Judy-May also saw that a couple of the guards looked like they'd been in a fight and that one or two were actually bleeding.

"Where you going, girl?" Captain Hook demanded.

"The Infirmary," she replied.

Captain Hook was shaking his head. "No way! The Skinheads already got to it! I'm sealing off this entire level. Best get to the cafeteria. We'll bring the wounded there. Go on now! Get!"

Judy-May, always the good little girl and soldier, did as she was told. The cafeteria was their 'back-up' infirmary in a situation like this, though Judy had never lived through a _'situation like this'_ before. Neverland had had its share of 'disturbances' in the past, even a riot or three --- but Holy Shit! _Nothing_ like this!

***
**Chapter 7** **: 'Two-Times Tyree'**

 **  
**

Neverland, Alabama

The Night of The Cleansing

Two-Times Tyree didn't get his name because he was a two times looser doing two dimes and a nickel in Neverland for armed robbery, which he was. Nor did he get it because he was always two-timing on his 'bitch-wife', Charlene --- which he did whenever he could. No, Gentle Reader, he acquired that rather peculiar moniker because he was such a jive-assed, jittery, stung-out little mutherfucker that ran his mouth so much that he said most things twice in a row!

Here's a little taste of Two-Times Tyree:

Hey! Hey there Jimmy-boy! Jimmy-boy!

How the fuck ya doin'? Jimmy-boy! Hey! How the fuck ya doin'?!

"What you want now, Tyree?" Jimmy demands, far from thrilled with his new cell-mate.

"Want? Want? What the fuck do I want? Why, I don't want nothin', Jimmy-boy! Don't want nothin'! 'Cept maybe, man, just a little somethin' to tide me over. You know, man, just a little somthin' to help tide me over. Hey! Hey! What do ya say, Jimmy-boy? What do ya say?"

Nice, eh? Good ol' Two-Times Tyree gets old _real_ fast, don't he just?

Now, toss into this verbal diarrhea a whole lot nervous tics, constant movement and a high pitched, whinny voice that even a doting mother would be hard pressed to love and you, Gentle Reader, are just _beginning_ to see what an irritating little fuck Two-Times can be! Five minutes with him awigglin' n' asquigglin' is worse than an hour with a drunken dentist that just loves to use his _'bitchin'_ new drill!

The 'bro's' Two-Times tried to 'hang' with in Neverland felt much the same way --- so much so that one night Jimmy-boy and several of his homies beat the living shit out of poor ol' Two-Times. They caught his naked, skinny black ass in the shower and left him drooling in the drain till a screw found him a few hours later. But did our boy _learn_ that oh so important lesson that good ol' Jimmy and the lost boys had tried to impart on young Tyree?

What do ya think? Eh? Eh? What do ya think?

***

About a half hour before the riot started, Two-Times Tyree was sitting in his cell trying his best not to piss off Jimmy-boy again, which, for Two-Times, was damned near impossible seeing as how Jimmy was already worked up about something one of the lost boys had told him earlier. Two-Times had wanted to ask what it was, but, truth be told, he did not want another ass-whuppin'.

_(And they say_ 'no pain, no gain' _doesn't work!)_

Still, being the brain-dead tweaker he was, Two-Times just couldn't help himself. Swinging down from the top bunk, he hung there on the bars and eye-balled his already agitated cellmate.

"Hey! Hey, Jimmy-boy! Jimmy-boy! What he fuck did Kaream want, man? Shit, man, I mean I heard him say some weird shit, man. Weird shit!"

"Get --- the fuck --- away --- from me!"

Two-Time dropped to the floor, backed up and raised his hands. "Alright, man. Alright! I was just akin', you know. Just askin'."

Jimmy took a deep, rasping breath and sighed. "Ya? Well go fuckin' ask someone else!"

Two-Time worked his way through a whole repertoire of tics, then said: "Ya, well, ya, I would, you know...I would, but, well, out in the yard, man, out in the yard it just aint safe for me right now! Aint safe at all!"

Jimmy boy barked out a laugh, or it could have been a growl. "N' you think you're _safe_ in here with me, mutherfucker? You with all your jive-assed talk n' mutherfuckin' _tics_ n' shit!?" Jimmy covered the space between them in less than a heartbeat, his rough hand digging into Two-Times scrawny neck.

"What you want to _know_ , Shithead? Was you _listenin' in_ on me n' Kaream? Was you _spyin'_ on me, mutherfucker?!"

The hand tightened and Two-Times began to choke. "No, man, no! I wasn't spyin' on ya! Wasn't spyin'! I just kinda _heard_ some weird shit is all. _Weird_ shit 'bout 'people _dyin'_ outside, ya know. _Lots_ of people dyin' outside!"

Jimmy's grip slackened slightly. "Ya? What _else_ did you hear?"

Two-Times sucked in precious air and looked at Jimmy, who, to tell the truth, didn't look so good himself. He was all red in the face and sweating like a pig. Even the touch of his hand on Two-Time's throat was hot. Suddenly Jimmy released him and stepped back, nearly lost his footing and sat down heavily on his bunk.

"I said, --- what the fuck else --- did you _hear_?!"

"Ah, ah, nothin' much, Jimmy-boy! Nothin' much! Just some weird shit about bodies pilin' up _all_ over n' somethin' 'bout ' _Death Clouds'_ ...?" Two-Time went through his tic routine again, then continued. "I mean, I mean, it sounded like he was talking 'bout some _movie_ or somthin'! Some mutherfuckin' _'space'_ movie about 'bodies' n' 'Death Clouds' whipin' out the whole mutherfuckin' _planet_ , man! Mutherfuckin' 'Star Wars' shit, man! Fuckin' _Star Wars_!"

But Jimmy didn't seem to be paying much attention. He was just sitting there on the bed, his breathing coming hard and fast, sweat dripping off him like he was outside in the pouring rain!

"Hey Jimmy-man? Hey Jimmy-man? You _alright_ , man?"

It was then that Two-Times saw the trickle of blood flowing out of Jimmy-boy's left nostril, soon to be followed by a similar trickle from the right one.

"Hey, man, hey man, ya having a fuckin' _nosebleed_ , man?" Two-Times then noticed blood flowing from both of Jimmy's ears as well

"What the _fuck_?!"

Jimmy seemed to gag, then opened his mouth to speak. Instead of words, blood came out and dribbled down his chin. But it was when blood began to leak out of Jimmy-boys eyes that Two-Times began screaming.

He stood there screaming and screaming, for what seemed like eternity --- but no-one came. They were too busy with waking nightmares of their own.

' _Mutherfuckin' 'Star Wars' shit, man!_

' _Star Wars' shit!'_

***
**Chapter 8** **: 'The Major'**

Upstate New York

Several months

After the Cleansing

Major Clayton Thomas Burns looked around his underground bunker and, like the Lord God Himself had at the end of the Sixth Day, he saw that what he had created was good.

The Major saw the men and women in their cameo fatigues, standing at attention beside rows of army cots stretching down both sides of the long, cement bunker.

He saw racks and racks of weapons of all kinds, with shelves full of the ammo to go with them. At the foot of each cot was what he liked to call a _'war chest'_ , a large metal trunk just chocked full of all the nice little high-tec goodies a modern, post nuclear warrior would need.

Then his wolf-grey eyes turned back to his soldiers themselves and his heart quickened with pride. There were fifty of them. Fifty of the best! Fifty valiant men and women who he had painstakingly hand picked to be his _'Warriors for the New World'_.

Over the years people had called Clayton Thomas Burns many things. Sometimes good, sometimes bad, but never, _never_ boring! He was a man of many talents and strong opinions. In his years in the US military he made friends and he made enemies, but even his biggest detractors always called him _'interesting'_. For you see, Gentle Reader, Major Clayton Thomas Burns believes, with every _fiber_ of his being, that he has fought, died and been reincarnated dozens of times, each time coming back as one of the world's most famous warriors! The Major _truly believes_ that he _was_ the great Mongol leader Ghengus Khan; that he _was_ England's crusader king, Richard the Lionheart, and most recently, that he was the WWII hero, General George Armstrong _Patten_!

The man is _utterly convinced_ that he first began acquiring his 'warrior's skills' as a common spearman in ancient Greece and that the first time he 'died in battle' was in the Trojan War, killed by _Achilles_ himself way back in 1172 BC!

He also fervently believes that he died _again_ as a Spartan in 480 BC at the Pass of Thermopolis and that in 53 BC he _fought and died_ in Gaul alongside Julius Caesar. That time he was _Mark Anthony_. The next 'death' General Burns can clearly recall was in the fourth century AD when he was fighting in Celtic Britain as Centurion _Claytonius Burnus_ of the Tenth Legion!

But what _really_ puts the Major in a more elite group of _'eccentrics_ ' is that he also believes that his 'past lives' were _'chosen for him by some Higher Power'_. It is his firm belief that over four thousand years ago, God or Zeus or Whoever, _chose him_ , a lowly spearman defending the walls of Troy, to be one of a select few that, over the coming centuries, would lead the world on the straight and narrow path to a 'better way of life'.

As our old buddy Two-Time would undoubtedly say:

Hey! Hey, Reader-boy! Reader-boy!

The Major's the Man, mutherfucker!

I mean, hey! Hey! He's the mutherfuckin' Man!

The Major however, most definitely would _not_ have approved of Two-Time, though not because he was Black, for the Major most definitely _not_ in a racist. He judged each person solely by their _character_ , not their color, race or origin.

He does the same with countries, and it saddenes him greatly that his own beloved country has been tested and _found wanting_. During his years in the military he slowly come to grips with the reality that America, _his_ America, once upright and honorable, was that no more. Once she would have passed his simple test with flying colors, but alas, those days were long gone.

For years now he has been striving to bring back those days of lost glory; to prepare his hand picked troops for the rather drastic steps needed to bring his beloved country back onto God's Shining Path. The coming of _The Cleansing_ had only served to make that striving all the more urgent!

***

The Major now turned to his second in command and returned the man's crisp salute. "Very good, Captain! Have the men stand down. There is something I think they should hear."

"Yes Sir!" the Captain replied, turning on the polished heels of his combat boots. "Company! Stannnnd _Down_!"

" _Sir! Yes Sir!"_ came back fifty times, sounding more like five hundred in the concrete bunker.

The Major stepped into the ringing silence and smiled. "Get comfortable, men. Sit if you like. This may take awhile."

Most sat on the edge of their 'war chests', though a few chose to stand. All waited with baited breath for the Major's next words.

"I'd like to give you a status report on what's happening topside." The Major's voice, though soft, easily carried to the far end of the barracks.

"Sixty-seven days ago our country was attacked by persons unknown. A deadly, airborne virus was released into the atmosphere, spread on the wind and within a week had killed roughly eighty to ninety percent of the humans on Earth.

"Sixty-two days ago the United States of America was involved in a limited but devastating nuclear war! Various countries launched some of their warheads at other countries. Who fired first si not known and is _not_ important. What is important is that, though several of our large cities were hit, _most were not_. As I said, it was a _'limited'_ engagement --- not because of any lack of willingness on our part, but simply because there were _not enough people still alive_ to push the right buttons!"

The Major paused to let those harsh facts sink in before continuing. Most of the young men and women listening to him had family and loved ones somewhere back on the surface.

"As you all know very well, we have been in here now for a little over _nine_ weeks. Sixty-seven days. Originally I had planned on waiting a full hundred days before sending the first 'scouting party' topside, however our latest readings from outside show acceptable radiation levels. The _killing_ virus, the infamous ' _Death Clouds'_ we believe died off within the first month. So, in _two days_ from now we will be sending a squad of volunteers outside."

Looking out at his fifty, hand picked warriors, his stern features relaxed somewhat. "If you have any questions, _now_ is the time to ask them."

"Excuse me, Sir" a young female voice finally spoke up. "Respectfully, Sir, how do we know for certain that the pandemic is truly over and that the virus is dead?"

The Major smiled. He liked it when his warriors used their brains as well as heir brawn, and 'polite' questions were usually encouraged. "An excellent point --- Johnson, isn't it?"

The young woman shot to attention, her voice filling the large barracks. " _Yes Sir_ , Private S. Johnson, 'B' Company. _Sir!"_

The Major turned to the Captain waiting by his side. "Captain, please make a note, Private Johnson is now _Corporal_ Johnson," he then turned back to the rather red faced new corporal. "At ease, Johnson. _'Sandra'_ , is it not?"

The woman couldn't hide her obvious pleasure. "Yes Sir!"

"A lovely name. My great grandmother's as well."

Corporal Johnson blushed.

Now the Major is not _flirting_ here, Gentle Reader. There is no _ulterior motive_ to get into Sandra Johnson's pants! (However pleasant that may or may not be.) Like _all_ good leaders, he simply takes an interest in his troops.

As he has done _countless times before_ , back in ancient Greece, in Celtic Brittan, on the dry, dusty plains of Gaul and on the bloody beaches of Normandy, the _'present'_ Major Clayton Burns _often_ called a trooper by his first name.

He knew it boosted moral and brought him closer to his men. 'Bonding' them to him with what he thought of as a _'familiar loyalty'_.

But this was not a calculated pretense on his part. The Major genuinely _cared_ about each and every one of his 'beloved warriors'. He also, however, would not hesitate to send those same 'beloved warriors' to their deaths to gain his chosen objective. After all, is it not the _'nature'_ of a warrior to die gloriously in combat?

Hadn't he himself done so _many_ times in the past?

You see, Gentle Reader, the good Major does indeed know his trade --- but then he should. He's been doing it over and over for the last four thousands of years!

***

"Corporal Johnson has asked how do we know for certain that the virus that killed so many is itself dead." The Major held the room's full attention. He stretched that silence out to just before its breaking point, then: "The honest answer is we can't tell for certain the virus is gone. The Science Team _'thinks'_ it is, but in truth, we're just not sure."

"Our topside cameras show plenty of animals nearby and our monitors show that radiation levels are at least acceptable. The _real_ reason we now believe that it is safe to venture outside is that our closed circuit cameras have recently picked up a few _human survivors_ roaming nearby. Not many mind you! In the nine weeks we've been underground, our cameras have only picked up a grand total of five living humans. Three of these, seen weeks ago, were frightened, lost and obviously insane, crawling about, chewing at roots. These last two however, seen just yesterday, did _not_ act frightened , lost or insane. They acted like hunters --- and they had _armed_ themselves."

He let that last little tid-bit sink in.

In a 'warrior culture' such as this, an _'armed stranger'_ was treated like an enemy until proven different. So it had been in the tribal caves of Ice Age Europe, so it was in this concrete cave nestled in the Adirondack Mountains of what until recently, had been called upstate New York.

"Our Science Team reminds me that electromagnetic pulses from the nukes knocked out all of our satellite based, far range cameras and communications, so we have no real idea of what is happening beyond a hundred meters from our own front door. The last we heard before communications failed was that Washington, Boston, Miami and several other large cities had been hit, though not by multiple strikes. New York City we think, was not hit at all."

"Excuse me, Sir!" It was the recently promoted Sandra Johnson again.

The Major's serious face cracked a slight smile. "Yes, Corporal?"

"Excuse me again, Sir, but, well, for weeks now we've all heard rumors about the nukes, but no details." She glanced around the room and saw most nodding approval, each one just as anxious as she was. "Well, Sir, most of us have families out there and..."

"And you'd like to know which cities were hit and which were spared?" the Major said. The smile that was there an instant ago had vanished. "That's very understandable, _Sergeant_ Johnson."

"Thank you, Sir. But, it's 'Corporal', Sir, you just..."

"Promoted you up another rank? Yes, I'm quite aware of that, Sergeant." He turned to the Captain beside him, who nodded at his commander and corrected his last entry in the roster, all the while trying to suppress a smile of his own.

The Major continued. "Our 'list' of cities hit is guesswork at best. Aside from a very few weak and garbled radio signals, we have had absolutely no contact with the outside world for over six weeks. As to what cities were or were not hit by the nukes, Sergeant Johnson, sadly, I don't think it matters one way or the other."

That caused considerable agitation in the room. The Major let it go on for several heartbeats, then. "At least _ninety_ percent of the world's population is now dead. That number may be even higher. Whether by bug, bomb or bullet doesn't _really_ matter." He leaned forward, holding their rapt attention just as he had the Roman masses over two thousand years ago when, as Mark Anthony, he spoke to them of Caesar's murder.

' _Friends, Romans, countrymen,_

lend me your years!

I come not to praise Caesar, but to bury him.

Nor do I come to pass judgment on Brutus

or the other men that murdered him;

For we all know that they and Brutus

Are indeed all very 'honourable' men!'

"What _does_ matter however is this," the general once again continued. "For all we know, we may be the only _organized_ form of armed forces left. We may be the only form of _'stability'_ left! There may be some others like us, scattered about the country in various bunkers, but we can't assume that. All else will be chaos, regardless of how many survivors are wandering around out there. As for any survivors in the rest of the world, they may as well be on the far side of the moon."

Stunned silence --- during which he waited several heartbeats before going on. "So I'm calling for ten volunteers for this first reconnaissance mission. If interested, give your name to Sergeant Johnson. She'll be leading the team. That is all for now."

Just before the waiting Captain gave the order to dismiss, the Major spoke again. "There is one more thing I'd like to share with you. I know that most of you are feeling some form of emotional pain for the loss of your friends and families. As you should be. Grieving is both natural and necessary. But I also know this. Your pain _will_ pass."

He smiled sadly at them, his voice taking on that of a concerned parent or big brother. "Given time, it will fade, never _completely_ mind you, for like an old wound, it will ache now and then and leave a scar, but, given time, it _will_ fade --- allowing you to function. Allowing you to do your duty."

His audience stiffened at that, the mention of duty being like food and drink to them. The Major's voice dropped to a whisper and all strained to hear. "The loss of my own wife and child several years ago in a car crash nearly killed me. With them went my own will to live. I was like a man lost in a dark forest or a ship lost on a stormy sea. I just wanted to sink into the shadows and darkness all around me. Almost did, too. But then something happened!"

He turned and smiled at Sister Peters, the army chaplain that he had personally recruited into his 'warrior society'. "Oh, no burning bush or trumpets from Heaven, Sister Pete! Nothing near so _'biblical'_!"

There were smiles and snickers at that. Religious or not, most of 'Chosen Fifty' liked 'Sister Pete'. A one-time nun who had felt the 'call' to join the military, Sister Peters had served two years in Iraq as a medic before she joined the Major's little organization. A true believer in 'social change', she had swallowed the Major's rather right-winged beliefs hook, line and sinker!

"I like to think my wife gave me the idea of creating all of this." The Major waved his hand at the large bunker they were in. "After she had won all that lottery money she said she wanted to _'do something important'_ with it. Not just hand a portion of it over to some charity, but to actually _do_ something that would make a real change in out rapidly decaying society.

"As you probably know, both she and my son died in a car crash soon after. I was alive, but barley. Month after month, laying in that hospital bed, I thought about her desire to 'do something important'.

"And then it came to me! As a very wealthy, retired army officer, I now had the funds needed to create my own warrior society, a society not tied to any _'politically correct'_ mentality! We could fight terrorism our _own_ way, unconcerned with conventional laws or outdated concepts of left-wing morality! We could finally do the _'right thing'_.

"I was ecstatic! I had found something to live for again! Something that gave my life meaning!" He paused and surveyed his crowd of rapt disciples. "You all are part of that something! Each and every one of you have been hand picked, not only for your skills, but your inner strength and personal honor! _Rejoice_ in that, my brothers and sisters! _Cling_ to it in this time of grief and sorrow, and _use_ it to give you the strength to carry on!"

A teary eyed Sergeant Johnson started the clapping. Soon they started to cheer.

***
**Chapter** **: 9 Suzy Creamcheese  
**

Albany, New York

Five months AC

"Big Cat's down, Top," Jewels said into her throat mike. "And the females are scattering. You want my crew to take them out?"

"No, let them go," Duke sighed. "Kid's Scouts can keep an eye on them." He turned to the eager youth standing beside him. "You and your guys just nudge them along a bit so they leave the area."

"Already on it, Duke!" Kid grinned, motioning for Stretch and Wrench to follow him. "Some of my boys are already movin' in on the bitches!" As he and his two Scouts began to head down the hill, three or four shots suddenly came from off to the left, followed by a scream that was abruptly cut off. Several more shots followed, the last one from a high powered rifle.

"What the...?" Kid demanded?

Jewels again spoke into her throat mike. Static crackled, then a voice came back. Jewels listened, then turned to Duke. "One of the females attacked a Scout. Mauled him and then attempted to drag him away. Queenie shot her."

"Which Scout was mauled?" Kid demanded.

"She can't tell --- there's too much blood. But he's still moving."

Duke turned to the silent man who had stood back watching events unfold. "Doc, it looks like were going to need your services after all!"

***

She called herself _Suzy Creamcheese_. She lived with her bitch of a mother and her demented little brother, Booger-Boy, but she liked to stay with her _waaaay_ cool great-granny every chance she could. She got her name off and old album by some weird Sixties dude called Frank Zappa, whoever the Hell he was! She'd found the album in her great-granny's attic. Old-time vinyl, no less! _Waaaaay_ cool!

Great-granny had been a Hippie 'way back when'. You know, all that 'Peace & Love' shit! When Suzy was a little kid Granny used to tell her stories about all those hippi-dippi rock stars she had _'met'_. Even back then Suzy knew that Granny really meant 'banged', but since Granny was now like about a zillion years old, Suzy didn't want to freak the old lady out by letting on that she knew the old girl had once been a groupie-slut.

Sweet Suzie Creamcheese.

A Rocker's wet dream!

Rockin' & Rollin'

& acting obscene!

Suzy herself was in a band. Well, _kind of_. Two guys with guitars and another girl who, when she wasn't banging the boys, banged a set of drums. They practiced in a garage and played mostly birthday parties and Jew-boy 'barmitzfas'. Once they had played in a real club in downtown Albany, but one of the boys got drunk and their slut drummer was underage and going down on the bartender for free drinks, so they got tossed out half way through the gig.

But it had been _waaay_ cool and Suzy had gotten off on the applause. She'd been looking for a new band to join when fucking Death Clouds rolled in. She'd woken up the morning after to find what was left of her mother and little brother dead in the kitchen. Mumsy looked like just another pile of unwashed laundry lying there on the floor. Booger-Boy, or at least his Spiderman PJ's, were draped over the kitchen table, a grayish sand-like shit dribbling into his Fruit Loops.

Of her father/papa/old man, there wasn't a sign. Of course, there hadn't _been_ any sign of him for several years now. He'd dribbled away long before the fucking Cleansing!

After she stopped screaming, she ran looking for help.

Of course, everyone one else was already dead and dribbling into their own personal breakfast bowl. She ran out of the apartment building and into the street, looking wildly around for someone, anyone! But all she saw was stalled and wrecked cars here and there, a cat casually licking its paw and lots and lots of dirty laundry scattered about.

That's when she had decided to high-tail it to Granny's!

Like Little Red Riding Hood long before her, she passed several _'Big Bad Wolves'_ on the way, but they were either too crazed by what had befallen them or too busy looting the corner liquor store to take note of sweet little Suzy Creamcheese. (Lucky girl!)

She made it to Granny's house, and did indeed find that sweet old groupie. However, she wasn't in the kitchen baking cookies or pouring Fruit Loops. She was in her bed, or at least, what was left of her. Emotions raging through her teenage body, Suzy looked down at the only person in her short, turbulent life who had ever really given a shit about her. Slowly she managed a tear-filled smile as a story the old gal had told her came unbidden to her troubled mind. _'We called it a 'Bed-In'_ , Suzy dear. We'd all climb in bed together and laugh and sing and stay in bed for days and days! They were all the rage back then!'

Hey, far out, Granny!

All you were say-ing!

Is give peace a chance.

But of course, Granny's Hippie Dippie shade had already been whisked off to Mother Goose's house or the Old Lady in the Shoe's pad or whatever nursery rhyme in the sky sweet old granny's went to.

Suzy looked down at the grey ashes that had leaked out of the clean but faded pink flannel nightgown. Mercifully her mind showed her a picture of the kind old lady's smiling face. _'Good-by, Suzy-dear. You know I'll always love you, Sweetheart, but now it's time for me to go. I'm tired and need a long rest. Peace and love, child.'_

Suzy --- like her fairy tale counterpart, Little Red You Know Who had done, hunkered down and waited. Waited for the 'Brave Hunter' to come and save her skinny ass. She waited for 'Prince Charming' to ride up and bang her silly. She even waited for that hunchbacked bell-ringing dweeb Quasimodo to swing on by. But alas, Sweet Suzy Creamcheese remained a rather depressed and lonely 'damsel in distress.'

She stayed at Granny's B&B till the grub ran out. She had made a few tentative hikes through the concrete jungle outside, but the _'two-legged wolves'_ had caught her sent and she had barely made it back to Granny's in one piece.

Then, one bright morn when the sun was shining and the birds were singing, Sweet Suzy girded up her loins, polished her nose-ring, donned her black 'Goth' clothing, stuffed Granny's gigantic home-made macramé purse with all the things she thought she'd need for an extended road trip, including a selection of butcher knives from the wooden block in the kitchen, and she hit the Yellowbrick Road!

I am the Wallress. I am the Wallress. I am the Eggman!

Goo-Goo-Ba-Joob! Goo-Goo-Goo-Ba-Joob!

It took her a few weeks of walking, but she made it all the way to the outskirts of Albany when, instead of a wolf, she met a lion. Unlike Dorothy's lion in that _'other story'_ , this one was anything but timid! Lean, mean and very hungry, the tawny tabby opened its very large mouth and roared! At that point Sweet Suzy Creamcheese, a young man's wet dream, started screaming her bloody head off!

***

Both the Duke and Doctor Death got to the mauled Scout's side at the same time. Doc went to his knees beside the bleeding victim and Duke worked the lever on his Yellow Boy, pumping a hollow point 30/30 round into the chamber. The Kid, along with Stretch and Wrench, were already beating the bushes and making one hell of a noise in hopes of diving off the four female lions.

"How is he, Doc?"

"Lucky! It dragged him by the arm, but nothing too serious."

"Shit, man!" the Scout moaned. "Not 'serious'! A fucking lion's been chewing on my fucking arm!"

Just then they heard another scream. It came from somewhere off to the right. A _female_ voice this time. It was followed by a deep throated roar.

"Oh shit!", Duke said, then moved quickly towards the screaming. "They've got someone else!"

***

Suzy closed her eyes, shook her head, then opened them again.

No go! The lioness was still there! She instinctively rummaged in granny's Hippie bag for one of the butcher block knives she had brought along and found one. Wrong end, of course, as she managed to slice her hand badly in the process.

The smell of fresh blood drove the crouching She-cat wild.

'AAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRUUHH!!!'

Suzy felt the ground tremble and her full bladder threatened to empty right there on the spot.

Then Prince Charming finally _did_ arrive.

"Don't move!" the Prince yelled.

_'As if I'm going to fucking move!'_ she reasoned. _'Daa!'_

What she actually managed to say was closer to an incomprehensible squeak.

Then came another:

'AAAAARRRRRRRRUUHHHH!(COUGH!)

Suzy looked from the Prince to the lion and back to the Prince.

On second glance, she realized that Prince wasn't quite so _'charming'_ after all. He was tall and blond, but that was only about a three on her 'Charming Scale'

' _He's dressed like a sloppy Rapper and needs a shave. A bucket of Clear-O-Sill wouldn't hurt either! But, hey, when a lion is about to chow down on ya, a girl can't be too damn picky!'_

The lioness roared a third time and Suzy flinched.

"Don't fucking move!" the Prince yelled again.

' _Nice mouth!'_ the cooler, the calmer part of her brain commented. The frightened, more emotional side of her yelled. "Well then, _do_ something, Asshole!"

Prince Asshole suddenly remembered that he was armed, raised his heavy shotgun, cocked both barrel and, just as the tawny lioness decided it was dinner time, he pulled not one, but both triggers.

The echo filled the narrow valley, stuck the far side and headed back. Less than twenty feet from her, Suzy saw the brown-mustard colored blur hit by the heavy pellets in mid leap. Red mist sprayed through the air, along with chunks of lioness. With a heavy 'THUD', the remains of the hapless beast fell at her feet.

Suzy just stood there; her knee high boots, black lace gloves and wedding dress were covered with lion blood, guts and bits of tawny hair. She still held butcher knife in her bleeding hand.

Wrench, who had been unknowingly playing the part of Prince Charming/Asshole in Suzy's head, fumbled two more shells into his 12 gage. _'Yes!'_ he yelled inwardly. _'Yes! Yes! Yes! I put that muther down for good!'_ , followed quickly by: _'Shit! There's a couple more of the fuckers still around!'_

What he managed to say out loud was somewhat shorter. "Hey, Goth-Girl! You okay?"

"No, dipwad! I'm not fucking _ok - ay_! I'm covered with fucking lion guts!"

Wrench came closer, though not too quickly. "I mean, are you _hurt_? Any of that blood n' shit yours?"

Suzy looked down at herself. "I...I don't think so."

"Good!" Wrench said, obviously relieved. "I was afraid I hit you with the second barrel."

***
**Chapter** **10: The Cowboy  
**

Now Gentles all, you are about to meet what might just be my _'finest creation'_ so far. No need for crude sex or senseless violence here. In conjuring up the red blooded, broad shouldered, soft spoken, tough as nails _'American Cowboy'_ I am attempting to capture the quintessential male; the composite of everything most of us want to be, but alas, often sadly short of.

He is the man 'Duke' longs to be, the man Jewels, Candice and Nurse Judy long to meet, and he is the man younger men like The Kid, his Scouts and Billy Raintree try to emulate.

He is also the man that 'lesser men' such as Tattoo, Snake, Two-Times Tyree, and to some extent, even The Major, fear.

Gentle Reader, please welcome to center stage, Sam the Cowboy.

***

Twenty-five years earlier

Circle 'G' Ranch, Montana

As far back as he could remember, Sam had always wanted to be a cowboy. Living most of the year in Chicago with his parents, he had spent glorious summers on his uncle's ranch, the Circle 'G', in the wilds of Montana, nestle in the rolling foothills of the Rocky Mountains. His mother had been born there, but had hated every minute of it. She had hated the dawn till dusk work, the cold in the winter and the heat in the summer and, as she often said; _'The goddamned wind all the time!'_ She hated the smells and the vast, rolling vistas; she hated the animals and the rough, crude men that worked with them. And, sad to say, she especially hated her father.

Feeling as she did about 'The West', Marge Goodnight, several times great grand-daughter of Charles Goodnight, the legendary 19th century western 'cattle baron', headed 'East' as soon as she could. She married a soft- spoken,white collar businessman that had never even dreamed about getting on a horse and the two of them had lived happily ever after.

Well, sort of.

The baby had helped for awhile, named Sam after the one and only cowboy Marge ever did love, her Grandfather, Samuel Goodnight. But the 'dark moods' had eventually crept back into her life. Drinking had helped, again, 'sort of'.

The truth be told, Marge Goodnight Carstairs had never been a happy person. Not as a young child, not as an adolescent, and certainly not as an adult. Her husband, a 'mild mannered reporter' kind of guy, secretly thought that she never would be. He also saw the effect that her radical mood swings were having on his already 'over quiet' son, and, as any good father would, he set out to do something about it.

At an early age Sam's father arranged for Sam to spend his summer's on his uncle's ranch out in the wilds of Montana. The mother may not have liked it there on the Circle 'G', but her son thought he had died and gone to heaven! But then what ten year old wouldn't? Riding horses, climbing haylofts, chasing cows, driving jeeps and tractors! And that was the work! Then there was fishing, hiking, hunting, not to mention skinny dipping in the waterhole with the frogs and shooting guns with Uncle Jim and 'the boys'!

Sam spent his first full summer on the Circle 'G' when he was ten. At fourteen Uncle Jim was paying him a man's wages for the summer. At eighteen Sam packed his suitcase and left Chicago for good.

"What about school?" his mother had wailed, so agitated that she had spilt half her drink. "You'll grow up wild and ignorant like the rest of them!"

' _And free!'_ his father had thought, inwardly wishing he could run away with his son.

As though reading his father's thoughts, eighteen year old Sam had squeezed the older man's thin, soft hand. "Come and visit me, Dad. We'll go riding up into the mountains again!"

Milton Carstairs knew with a certainty born of desperation that he would remember that seemingly long ago 'adventure' he had shared with his son for the rest of his days. It glowed in his memory like a golden ray of sunshine, pointing him down a path he would have taken had he been a more 'forceful' man. The memory lingered on with him as one of his few 'secret treasures', right up there with the first time he held baby Sam in his arms.

It had taken years, but Milton Carstairs had finally talked Marge into 'a short visit' back to the Circle 'G' to 'bring Sam back home for the start of high school'. Reluctantly, Marge had agreed.

Several hectic days later, dressed in clothes his son had leant him, including worn boots, greasy leather 'chaps' and a battered Stetson, Milton had looked on with pride as his sixteen year old son had roped, caught and saddled two of Uncle Jim's many horses, loaded them up with three days supplies, tied on sleeping bags and slid a used but well oiled Winchester into the saddle scabbard.

"What's that for?" Milton had asked his son, both concern and excitement clear in his voice.

Sam had grinned as he handed his father the reins. "It's comin' on fall in the High Country, Dad. Grizzlies like to feed-up on berries before winter."

"Grizzlies?" Milton had stammered.

Sam's grin had widened as he easily slid into the saddle. "Long as we don't piss 'em off, Dad, we'll be fine."

The father's gin was nearly as wide a his son's.

Those had been the three most glorious days of Milton's life! Following this oh so strong, competent young man up trails with breathtaking views and dizzying heights. They rode past rushing streams boiling with frothy foam and studded with cold clear pools that reflected back a perfect sky. They wound through forests of shimmering maples and quaking aspens, all ablaze with the colors of autumn! They spent crisp, cool nights round their crackling fire, looking at the multitude of stars and watching Rainbow trout sizzle and blacken as they roasted on a stick 'injun style' over the glowing coals. They ate fried bacon and sourdough biscuits Sam made each morning, then saddled up and rode off into the sunrise, the air so crisp and clear that it brought tears to Milton's eyes. The aches in his back, buttocks and skinny thighs were well worth it to spend such a magical time with his son.

Over the years since then, Milton often caught himself reliving that glorious adventure over and over in his head \--- especially on the long drive home from the office to Marge.

***

Ten years later.

(15 before 'The Cleansing')

Circle 'G' Ranch, Montana

When Sam was twenty five and had just been promoted to assistant foreman of the Circle 'G', his mother died back in Chicago. _'Pills, booze and an overall disappointment with life in general and me in particular'_ was how Milton thought of it, though, as usual, he kept such thoughts to himself.

After the funeral, a very small affair, Sam and his father brought the ashes back to the Circle 'G' and buried her in the family graveyard, a beautiful windswept hill overlooking a mountain valley.

"I doubt Marge would have wanted this," Milton had said as Sam dug the hole beside his grandparent's graves. "She didn't exactly like the outdoors."

"Bullshit!" Big Jim Goodnight had replied with his usual bluster, draping a massive arm around his diminutive brother-in-law and pulling him in close. "Marge never knew what the Hell she liked or disliked! Flighty as a newborn colt, she was! Never sure just where she was going!"

Milton shrugged, not wanting to speak ill of the dead. "Marge was always --- moody."

"Marge was always a royal pain in the ass, and everybody knew it!" Big Jim barked. "Still, the Circle 'G' was where she was born and it should be where she rests. Our parents and grandparents are all here. Great-grandparents too. Ol' Charlie himself is said to be buried here somewhere, but I think that's a bucket o' shit. He probably was shot to death down in Texas or Arizona. One of those places he went to steal more cattle and chase loose women!" Big Jim took a small silver flask out of his pocket, held it up to the wind, took a belt and offered it to Milton, who, not wanting to seem rude, took a wee sip.

Big Jim took the flask back, had another belt, and waved it again at the wind. "That's my brother's mound over there. Damned fool let a mustang roll on him when he was about young Sam's age. Neither one of them, brother or sister, ever had a lick of sense between them! Not like our Sam here!"

Both men, each so different, each a 'father' to the young man in their own way, smiled at one another. Suddenly Big Jim's smile widened.

"Christ! Why didn't I think of this before? Milt, ol' pard, you're stayin' here with us!"

Misunderstanding his brother-in-law's intent, Milton nodded. "Well, I told them at the office I'd be gone all week. I suppose I could stay a few days longer." Part of his mind conjured up that magical ride in the mountains he had once taken with his young son. Perhaps they could ---

"Gone a week?" Jim boomed. 'Hell, Milt, you're gone for good little buddy! You're movin' in with us and that's final! What do ya say, Sam? You don't mind if your old man bunks in with us at the Circle 'G', do ya?"

Twenty-five year old Sam, having just lost a mother, looked up from digging her grave and smiled. He might have just lost a mother, but at last he had finally found his father.

***

The next three years were the happiest of Milton Carstairs', up until then, rather uneventful life. Big Jim 'hired him on' as head book-keeper and accountant and the three of them lived in the sprawling main building.

Milton did indeed 'ride up into the mountains again with his son', not once, but many times. Sam showed his father the towering peaks, the rolling foothills and the vast flat prairies from both jeep and horseback. They hunted and fished in all the 'secret places' Sam had discovered in his solitary childhood. They even skinny dipped in the freezing glacier blue waters of a trout pool Sam had found as a youngster all those lonely years ago. Big Jim came along a few times, mostly on the hunts, but mainly it was just Milton and his oh so competent son.

Milton died of cancer during his fourth winter at the Circle 'B'. He went fast and he went happy, with his son at his side and facing his beloved mountains. They buried his ashes the next spring alongside Marge. The wildflowers were in full bloom.

"You alright, Sam?" Big Jim had asked, offering Sam the battered silver flask. The two men sat on their horses amidst the above mentioned wild flowers. The half dozen other people that had been at the short ceremony had already headed back to the ranch. Sam took the flask, waved in the air over his parent's graves, took a sip and handed it back. "Ya, Uncle Jim, I'll be fine. Think I'll ride up to the high pastures and check on the herd. Be back in a week or so."

"You sure, son? Lot of snow left up there yet. Take a couple of the hands with ya?"

Sam's smile widened. "You goin' soft on me, Uncle Jim? Worryin' like an old mother hen about her chicks?"

Big Jim returned a smile of his own. "Maybe-so. Way I see it I aint got but one chick left in this world and that's you." He nodded at the field of graves, old and new. The flask passed over them all in silent salute. "Each one of us gets there in the end, Sam. No sense rushin' it."

"I'll be fine. I just need some time alone is all." Sam leaned over and squeezed the big mans forearm. "You taught me well, Uncle Jim," his gaze turned to his father's fresh grave. "You both did.

***

Big Jim's foreman, Shorty McSween and his Blackfoot wife, Raven Raintree, also lived in the big ranch house. Twenty five years ago Shorty had left the bunkhouse and moved his beautiful young bride into the main house right after their wedding.

Back then Raven had taken one look around the rather 'dusty' ranch and shook her pretty head. 'Men!' she had said. "Little more than pigs in a sty! Shorty! Boil me some water n' lots of it!' Since that day on you could eat off the floors in the main house, and God help you if you tracked in mud!

Shorty, a long, gangly man who stood six feet five in his battered boots, had been Big Jim's foreman for years and, stooped and bent now, was more than content to have Sam relieve him of most of the work. Shorty now saw to the upkeep of the many buildings and corals while Raven continued to take care of the cooking and housekeeping.

For many years before he died, Raven's father, Paylaw Raintree, an old Blackfoot shaman or holy man, used to often visit the ranch. Paylaw had a lined, weathered face; long, iron-grey hair and pale green eyes that saw all the way to your soul. He'd just appear at the kitchen's back door, his half-wild pony hobbled outside, stay for a day or a week or a month, and then vanish. As the Blackfoot reservation ran alongside the Circle 'G', the old gentleman often turned up with a deer or an elk for the ranch-hands. Sometimes a gutted animal would just be hanging in the barn.

Paylaw especially seemed to like spending time with young Sam. Those first magical summers Sam had spent on the ranch, he was often out riding with Paylaw. The old Blackfoot taught the young child much of the _'The Way of the People'_ : how to ride bareback, make a complete camp with only a blanket and a knife, how sneak up on a deer or elk and how to prey over the body after the kill; even how to tickle a trout out of a mountain stream.

Sam was twenty-one when word came from the Reservation that Paylaw had passed on. Apparently his health had been failing all that winter and, come spring, he had saddled up his old pony, took his best pipe and his Medicine Bag and rode up into the High Country. A week later the pony found its way home alone. Sam's jaw stiffened when Big Jim gave him the news. Tears had threatened to fall.

"Aint nothin' wrong with cryin' over a lost friend, son." Big Jim had rumbled. "Hell, I've been blubberin' away ever since Raven told me this mornin'!'

Sam's tears had flowed then, flowed like a fast rushing mountain stream. He had come to love that old man as much as he did Big Jim or his own father. The feeling, it went without saying, had been mutual all around.

Said he was a cowboy, when he was young.

He could handle a rope, he was good with a gun.

My momma's daddy, was his oldest son.

And I thought, he walked, on water.

He was ninety years old back in '83.

I loved him, and he loved me.

Lord I cried, the day he died,

' _Cause I thought, he walked, on water._

***

The night the Death Clouds passed over Montana on their way to the more populated east, Sam was thirty-seven years old. Ever since Big Jim's heart attack nearly two years earlier, Sam had been running the Circle 'G'.

That fateful night Sam was not at the ranch, but sleeping in a rickety line-shack up in the foothills. Along with a Blackfoot named George Brass Buttons and a new kid, Bobby something, just in from Colorado. Sam had been looking for stray mustangs. They'd rounded up seven of the half wild horses, washed some hot beans down with a beer each from the six-pack Sam had brought along, played a little cards, finished off the beer and turned in just after dark.

Sam had been the only one to wake up.

As he stood looking down at the grayish dust that half filled George's and the new kid's bunks, his first thought was: _'I must be still asleep! I gotta be dreamin' this!_ ' He slapped himself hard in the face, hoping to awake from this nightmare. All he got for his effort was a sore jaw.

"George!" he said out loud. "George! For Christ sake, were are you?"

The only answer came from the wind in the pines; that and some nickering and stomping from the mustangs outside in the small coral.

Sam staggered back and sat down heavily on the one chair the camp boasted. The small stove was out and Sam's breath was a white mist in the tiny cabin. Outside the mustangs pawed through the spring snow looking for food. A stallion tried to mount one of the mares and she nipped him with her large, yellow teeth. The stallion whinnied and, with an arrogant toss of his mane and tail, strutted away.

Life in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains went on as it had been doing for hundreds of thousands of years. All that had changed was that most of those strange two-legged creatures had suddenly become another endangered species.

_'No great loss'_ , some might say, especially Paylaw Raintree. Some might even say that it was ' _Long overdue'!_ and that _'Now things could finally get back to the way they should be!'_

Sam, of course, knew nothing of this. Never one to listen to the news or read newspapers, either the old fashioned 'paper' kind or the newer electronic version, he had no idea what was taking place in the _'outside'_ world. _'Don't know n' don't giva damn!'_

Most ranchers were like that, and if they did use those 'new fangled computers', it was mainly to look up the local weather report or the price of beef. Foreign wars and what the _'Tree-Hugging Easterners'_ were doing was not very high on their priority lists, and western Montana didn't have a helova lotta _'terrorist_ ' to worry about.

Sam moved towards the chipped enamel basin they laughingly referred to as the 'kitchen sink'. With his fist he broke through the skin of ice and poured the rest of the ice-water over his head.

"God, that's cold!" he muttered. Splashing and sputtering like a shaggy Labrador, he reached around and pulled the blanket off the top bunk to dry himself with. The dusty grayish remains of Bobby something from Colorado came with it.

***
**Chapter** **11: 'The Biker'**

The day before The Death Clouds rolled.

Glacier Pass Hotel, Montana
Butch the Biker had just done six months in an Oregon 'Medium Correction Facility' for possession of a concealed weapon. Released only a week ago, he was taking a little road trip with a few of his biker pards when the whole world suddenly went tits-up.

Butch and three of his buddies from _Satan's Riders_ , the club Butch and a few others had started way back when, had headed east into the mountains several days ago. Slick, Butch's main Lieutenant and right-hand man, had made a major drug sale while Butch was doing his half year stint and so cash was no prob-lem-o. Half way through the narrow but breathtaking road over Glacier Pass they had stopped for the night at the prestigious Glacier Pass Hotel. Standing in the opulent lobby in their dirty black leathers, Butch had swapped prison stories with the other two while Slick booked the penthouse, ordered steaks and booze sent up and then walked over to the uniformed doorman.

"Can I help you, Sir?" asked the uniformed man, doing his best to smile.

Slick took out a roll of hundreds and peeled off a handful. "Hookers, man. Four or five. And no scags either! Can do, pardner?"

The doorman eyed the money, looked quickly around and smiled for real. The money had vanished. "Certainly, Sir! Nothing but the best! But it will take some time, Sir. We don't usually..."

Slick peeled off three more bills. "This speed things up any?"

The money vanished again. " _Much_ faster, Sir!

Slick grinned his oily grin. "Fucking 'A', man!"

***

Ah, Gentle Reader, as you can plainly see, we are once more in the _'Land of Sleaze'_. Once more we are dragged down to the lowest common denominator of tits and ass, guns and violence and _more_ tits and ass! Ahhhh, but then most of us, quite _'secretly'_ of course, wouldn't have it any other way!

They say that _'money makes the world go round'_ , and in a modern, 'civilized' world that is mostly true. But when that 'civilization' has been suddenly stripped away, all the dollars, check books and credit cards are just so much useless shit.

If money, in all its many ingenious forms, was to suddenly disappear from the face of the Earth, or, _as in our present case_ , the USE for money suddenly vanished, you can bet your bottom dollar (pardon the pun) that good ol' fast thinkin', smooth talkin' Tommy Two-Legs would still find a way to get his personal pleasures gratified!

If Two-Legs can't buy it, he'll steal it.

If he can't steal, it he'll kill for it.

If he can't kill for it, he'll find someone who will.

And fuck both you and the consequences!

Am I right, or am I right?

***

The party had gone on long into the night. Sex, drugs and rock & roll! Can ya dig it, man? Butch sure as Hell could! The only poontang he'd had for the past six months had been from his cellmate, Bobby Corn-Hole, and the least said about _that_ the better!

' _There are strange things done,_

Beneath the neon sun,

By the men who kill for gold.

But the strangest by far,

Was that night at the bar,

When they cremated Bobby Corn-Hole!'

That fateful morning in the Glacier Pass Hotel, Butch, a 'free man' once more, woke up with one big muther of a headache and an ever bigger need to take a piss. _'Strange'_ , he thought as he slowly sat up in bed. _'Last thing I remember was having a leak off the balcony. That and banging the blonde bitch.'_

He looked around for the lady in question, but found only a long line of grey ashes beside him. Some were even on him. "What the fuck?!" Dusting himself off, he had his piss, pulled on his jeans and went looking for Slick and the others. What he found did not make him a happy camper.

***

Charlene didn't start screaming right away. It took several seconds for the reality of things to work its way through the haze left behind by all the drugs and booze of last night. Add to that the fact that, though drop dead gorgeous, she had never been the brightest bulb in the chandelier and you kind of get the picture.

Still, she was alive, and that was more than anyone could say about the other three girls. They had all come _'up the trail'_ from Dalton's Bar & Grill where she and the girls plied their age-old trade. Dalton himself had hustled the four of them into his van and tossed the keys to Lenny.

"Two hundred each, girls, and the same for you Lenny, but ya gotta get there pronto!" Lenny had delivered the four 'ladies of the evening' very pronto indeed, then went off for a night of drinking and watching porno flicks with his cousin the doorman.

Charlene, her long blonde wig awry and her thigh high 'fuck-me' boots pinching her feet, wandered into the main living room. Floor to ceiling windows covered the long, outside wall, showing a majestic view of the towering snow-capped mountains, fluffy white clouds and, lower down, lush, green pastures turning a riot of color from the blooming wild flowers.

Despite the passage of the 'Death Clouds' in the night, Spring had sprung once again in the Rockies. All that was missing was most of The Tommy-Two Legs Tribe, and, as we've stated once or twice before, _no big loss_.

Way off to the right Charlene saw some sort of farm animal with two, no three babies! It was a mountain goat with her newborns, but I told you Charlene wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. Great tits and could suck a golf ball through a garden hose, but even though the light's on, she's seldom home. Smart or not however, the mother and her brood touched a chord deep within Charlene and a smile cracked through her thick make-up.

"What the fuck you grinning at, bitch?"

Ahhh, Butch, you really do know how to sweep a gal off her feet!

"Nothin', White boy! But where the fuck _is_ everybody?" Charlene waved a hand around the penthouse. "I checked the other rooms. They're all empty! I mean, their _clothes_ is there, n' some grey shit is all around, but they are gone, man. Just fuckin' _gone_!" Captain of the debating team she clearly wasn't, but neither was she's a timid wallflower!

Butch decided to check for himself. Several minutes later he was back, fully dressed and carrying several guns. Charlene frowned.

"Wow there, Crackerman! What's all _that_ shit for? World War fuckin' _Three_?"

The grin Butch gave her was cold enough to freeze her in her tracks. Snapping open Slick's sawed-off shotgun and checking the loads didn't exactly warm the cockles of her heart either. The short, deadly killing thing snapped shut with a metallic finality that hurt the teeth.

"Somethin' aint right. Slick and the others aint gone, bitch; their fuckin' _dead_! Turned into that grey shit spillin' outta their fuckin' clothes!"

It was then that Charlene started to scream

***
**Chapter** **12: The Reverend**

During the riot, just before The Cleansing.

' _Neverland' Penitentiary, Alabama_

The Reverend Langhorne Calhoun, or _'Reverend Lang'_ to his friends and followers, was the founder and head of _'Faith in Our Father's Holy Church'_. A former swindler, con-man and drug addict, now serving ten years in Neverland for fraud, the _'Rev'_ was hard pressed to make sense of the catastrophic events taking place.

Word had leaked in from the outside about the _Death Clouds_ and all Hell had _literally_ broken loose inside Neverland! To the good Reverend, it seemed that Satan Himself now roamed the blood-slick halls of Alabama's oldest maximum correction facility, slaying all but the most wicked and most foul of its inhabitants.

Chaos reined and all sense of order had fled.

Langhorne, an amoral sociopath, had never been overly concerned about good or bad or right and wrong, but he was a veritable _stickler_ for order!

He had stayed in his cell, refusing to partake in the beatings, the stabbings, the burning of anything that would feed Satan's fires.

Captain Hook and his brave crew were doing their best to restore order --- but then a strange dark cloud rolled in from the southwest.

***

Now a word or two is needed to explain the _'religious background'_ of Reverend Langhorne Calhoun. His father, Augustus Rufus Calhoun, was an Evangelist Episcopalian, whatever the Hell that is! Augustus travelled the 'Old South' in a beat-up camper, dragging both his obedient wife and his less-than obedient son, Langhorne, behind him. He'd pitch his tattered and much patched circus tent in a field outside some fly-speck of a town and _'commence to preachin'_!

_Fire & Brimstone! Smite the Wicked & Burn in Everlasting Hell!_ These were the three cornerstones of Calhoun senior's rock-solid foundation.

The fourth was women.

Augustus, you see, truly loved the women --- and apparently, in a great many cases, the feeling was mutual.

Not that his obedient little wife seemed to mind his many 'dalliances'. In fact, she seemed quite content to let her rather randy husband slake his lust on every cheap peroxide-blonde/red-headed/raven haired Jezebel that came along.

She had her son for company and her music for both consolement and inspiration. For it must be said that Billy-Jean Froam-Calhoun could certainly play her fiddle!

Notes to rival the Angels themselves were nightly emitted from her humble violin and whisked Heavenward by her battered bow. Augustus would rant and rave, frightening the crowd into submission; Billy-Jean would play, bringing them to tears with her Heavenly music, and Little Langhorne would beat his drum, look adorable, and _collect the money_.

Did the Son _believe_ any of the tripe his Father was belching forth?

Not a single bloody word!

Religion, along with all the other crap that most people _'believed in'_ was, for Billy-Jean's darling little boy, just one big overflowing bucket of shit.

And we all know that old adage, don't we Good Buddy? _'Bullshit baffles brains!'_

Yet, there is _another_ old adage that oft times rings true. And every now and then, as in young Langhorne's case, rings truer than one might like.

The apple doesn't fall far from the fucking tree!

Like it or not, want it or not, a good deal of the father's rantings had rubbed off on the wayward son. They seeped into his soul nightly as the flow of his father's words washed over him. He didn't believe but was secretly afraid he that _might_ just be wrong. _What if...?_ That thought haunted him just like it haunted the nervous, gullible, sweating sheep that flocked nightly to stand trembling before his deep-voiced father.

***

As a teenager Langhorne became very confused.

The Old Man, you see, saw 'great potential' in his offspring. Gone was the adorable curly haired child who attracted the wayward sheep with his drum and his winning smile.

Instead a young man now stood before him. Tall, strong, attractive. A younger image of himself --- and Augustus could certainly use that!

And so the father called to the son.

"Langhorne, it is time to be about thy Father's Holy Work! Time to leave go the little drum, and pick up Jehovah's Holy Book and Sacred Sword! Time to go forth and help me spread the Ancient Word of the Heavenly Father! Time to aid me in opening the eyes of these soft, trusting New Testament sheep! Together, son, We can bring them back under the Father's stern, but oh so Righteous Hand!"

Langhorne had gone along with the old fart for several years, and was surprised to discover that he was even good at it! _Damned_ good! He had a knack of reaching the 'sheep' in ways his father never could, of making them _want_ to believe, rather than being afraid not to. The crowds grew and the nightly 'donations' grew accordingly. Langhorne began to gather his own 'following'. A younger, more affluent group. More willing to listen, more easily swayed --- especially the females.

It was all going very nicely until one night he caught the randy old fool fucking his fiancé, and that, as they say, was that!

He petted his dog, kissed his mother, ignored his fiancé, told his old man to go to Hell and walked away.

Within two months he needed a bigger tent than his father.

It would be nice to add that he 'never went back again' --- but the plain truth is, that there was no place to go back to! Other than that battered old camper and leaky tent, he had never had a permanent home.

Until now --- Neverland.

***

The First Day AC

Neverland, Alabama

Langhorne awoke to blessed silence; a silence so profound it actually hurt his ears. It seemed as though Jehovah Himself had put the world into a deep, peaceful slumber. He lay on his narrow cot and contemplated what 'repercussions' Daddy Darling and the ever-ready Captain Hook would concoct as punishment for the past two days and nights of rioting and mayhem.

Suddenly the Jehovahian silence 'Reverend Lang' had awoken to was rudely shattered by a lone, plaintive cry.

"Hellloooo! Where the fuck _is_ everybody?!"

It came drifting down the prison's empty corridors, amplified by both the walls of concrete and decades of despair. As the cry for help slowly faded away, other voices joined in. Not many at first, but the numbers grew. Some were close, some were far off and all were running the full gamut of emotions.

"Hey, man! I'm over here!"

" _Dead! They're all fuckin' dead!"_

"Bastards! The fucking bastards!"

"Help! Help! Hellllllllp!"

"Let me the fuck out of here!"

" _AAAAAAAAAAAAhhhhh!_ "

"Dead! They're all fuckin' dead!"

"Star Wars shit, Man! Fucking Star Wars shit!"

Such wailings and gnashing of teeth went on and on. The Reverend heard them all, but saw no-one. Locked in with the dusty remains of his cell-mate, he had lights, power and water, but no food. The lamenting continued, sometimes abating, only to come back all the stronger.

Of the guards there was no sign. Daddy Darling, Captain Hook, all of them had just vanished! As had all the inhabitants of the cells around him; turned, not into a pillars of salt, but bags of ashes!

Then, sometime between the lamenting and the periods of ear-splitting silence, it happened. There came unto the con-man in charge of _'Faith of Our Father's Holy Church'_ a real-life, honest to goodness, down home mutherfuckin' _vis-i-taay-tion_!

And Langhorne actuallybfelt something _move_ in his mind!

Something had slipped, twisted, stretched and then suddenly just _snapped_!

He was not really shocked when it happened. Deep down, a part of him had been half-way expecting it. Waiting for it \--- even _wanting_ it.

If the truth be told, this _'something'_ had been on the verge of snapping for years now.

The endless string of tent revivals and greasy spoons.

His father's rantings. His mother's tears.

The never-ending line of harlots and Jezebels.

The utter hypocrisy of his very life!

Saving souls for money!

Promising Heaven while living in Hell!

Telling lies. Selling lies!

His own, sad, deep loneliness.

His own dark, desperate longing.

Who is to say _which_ of these tattered strands snapped first and caused the fabric of Langhorne's brain to unravel?

One of them? Two? Or all?

And in the end, Gentle Reader, when push comes to shove, does it _really_ matter?

***

Suddenly the Old Testament Big Boy Himself appeared before our lowly sinner! _Jehovah_ , in all His fiery glory! He stretched out his hand annd lifted the Reverend Langhorne Calhoun up from his prison cot and cleansed him blood, body, mind and soul! With an all seeing fiery glance the Aged Patriarch scrubbed Reverend Lang's spotted soul clean with the dry, grey ashes of all those that had recently gone before. Scowered his tarnished soul till it shone like burnished bronze in the rising sun!

The Fiery Father then opened Langhorne's eyes so that he may finally see and unstopped his ears so that he may really hear and, most importantly of all, unlocked his heart so that he may truly _feel_ the glory and the _grandeur_ of the One True God!

And when He Himself was finally finished, God the Father looked down upon His work and saw that it was good!

_Langhorne Calhoun_ , former TV evangelist, swindler and con-man; liar, cheater and fornicator with fallen women, had been transformed, altered and reborn.

But reborn as what?!

Someone _better_ than he once was? Someone kinder? Gentler? More honest and compassionate? Someone more truthful and caring?

Or had the Fiery Host burnt away all that remained of the Reverend's questionable humanity and replaced it with something older and darker? Something glistening and scaly? Something that shuns the light of day?!

As these hopes and fears flitted through Langhorne's freshly scrubbed brain, the voice of the Old Testament patriarch once again filled his head and the sound was like the burning of a great bush.

Langhorne, my son. Stand up!

Lift up thy head and look in my eyes!

" _Father, I am not worthy!"_

Not so, my son! You, more than all others, are indeed worthy! Or if not, you soon will be!

" _Father, I know not what to say."_

That too is false, my son! Thy own mortal father, Augustus Rufus, though himself a great sinner, hath taught thee well --- though he has schooled thee roughly. Now I shall complete thy instruction!

" _Again, Father, I feel that I am not worthy."_

Enough of this foolish twaddle! If I say thee are worthy, then thee-are-worthy!"

" _Yes, Father."_

As I have oft done before, with Fire and Flood, with War, Plague and Famine, I have purged my Garden of the vermin that infested it! I chose Abraham. I chose Moses. I chose Noah. Now I have chosen you!

Words failed the good Reverend, as did his legs, and he fell to his knees. Seconds ticked away like millstones dropped into a cosmic pond. His heart threatened to burst forth from his chest. The blood neared the boiling point in his brain ---- and yet, through it all, Langhorne thought he heard the plaintive cry of his mother's violin. Crystal clear notes soaring upwards, enwrapping her son in safety and warmth and carrying him home.

Then the fiery words once again entered his brain, each one a searing brand on his freshly washed soul:

Mark this, Langhorne and mark it well! My wayward creations, Adam's defiant offspring, have dared stray the furthest they have ever dared before! They have surpassed the blasphemousness of ancient Egypt! The debauchery of ancient Greece! The decadence and hypocrisy of both ancient and modern Rome! And so, as a finial punishment, I have visited upon them a pestilence hitherto unknown to the world of man!"

Langhorne could do little more that hang his head and tremble.

Look into my eyes, worm!

Billy-Jean's often defiant son felt his neck wrench upward and the eyes in his head sucked skyward. A blinding white light seared through to the back of his skull, threatening to fry his brain.

" _I'm trying, Father..."_

Suddenly a burning pulse of blackness engulfed him. At the same time his bladder let go, the warm contents trickling down his leg. The Voice inside him continued, suddenly softer than before, yet somehow all the more terrible.

Hear me and hear me well, Langhorne! I now see that in earlier times I was far too lenient with you 'humans'. Far too forgiving with your stubborn, willful race. A flood here, a plague there. Petty little wars that only lasted a few short years. Most of the ungrateful, self-centered little bastards hardly even took notice!

But this time, Langhorne, this time your kin and kind have _truly_ roused my wrath! For far too long your lot have hidden behind the gentler, misguided, often foolish teachings of my wayward son.

Now all that is finished!

Langhorne felt himself trembling as the word/images continued to roll around in his brain like rocks in a metal pail.

Yes, all that is indeed finished, my son! My new Pestilence has erased nine out of every ten of Adam's thankless offspring! I have cleansed My Garden of the rebellious parasites! Of the few that survived, grim visioned War will devour more than half!

There was a pause that lasted either a nano-second or an eon, Langhorne couldn't be sure. Then The Voice continued.

The small handful that remain I am putting under _your_ supervision.

_Gather_ them unto thee, Langhorne!

Seek them out in the _dark places_ where they hide.

_Find_ them for me, son!

Lead them _back_ to me --- willing or no!

Back to the harsher, _Ancient Ways_ of their Father!

Do this for me, Langhorne,

And I shall raise ye up above all others!

Ye shall sit at my right side

And all creatures great and small

Shall tremble at thy name!

Do it not, or, in the trying of it, fail,

And ye shall feel my undying wrath!

Lead them, Langhorne.

Lead _all that have survived_ back to me!

And then it was over! The _'presence'_ inside his head was gone, vanished! Langhorne blinked his eyes and looked around the cell. Nothing. No-one .It was almost as though it had never happened!

(Then the sound of thunder filled his head.)

LANGHORNE!

Think NOT such wayward thoughts!

For I am watching thee, son!

Watching thee very closely!

Fail me and you do so at your peril!

***

"Jesus Christ!" Langhorne cried out loud. "What...? What just happened?" He knelt there sweating, trembling, his own piss puddled at his feet. Like a leaf tossed in a gale, he slowly rose and moved aimlessly about his cell, mumbling to himself. From the top bunk his former cellmate's ashes looked on, a silent observer to the Rev's one-way trip into madness.

The good Reverend's mind was adrift; a rudderless vessel on a sea of confusion. And who could really blame him? His whole world had suddenly changed! All that was, was no more. Everyone dead and gone! Gray ashes spilt on the floor. Gray ashes covering an uncaring world.

But then God the Father had come to him!

The God that he had secretly doubted even existed! The God he had feared was just another con to fleece the rubes out of their few coins!

But now he _knew_ differently!

The 'emptiness' he had felt all his life, the wondering and the doubt had all been instantly swept away! Now _knew_ he was not alone and, for the very first time in his lonely, miserable life, he _truly_ believed!

What's more, the Father had _chosen him_ to do His great work! To gather the few that had survived their Fathers righteous wrath and lead them back into the fold! Like Moses before him, he would bring his people to the Promised Land --- one way or the other!

***

Langhorne heard it faintly at first, as though far off, both in distance as well as in memory. Slowly however, it seemed to come closer; the sweet, plaintive cry of a violin, its notes almost too high for the ear, too terrible for the heart. Then, joining those soul searing notes came a voice --- a voice that he knew better than his own! His mother's sweet, clear, voice. Singing to him as she once had! Singing the song that had let him drift off to sleep, while, just on the other side of the canvas wall, his Father put the fear of God into the hayseeds that had crowded in for the second show.

' _Swore we'd stay together, Darlin', come what may._

We'd help each other, to find our way.

And whilst we are walking, if a hand should slip free,

I wait for if you fall behind, and you wait for me.

I wait for if you fall behind, and you wait for me.

There's a beautiful river, in the valley ahead.

You and I Darlin', will soon lay our head.

And if we get lost, in the evening breeze,

I wait for if you fall behind, and you wait for me.

I wait for if you fall behind, and you wait for me'.

The last bitter-sweet refrain was playing over and over in his head when something suddenly caused him to sit up and listen! Another voice! A woman's voice, but not his mother's! Younger, more forceful than his mother's had even been.

Then a worm of doubt began t wriggle its way into his whirling brain. _Was this second voice even real?_ _Was_ **any of it** _real?!_

He shook his head like a Spaniel shakes off water, refusing to let the drops of doubt penetrate his heart, to dilute his new-found belief!

' _Perhaps it was just someone from the other cells!'_ he thought.

But this wasn't wailing or cursing like the earlier ones. This was a softer, frightened voice, yet with a strong hint of steel underneath!

"Is there ... anyone in there? Can anyone fucking hear me?" the woman yelled.

The Reverend went to the front bars and craned his head to look down the hallway. He was on the third of five levels. Each section had locked doors at both ends. The voice seemed to be coming from the other side of the door --- and the door seemed to be --- _opening!_

"I'm here, friend! I'm here, waiting." he said softly, his tone calming and warm. "I'm the Reverend Langhorne Calhoun. Come to me, child."

Silence. Then, from the shadows of the open doorway: "You alone, Reverend?"

Langhorn put on his best smile. "We are never truly alone, friend. The Father watches over us all."

Muffled, bitter laughter. "Shit, Reverend! If He does, He's sure had a _damned eyeful_ today! Any others alive in here?"

"Just me --- though I have heard others."

"I'm comin' in and I'm armed --- so _don't_ you fuck with me!"

Nurse Judy-May, one of the dead guard's revolvers in her trembling hands, stepped through the open door.

The Reverend smiled for the first time since his 'Awakening'. "I wouldn't think of it, My Dear. Please, come to me. We've so very much to do."

***
**Chapter** **13: The Circle 'G'**

The night the Death Clouds passed over Montana on their way to the more populated east, Sam was sleeping in a rickety line-shack up in the western foothills. He, a Blackfoot named George Brass Buttons and a new kid, Bobby something, just in from Colorado, had gone looking for stray mustangs. They had rounded up seven of the half wild horses, washed some hot beans down with a beer each from the six-pack Sam had brought along, played a little cards, finished off the beer and turned in just after dark.

Sam had been the only one to wake up.

***

' _Okay, Sam'_ said a gruff voice from inside his head. _'Face the facts like a man and do something about them!'_ The Voice sounded an awful lot like his Uncle Jim's.

"Ya! Nothing to it, right, Big Jim?!" Sam said out loud, hearing the edge of panic in his spoken words. "Two friends of mine have somehow turned to dust, but hey! I'm doing just fine!"

' _Take a deep breath, son'_ , the Voice said calmly. _'And stop actin' like an asshole! Check around outside.'_

Another part of his mind, the Little Boy part that he kept safely tucked away, suddenly piped up. 'Hey, Sam! Maybe it's just a joke! You know how George Brass Buttons likes to fool around! _'_

Sam rushed outside and looked around, but both he and _The Voice_ knew this was no joke. The stallion lifted his magnificent head, sniffed the cool mountain air, snorted, then went back to his mares. Sam went back inside. The dusty remains of George Brass Buttons still rested in the bottom bunk. Bobby from Colorado however, having fallen off the top bunk, was slowly drifting out the open door.

' _What about the ranch, Sam? Gotta check on things there right pronto!_ ' the Voice demanded.

'No, Sam!' the Little Boy in him pleaded. 'Please don't go back there! We don't want to see that stuff!'

' _Move your ass, son!'_ the Voice growled. _'People are countin' on you!'_

'Sam, please don't take us back there! They're all dead, Sam! Just like those two inside! '

' _Sam, you don't know that. Maybe they're all fine. Maybe they need help. Maybe...'_

"Shut the Hell up, the both of you!" Sam pulled his battered Stetson off and scrubbed at his scalp. 'Aaaaahhhh! Christ! What a bloody mess!'

Silence, save for the movement of the mustangs and the wind in the pines. Then...

' _You about ready now, Sam?'_ the Voice rumbled.

Sam pulled his hat down tight and picked up his saddle. "Ya, I'm ready."

***

The ride back down to the Circle 'G' was done at breakneck speed. Sam, usually very gentle with animals, held his lathered mount to a punishing pace. The exhausted beast nearly stumbled as Sam rode in under the tall gate with the ranch's name branded into a weathered board crowned with a bleached cow skull. The lifeless eyes seemed to follow him as he passed --- or was it just a trick of the early morning light?

Sam was calling out names even as he swung down from the saddle.

"Shorty! Raven!" He took the front porch steps two at a time.

Nothing. Only the sound of the wind.

Blowing. Blowing. Then... "Sam? Is that really you?"

Sam looked around to see a tall, thin form silhouetted in the kitchen doorway. The morning light flowed around her like a golden river. Her long, black hair obscured her face and partly covered the shotgun she held in her slim but competent work-worn hands.

" _Raven?_ "

"They're gone, Sam. All gone. My Shorty. The hands in the bunkhouse. All gone. Just dried up and blowed away."

Sam moved quickly to her and, eased the heavy gun out of her trembling hands and hugged 'R', the woman that had become his second mother.

Through wracking sobs she muttered over and over. "My Shorty's gone, Sam. Just dried up and the wind took him."

Sam coaxed her into a chair, hugged her, picked up the shotgun and went to check for himself. He needn't have bothered. He'd already seen the same thing back at the line shack. Grey, dry looking ashes leaking out of people's clothes.

Shorty in the bed he shared with his wife, Raven. Five or six more 'bags of ashes' out in the bunkhouse. Back in the main house he entered the study --- a room filled with bitter-sweet memories of his Uncle Jim. Dead three years earlier from a heart attack, 'Big Jim' Goodnight had lovingly called the study his 'gun room' --- as there were almost as many weapons lining the walls as books.

Displayed on a small table beside the fireplace were two of his uncle's most prized possessions: a battered silver flask that had once belonged to Ulysses S. Grant and a fancy wooden box with a matched pair of Colt revolvers with worn, ivory grips nestled in a bed of faded green velvet.

The brass plate on the lid of the box was stamped in a swirling script. _James Butler Hickok_ , _Deadwood, South Dakota_ , _1872_

Sam gently touched the grayish, aged metal. Cold to the touch --- so unlike the warmth and gentle hardness that had been his uncle.

"Sam? Sam, where are you?" Raven's voice s had an edge of fear to it, but Sam heard the familiar steel in it as well.

He looked up and saw her in the doorway. He met her gaze. "They're all gone, 'R'. Just like you said --- 'taken by the wind'."

She made the Blackfoot _'sign of passing'_ in the air before her and turned to face Sam. When she spoke the fear had been replaced with sadness, but the steel remained. "We're still here, Sam. Other's might be as well. But right now we'd best deal with what's left of the bodies. You tend to those in the bunkhouse n' I'll see to my Shorty."

Though he'd been foreman of the Circle 'G' for years now and the 'Big Bossman' ever since his uncle's death, Sam quietly did as Raven suggested

***

It was afternoon of the third day After the Cleansing and both Sam and Raven were exhausted. That first day they had buried the bodies in the family graveyard. Raven had suggested putting them all in a brass bound sea chest from 'Mister Jim's' gunroom.

The second day the two of them had spent glued to the TV, trying to make some sense out of the garbled and misleading news reports. But it was no use. _'Out there'_ , beyond the majestic Rockies, the pine covered foothills and the vast plains, the hustling, bustling _'modern world'_ was in chaos.

All the major networks had constant newscasts, but no-one seemed to know anything for sure. Rumors abounded. Terrorists had unleashed some new, deadly bacteria. Mysterious 'Death Clouds' were moving westward across the continent. Bodies were turning into heaps of gray ashes. A few, a _very few_ , seemed immune. Some of those that did survive contact with the 'Death Clouds' however seemed to go insane, often turning violent and very dangerous.

News shows scrambled to find doctors qualified to explain the rash of 'unsettling dreams' many survivors were having \--- dream involving thoughts of suicide, violence , hysterical laughter and, of all things, 'evil clowns'!

Added to this psychological weirdness was the physical threat of nuclear war! Age-old enemies blamed each other for the pandemic. The East blamed the West, the North blamed the South; the Israeli's blamed the Palestinians'; China blamed North Korea and absolutely everyone blamed the Middle East!

Then, on the morning of the third day, a red eyed newscaster on CNN turned fish-belly white and and said those oh so long dreaded words:

" _This just in! It has now been confirmed that_ nuclear warheads _have been launched from some sites in The British Isles, Europe and the Middle East._ Similar launchings _have been detected in Russia, Asia and here in North America. \--- Ladies and gentlemen, it looks as though the end is ..."_

WWHHSSHHEEEEEE !!!

The picture and sound vanished, producing only high pitched _'White Noise'_ and swirling TV ' _Snow'_. There were no earth tremors; no flashes of light, no 'mushroom clouds' to be seen in the clear blue Montana skies --- for the target cities, even there in the United States, were all very far away from the Circle 'G'. Yet the various strikes all over the world set up waves of gigantic electromagnetic pulses that knocked out all ground and satellite communication, including radio and TV. Modern communication of all kind had just been blasted back to the early 19th century.

Luckily since it was a 'limited nuclear engagement'', most areas did not receive lethal doses of the dreaded fallout. The vast majority of the missiles rested harmlessly in their hidden silos all around the world.

With no-one left to oversee or repair them, various man-made systems would soon start to fail. Sewers would clog, dams would break and structures would fall Animals that once depended on man to live, would either break free or die. Packs of dogs would run wild. The generators and turbines that created the world's electricity would eventually fail and the _lights would go out_ _forever_.

Halli-looooyaaa, Brother! GREAT day in da mo-nun!

***

"Don't fret too much on it, Sam ," Raven said as she worked on cleaning the wound in his shoulder. "Bill Granger always was a moody man. Not sociable like my Shorty."

It was a week after the nukes had wiped out all communications. Nine days AC and Sam still couldn't believe what had happened. He'd been forced to shoot Bill Granger, a man he had known for years!

"The damned fool came at me with a pitchfork when I rode up to his door!" Sam had told Raven, showing her where two tines of the deadly tool had punctured his left shoulder. "I shot him in the leg, but the stupid bastard just _kept on coming_. I had to drill him in the chest! He was like a crazy man! Wild eyed and slobbering!"

"Them reporter fellas said that 'bout half the people who survived the death clouds went crazy", Raven added calmly. " _Like a rabid dog_." She then applied some Blackfoot concoction to his punctures that stung like hell. " _I told_ you to be careful riding round the other ranches. Good job you had your rifle." She touched him on his shoulder and looked deep into his eyes. "Someday soon I have to go up to the reservation. I have to see who is still alive – if any. I aint ready _yet_ , but when I am, will you take me?"

He took her work-worn hands in his. "Of course I will, though I don't want you getting your hopes too high."

"Samuel, I already lost my Shorty. Only thing that could hurt me now is if I lost you --- n' _that_ sure as hell aint gunna happen!" She smiled and kissed him on the forehead. "Your uncle's got a room full of guns he won't be needin' anymore. Best you pick out a few for yourself." She patted a five shot Colt sheriff's pistol she now carried in a small holster on her belt and nodded to a short barreled shotgun leaning against the wall.

Sam smiled and slowly went into his uncle's gun room.

Big Jim Goodnight had been a gun collector all his life, as had his father before him. Nothing _modern_ though for Mister Jim! No sir-eee! Big Jim only collected World War One weapons and older A lot older! None of that fancy _synthetic shit_ for him!

He had originals dating back to the sixteenth century! A vast collection of smoothbore muskets and single shot pistols from the Revolutionary War; rifled barreled caplocks and Black Powder revolvers from the Civil War, but the collection he loved the _best_ was his 'Guns of the Old West'.

Also, Big Jim had just loved to shoot! Though he had many originals, he also had many modern 'reproductions' that took a modern brass jacketed bullet and could be fired over and over for target shooting. Often he and Sam would ride out loaded down with his old west reproductions, including a _'period shirt'_ and a large ' _original hat'_ and spend many happy hours blasting away at paper, wooden and metal targets.

Big Jim had every kind of Colt and Remington shotgun, rifle and handgun reproduction there was. The big man had favored the heavier Remingtons and .45 Army Colts, something with a little _'heft'_ , while Sam had leaned towards the lighter Navy Colts in .36 caliber.

" _Same as old Wild Bill himself!"_ Big Jim used to say when Sam outshot him on the fast draw range they had set up down by the river. _"James Butler also favored Navy Colt's. Only used half loads because..."_

'Because his eyesight was failing due to Syphilis', Sam would say smiling. "You've told me that a time or three before this, Uncle Jim."

"Yaaaaa --- but what a way to go!" the two of them would then smile and finish off the old joke with:

' _Cig-a-reeets n' wisky n' wild, wild women!_

They'll drive a man crazy, they'll drive him insane!'

Sam now looked around Big Jim's gun room, missing the man more than words can say. His eyes came to rest on the mahogany box sitting on the table. He already knew what the brass plate on the lid said.

Reverently Sam picked up the box and held it to him, attempting to catch some of his uncles lingering essence. The memories came, washing over him like a tidal wave; sad, bitter-sweet and loving. After a long while he eventually lessened his grip on the box, the man and the past, but he knew in his heart that he would keep all three close till his dying day.

Beside the NavyColts he chose a 1873 Winchester ' _Yellow Boy_ ', the same rifle his unknown counterpart, _The Duke_ , carried back in Albany, New York. From the shadows Raven watched him with pride. For her he truly was _'Mister Sam'_ now, her adopted son. Oh, there were no 'fancy lawyer papers' on it \--- her's was an _'adoption of the heart'_ \--- made of love and signed in blood. Soon he would take her back to her people, to see who, if any of her extended family had survived. In her mind's eye she saw her sisters and brothers, nieces, nephews and numerous cousins, and though she wished them all well and hoped they still lived, deep in her heart she knew that most, if not all of them will have _'passed over'_ \--- just as her beloved Shorty had.

She turned and gazed again at Sam, the son she and Shorty never had. _'Man Above'_ she prayed silently. 'If you are really there, please watch over this last of my loved ones. You have taken many and you have left very few. The _'why'_ of it is far beyond me; and though the plan is yours, the hurt is mine. You already have my man. I would appreciate you leaving me my son \--- a son not of my loins, but of my heart and soul.'

****
**Chapter** **14: 'Cut Bank'  
**

Circle 'G' Ranch

Cut Bank, Montana

2 weeks A.C.

"Sam, I think it's 'bout time we went into Cut Bank for supplies. I've been puttin' it off for days, but we're runnin' low on about everythin' but guns!"

Sam was pleased to hear the attempt at humor from her. Raven had been in mourning for ' _her Shorty'_ ever since 'it' happened a little over two weeks ago. Thanks to the propane fueled generators their power was still on, but all communications, including the cell phone, were dead. Besides, _who the hell was there to phone?_ Raven had said.

"I've been thinking about that," Sam replied as they climbed into the battered Dodge pick-up and headed into Cut Bank. "Those TV guys said that not everyone died that was infected. Five, ten, maybe even twenty percent live through it!"

"Shorty didn't. Or any of the half dozen hands we had workin' for us."

"But we did," Sam said, taking her hand. "Two out of less than twenty. That's better than one out of every ten people!"

"So?" Raven asked.

"So, that means a place like Cut Bank with what? Ten? Twelve thousand people? Means there's got to be at least a few hundred left alive!"

She patted the short 12 gage 'coach gun' she'd chosen from Big Jim's 'Wild West' collection. The squat, twenty inch double barrels gleamed dully in the sunlight. "Those TV guys also said that _half_ the ones that did survive went _crazy_. Like that fool Bill Granger when he tried to _stick_ you with a pitchfork! And last week when we tried to get near the reservation and _shots_ started coming at us from everywhere! Crazy half naked Blackfeet dancin' around and firin' off their rifles! Wouldn't let us near enough to find out _nothin_ '! Then there were those two cars we saw the other day? Racin' down the road, _slammin'_ into each other like that foolish 'Mad Max' movie!"

Sam smiled. To help get their mind off things, a few nights they had watched a movie on Big Jim's wide-screen system in his gunroom. The big man didn't have any _'chick-flicks'_ , but Raven had enjoyed 'Little Big Man' and 'Dances With Wolves'. The other night he had popped in 'Mad Max' and the two of them had watched a very young Mel Gibson 'save the day' against weirdoes with crazy haircuts, crazier clothes, crossbows and weird looking dune-buggies. Raven had called it all _'foolish trash'_ and gone to bed before the end. Sam, strangely fascinated by the bizarre behavior, had watched till the end.

' _Well',_ he had reasoned later as he drifted off to sleep; _'at least there's no shortage of gas around here. Besides, 'real' people don't act that way!'_

***

Cut Bank, Montana is located in the western part of that very large state, about thirty or forty miles east of the Rocky Mountains themselves.

The Circle 'G' is nestled in the foothills between the two, with the Blackfoot Indian Reservation running along the ranches' western side.

The drive into town was uneventful. The greeting they received however was not. While going around what looked like a three or four car collision, the front windshield suddenly shattered and a bullet whizzed by between them.

Sam hung a fast right and zoomed down a side street, pulled over and, with one of Wild Bill's Navy Colts in his hand, looked over at Raven. "You all right?"

"I aint hit, if that's what you mean. But I aint been _'right'_ since Shorty left!"

Sam slid the Colt into its cross-draw holster and reached for his Winchester in the gun wrack behind him. "You stay here. I'll take a look around."

"Like Hell I will!" Raven replied, hefting her stubby 12 gage. "I aint lettin' you face no _'Crazy'_ alone!"

Sam took a deep breath and sighed. For a woman in her early sixties, 'R' was one feisty lady! Cautiously they both peered over the back of the pick-up. Nothing. Seconds passed. Sam put his Stetson on the end of his rifle barrel and poked it cautiously up in the air. Still nothing. They had no idea where the shot had come from.

"Think he's gone?"

"What makes you think he's not a she?" Raven quipped.

"Cover me!" Sam said, a part of his mind giggling at the old clichéd phrase. Winchester in hand, he dashed for the Shell station about twenty yards away. Raven poked her coach gun over the side of the Dodge and let go one barrel high in the air.

Just before Sam reached safety she let go the second barrel. A pair of crows took off squawking, but other than that, all was silent. Raven quickly reloaded the shotgun.

***

Sam was breathing hard. _'Why the Hell would someone shoot at us?'_ he demanded of himself. _'Must be one of those 'Crazies' 'R' was going on about! Wasn't there some talk about the virus-shit causing hallucinations in some people? Seeing things like devils and weird looking clowns? Great! Those it didn't kill, it turned into psychos! Aint Progress somthin'!?'_ Still, his rational mind had trouble coming to grips with the fact that a normal, law-biding person would suddenly go mad and try and kill for no reason.

' _But there is a reason, Sam,_ ' Big Jim's 'voice' said inside his head. _'The same one that's been making mankind do strange, terrible things since the dawn of time.'_

'Ya? And what's that? Greed?'

' _Fear.'_

'That doesn't make it right!'

' _No, but it does make them dangerous. Watch your back, Sam. And keep an eye on Raven! She's a bit of a 'Hot Head.'_

'Ya think?'

Another rifle shot hit the Sunoco's large plate glass window. Shards flew as the window exploded. Sam ducked behind the cash and covered his face with his arm. Glass tinkled all around him. A fragment snuck through his defenses and laid open his right cheek.

Raven's 12 gage barked twice.

More silence. Even the crows were keeping their heads down.

Then a voice from behind him yelled out. "Hey Sam! That really you?"

Sam swung his Winchester around. The voice had come from inside the garage's workshop. _'Not the shooter!'_ , Sam reasoned. _'And I_ know _that voice!"_

"Sam! You there? It's _me_ , Dell Ross!"

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. Dell was a good man! Good mechanic! A good friend! "It's me, Dell! _Sam_!"

"Holy Shit, I'm glad _you're_ still alive! I recognized the pickup. Who else is with ya?"

"Just Raven. We're the only two left on the ranch."

"My Lucy's gone too, along with Kirk, my oldest. _Jolean's_ still with me, though. I've seen a few others, but most of 'em are out of their heads!"

The rifle fired again and the display case shattered. Oil splattered the back wall.

"You armed?" Sam yelled.

"Got my old Remington pump," Dell replied. "Only got a few shells though."

"Where's Jolean?"

"I'm _here_ , Sam, with my Dad!"

"Both of you stay put. I'm gunna flush this asshole out!"

***

"I saw somethin' over there by the library! Up on the second floor!"

As though to prove Raven's point, another shot rang out. Sam thought he saw a muzzle flash. He laid the Winchester over the back rail of the Dodge and fired three rapid shots into the open window.

No response. Sam shoved three long brass shells into the side slot of the old Winchester. He'd had it for years. A gift from Big Jim on his fifteenth birthday. He'd hunted everything from prairie dogs to elk with it. This was the second time in two weeks he'd had to shoot at a man trying to kill him!

"You _get_ him, Sam?!" Dell yelled from inside the Shell station.

"Can't tell for sure!" Sam replied. "Come up here with Raven, Dell. I'm going to get a closer look!" Then, turning to the woman beside him, he held out the Winchester. "Let's switch. That coach gun is no good at this distance. Too far away and I might need it once I'm inside."

Raven swapped weapons, handed him a pocket full of shells and fixed Sam with a worried look. "Don't do anything _foolish_ , Sam. I couldn't _stand_ to loose any more loved ones."

He smiled at her and made a dash for the library. Heart pounding, he made it to the front door without drawing any fire. _'Maybe the bastards skipped out the back!_ ' he thought to himself _'Or maybe I drilled him through the window \---'_

He went through the front door fast and ducked behind the check out counter. Nothing happened. He cocked both hammers on the stubby coach gun and bobbed up, ready to fire.

Nobody in sight.

Taking a quick glance around, he headed for the stairs. Cut Bank's library was an old, stone building. Originally it had been the Town Hall, till they built a new one a few bocks over. The carved oak staircase wound up to the second floor. He went up them with the shotgun to his shoulder.

The top landing was empty. He walked across it slowly, checking each isle. Then, at the far end of the third row he saw a body sprawled out on the floor. A deer rifle lay beside it. Sam approached cautiously.

' _Where there's one there could be two'_ the Voice said in his head. Big Jim, it seems, was still looking out for him.

It wasn't necessary, at least, not this time. The man, a middle aged stranger in worn workpants and boots, lay on his back with his eyes wide open. A growing puddle of blood beneath him and a 30/30 round in the middle of his chest. _'Looks like you didn't miss after all, son. Damn fine shootin'!'_

This was one time Sam wished his dead uncle would keep his opinions to himself.

***

"That's Ted Honeycutt!" Dell said, looking down at the body. "He's the library's janitor. Nice enough fella. Kind of quiet like."

"He's _real_ quiet now." Jolean said, matter-of-factly.

Dell turned and frowned at his fifteen year old daughter. She stood at the far end of the isle. Dressed in a weird mixture of Punk and Goth, with hair the color of a rainbow and enough body piercings to set off a metal detector, Jolean had not exactly _'fit in'_ with the 'rugged Western mentality' of her family, friends and neighbors. _Especially_ not with most the other kids at Cut Bank High. But despite her cultivated _'casual air'_ , she had always had a good heart. Sam remembered how, just a few years ago, he had taught her to ride. Back then she had a 'kid's first crush' on the handsome cowboy. Now she just acted bored with the whole bloody world!

"Jolean, there's nothin' for you to see here! Go back downstairs with Raven!" Dell experienced a mixture of guilt and anger every time he looked at his last surviving child. His wife Lucy had been the love of his life and his son Kirk had been the apple of his eye. Jolean, if anything, had been the _worm_ eating away at the apple. Though a year and a half younger than Kirk, it had been Jolean that had introduced Kirk to booze, drugs and wild parties. Before that Kirk had been one of the top athletes at Cut Bank High. Over the last year, due to _Jolean's influence_ , Kirk had been in several bar fights and arrested for drunken driving.

_Secretly_ Dell wished it had been Jolean, not Kirk, that had turned to dust. Either that, or that _he_ had died along with his wife and son.

Jolean stared daggers at her father, looked like she was about to reply, then turned and flounced away.

"She's kind of gone cold since ... you know, she found her mother." Dell looked back at the body at his feet. "Why would Ted be shooting at _us_? It don't make any sense!"

Sam picked up the deer rifle, pulled back the bolt, ejected a round and handed the gun to Dell. "TV fellas said, back when we had TV, something about how this virus or whatever it was worked on _some_ people's brains. Magnified their fears and other _'appetites'_.

Dell looked confused. "Made them _hungry_?"

Sam attempted a smile. "Sort of, but not for food. For the stuff we might _secretly_ want but stay clear of 'cause we know it's not right. Stealing, fighting, rape, stuff like that."

"Killing?" Dell asked.

Sam shrugged. "A shrink from New York I saw on TV seemed to think so. According to him the virus hit people _different_ ways. Most it just killed outright. Turned them to that dust shit. With others it kind of _messed_ with their brains. A with some, like us, it seemed to leave alone."

"This shrink fella say _why_ it left some of us alone?" Dell asked, thinking of his wife and son.

Sam shrugged again. "Something about genes and blood and stuff. Too complicated for me, but it had something to do with a few folks having rare blood types. Hell, I don't even know what kind I got! You?"

Dell shook his head and scratched at his three day growth of beard. "I haven't a goddamned clue. It's the same as Jolean's though. Back when she was just a button she got hurt and needed a blood transfusion. Lucy and Kirk had a different kind than me n' Jolean. Hey! Maybe that's why we're both still here!"

***

"There's something not right with that girl." Raven said quietly to Sam as they packed the supplies into the back of the pickup. "It's as though she doesn't care that the world has gone to hell in a handbasket!" The afternoon was getting on and both were anxious to get back to the Circle 'G'. Del Ross and his daughter Jolean were going to follow along in Dell's towtruck. All three adults had thought that it would be best to stick together. Jolean had also agreed --- strongly! She hadn't even wanted to go back and gather her things.

"I can get all _new_ things now!" she had beamed, coming alive for the first time. "Nicer things! Better things! It'll be a _blast_!"

Sam and Raven now stood waiting for Dell and his daughter to come back from her 'shopping spree'. They were supposed to have been back long before now.

"What do you mean by _'not right'_?" Sam asked. "She found her mother turned into... you know."

Raven's brow creased. "I _know_ only too damned well! Gray ashes I went to bed with my husband and woke up with something that looked like a crushed wasp's nest beside me!"

Sam gently touched her on the shoulder. "Take it easy, 'R'. Don't get yourself all riled up. I know it hurts, but we've just got to keep going."

She looked up at the man she had come to think of as her own son. "That's just it, Sam, Jolean doesn't act hurt, or sad , or _anything_ like that! Most the time she just seems bored \--- until she looks at you. _Then_ she feels somthin' all right!"

A sudden strange anger flooded through Sam. For a split second it was directed at Raven. "For Christ sake, 'R', she's just a _kid_! How old is she? Thirteen? Fourteen?"

"Fifteen, goin' on twenty-five!" Raven almost hissed. "And every inch a _whore_!"

Shocked, Sam looked at the kind, gentle woman he had secretly wished for years was his real mother. "What makes you say that? When I taught her to ride a few years back you both got along well. She was a sweet kid then and probably still is under all that hair and metal she wears."

Raven shook herself like a wet dog and pulled her jacket closer. "I'm sorry, Sam. I don't know _what_ came over me! Jolean's had a crush on you for years now and it certainly hasn't gone away, but she _was_ a good child and, like you say, probably still is. I guess all this shootin' and talkin' about Shorty has got me spooked. I'll be fine once we're back on the ranch."

"Hey Sam! What do ya think? Sexy, eh?"

Both turned and got their first look at the _'new'_ Jolean.

***

"I told you there was somethin' not right about that girl! You mark my words, Sam Goodnight, she's set her cap for you and she intends to _get_ what she wants!"

They were in the pickup on the way back to the Circle 'G'. Dell was following in his big towtruck. Both men thought it might come in handy sooner or later. Jolean, pouting because she couldn't 'ride with Sam', sat with curled lip and glaring eyes in all her new finery.

The best way to describe her _'new look'_ was that the Grunge, Punk and Goth were out and sluttish rapper chick with the push-up braw was in. Sam peered through the shattered windshield. He had thought of looking for another truck, but had been too distracted. "Well, her new clothes certainly made quite a change."

Raven fixed him with one of her looks. "You noticed that?"

"Well," Sam managed; "at least she doesn't seem bored."

"Hhhhmmmmph!Raven said. "We'll soon see how board the little minx is when I set her to work back at the ranch!"

' _Well,'_ Sam wisely mused in silence. _'That should be interesting!'_

***
**Chapter** **15: 'School's Out'**

(Previously in Chapter 5 'Raintree')

Billings Montana

1st week AC

 _  
_

In the Master's chambers,

They gathered for the feast.

They stabbed it with their steely eyes,

But they just can't kill the Beast!

After the 'boom' of Bear's shotgun faded, a wet, smacking kind of sound was heard next, followed by Bear first grunting, then sighing. "Aaaahhhh ---"

Raintree's deer-handled hunting knife had slid slowly through the soft skin under Bear's neck and jaw, through the mouth cavity and on up into the brain.

' _Be calm, grandson'_ , a familiar voice whispered inside Raintree's head. _'You are 'Of The People'. A Blackfoot warrior! Be both strong like the mountain, yet bending like the breeze.'_

"But _how_ , grandfather?" he wailed to the empty store around him, to the dead bodies laying at his feet.

' _Cinch your belt above the wound, grandson. Leave the knife where it is for now. Make your way to the one who waits for you.'_

In a thickening inner haze, Billy Raintree made a tourniquet from his belt, retrieved his knife and, using Bear's shotgun as a crutch, headed back to the California Hotel. All the way there his grandfather kept chanting that freaky old song.

The last thing I remember,

I was limping to the door.

I had to find the passage back,

To the place I was before.

Good Night, said the Shaman,

We are programmed to receive.

You can check out any time you like,

But you can NEVER leave!

***

Billy had noticed Candice a few months earlier when he first moved into the rather dilapidated Hotel California. Despite the drab way she dressed, he had been drawn by her good looks and sweet, shy smile. He'd seen at once that she was a gentle, kind person, but not an overly adventurous one. He had a feeling that she enjoyed reading about _other_ people's lives much more than she did actually _living_ her own.

_Perhaps, Billy-Boy,_ The Queen of Thunderdome purred,

her silver chain mail all aglitter.

Perhaps she had been like that, --- once upon a time.

But 'times have changed', Raggedy-Man!

_And like_ _Dell's little Jolean back on the Circle 'G',_

Your sweet little Candice has changed along with 'em!'

It had been Candice who had found Billy passed out in the street, Candice who had dragged his sorry ass back to the hotel and Candice who had pulled Bear's knife out and nursed him back to health.

She had even found the courage to go back to the Best Buy for food and supplies, search through Bear's stiffening body for more shells for the shotgun and she had later used that gun to drive both some wild dogs and roving _Crazies_ away from the hotel while he healed.

She had also found the master key in the janitor's dust-filled jeans and gone room to room, Bear's shotgun in hand, looking for any more survivors. What she found was a lot of wasp-nest bodies and two 'regular' ones.

The first had been a little old lady, Mrs. Kawalski she thought her name was, lying peacefully in her bed. There was a large, empty bottle of pills beside her.

The second 'regular' body was a middle aged man, (who might have been an accountant but she wasn't sure), hanging by his neck from a chandelier.

Unable to dispose of either one, she had left them there, though not before cutting the accountant down and covering him with his bed sheet.

She had also set all the trapped, half-starving pet birds, cats and dogs free. Most had quickly run away, either to join a roving pact or be eaten by one. Two dogs though had seemingly chosen to hang around. A large German Sheppard and a cute, little Beagle. Being an English teacher and having a major in Literature, as well as a love for the Works of the Bard, Candice had called the dogs _King Lear_ and _McDuff_ respectively. McDuff hardly ever left her side and Lear watched over both her and Billy like one of the Pope's Swiss Guards!

***

"How's the leg today?" Candice asked, coming out of the bathroom. Her hair was wet and down, rather than in a pony-tail or worse yet, the 'old ladies bun' she usually wore. With the power gone for three days now, cold showers were becoming the norm in the Hotel California.

"Better every day" Billy smiled, handing her a hot mug of tea he had just made on the camping stove she had gotten from the sporting goods store two blocks over. "Good enough to start packing."

"You _really_ think we should leave? she asked. "Wouldn't it be safer to just stay here?"

"And do what, Candice? _Hide_ away like two frightened church mice? With all the wild dogs running around looking for food, all the _Crazies_ looting and fighting! You barely made it _back_ home the other day!"

He poured himself a mug of tea and continued. "Besides, with the _power gone_ here in the city, food everywhere will start to spoil, especially _meat_. Not just in food stores, but in all the houses as well. The _smell_ will attract the wild dogs and other animals. It will also attract all kinds of bugs and breed diseases."

A picture came into her mind of Mrs. Kawalski lying in her bed downstairs and the accountant under his sheet up on the top floor. She didn't even want to think about what Bear and faceless Weasel must look like now. She'd heard a pack howling over near the Best Buy for a week now.

"Believe me, Candice," Billy went on, "we'll be much better off out on the reservation. Fresh air, wide open spaces. And there's bound to be some of my tribe left alive!"

"You really think so?" she asked, gathering hope from his rock solid belief.

" _Absolutely!_ I have a very big family!"

"And we'll be _safe_ there? On the reservation?"

He smiled at her. "It's very quiet and peaceful there. We have a few stores, but mostly its just beautiful country."

' _Ya!_ ' he thought inwardly. _'And far way from all the decaying bodies and the Crazies running around looting, drinking and worse!'_

The 'worse' was a thought so dark and disturbing that he pushed it away even from himself.

"And you have horses there, on your reservation?" Candice asked.

"Lots of them. Do you like to ride?"

"Oh yes!" she beamed. "But I've only done it a few times. The Chicago suburbs don't exactly have too many horse ranches."

"Well, soon you'll have your own horse to ride any time you want."

Candice's smile widened. She pulled gently on Lear's leash and the large, German Sheppard jumped into the side door of their van. McDuff, the lazy, sad eyed little hound, was already curled up in the back seat. Camping supplies, extra clothes and boxes of food filled the back. It was then that Candice noticed several more guns.

"What are they for? We already have a shotgun?"

Billy smiled at her. "It's a bit of a drive to the reservation and we don't know what we might run into. They might come in handy."

"Let's hope we don't have to use any of them!"

Now it was Billy's smile that widened. "Like my grandfather used to say: _'Hope is fine. Being prepared is even better.'_ "

Candice reached out and gently touched this quiet young man she had just recently met. "This grandfather of yours sounded like a very wise man."

"He was the best," Billy replied. "He and his older brother Paylaw were the elders of our tribe. Paylaw was considered a Shaman, sort of like a priest. Those two old men and my Aunt Raven raised me after my mother died. "

Her touch lingered. "How old were you when she died?

"Six; almost seven."

"What about your father?"

Billy shrugged, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. "He kind of fell apart after my mother passed on."

"He died of a broken heart?" she asked softly.

Billy grunted. "More like a broken bottle. I'd often stay for a month or two with Auntie 'R'out on the ranch she worked at with her husband, Shorty."

"He was Blackfoot?"

Billy shook his head. "No, Shorty was white. He was the Forman on the Circle 'G', Big Jim Goodnight's place. It runs alongside the rez."

"Were they still alive before the --- things changed?" Candice asked quietly.

"Aunt Raven and Shorty were. Still are I hope! That's another place I want to check out. We'll stop off at the ranch after looking around Cut Bank."

Candice reached out and touched his hand. "You certainly do have a large family. I'm sure some of them are --- okay."

Billy climbed in and started the van. "We'll know in a few days --- if we ever get going, that is."

Candice joined him in the van. "Then let's go ! she said, here blue eyes sparkling "I'm looking forward to meeting your family --- and seeing the horses!"

***
**Chapter 16: 'The Biker Rally'  
**

_(An exert from_ 1 AC, Book 1

Ch 10 'The Biker' _)_

Glacier Part Hotel

Montana Day 1 AC

Charlene, her long blonde wig awry and her thigh high 'fuck-me' boots pinching her feet, wandered into the main room of the penthouse. Butch was there, looking good but feeling like shit warmed up. "I checked the other rooms," she said. "All fuckin' empty! I mean, their _clothes_ is there, n' some dry, grey shit, but they are gone, man! Just fuckin' gone!"

Butch decided to check for himself. Several minutes later he was back, fully dressed and carrying a sawed-off shotgun. Charlene frowned.

"Wow there, man! What the fuck's that for?"

The grin Butch gave her was cold enough to freeze her in her tracks. Snapping open Slick's sawed-off shotgun and checking the loads didn't exactly warm the cockles of her heart either. The short, deadly killing thing snapped shut with a metallic finality that hurt the teeth. "Somethin' aint right! Slick 'n the others aint gone, Bitch --- their fuckin' dead! And I'm out of here!"

"Where the fuck are we goin'?" Charlene demanded.

" _I'm_ heading south to Cut Bank. Big biker rally going on there." Butch grinned wolfishly. "I don't know _where the fuck_ you're going."

"I'm goin' with _you_ , Butch! You can't leave me here all _alone_!"

" _Can't_ I? Just _watch me_!"

Charlene played the one card every woman had been dealt since the beginning of time. She placed her hand on his crotch and rubbed gently. "But it gets so _lonely_ ridin' all by yourself. I could (she rubbed a little harder), sort of _'ease the tension'_ whenever you want. I'm _real good_ at easin' tension."

Butch, already hard, thought, _'Why the Hell not?'_

"Why the hell not?"

Now it was Charlene's turn to grin. Kneeling there by his Harley, she went to work with a gusto! Ten minutes later she and Butch were cruising down towards the big biker's rally just outside of Cut Bank, Montana.

***

It took them two days to get there, what with all the traffic jams and wrecks on the highway. Even weaving in an out of the stalled and smashed cars, Butch eventually took to the side roads to make better time. They didn't see another living soul on the way, but they heard screaming during the night. They got into Cut Bank before sundown of the second day.

"Hey, Big Boy, I gotta take a leak!"

'Fuck, woman! You got plumbing problems or what?! We just stopped for a piss an hour ago!"

Charlene's practiced hands found his crotch again. "Nothin' a big, strong man like you can't fix. But first I gotta take a leak first."

He pulled the Harley into the next gas station and decided to top off the tank. "Get me something to eat when you're in there. Couple of chocolate bars --- and some smokes!"

Charlene waved her hand in the air as she hustled her shapely ass towards the can. She had traded her fuck-me boots and mini skirt in for a pair of stylish jeans, hikers and a white tank top that left little to the immagination. The blonde wig was gone, her own raven locks flowing free.

The make-up however was still as thick as ever.

Charlene, the Biker's Queen.

Rockin' & Rollin' & actin' obscene!

A minute and a half later she came out screaming!

***

As she ran towards him, Butch pulled Slick's sawed off shotgun out from under the saddlebags and leveled it at Charlene's bouncing tits.

"Get _down_ , Bitch!"

Though not overly bright, Charlene's survivor instincts were honed to a fine edge. Upon hearing Butch's shouted command, she dropped like a stone --- giving him a clear shot at the crazy running close behind her.

Butch gave the stupid bastard both barrels, cutting the slobbering asshole off at the waist. The body flopped back in the dusty road, while up above a bright new banner that had been stretched across the main street fluttered in the prairie wind.

**Welcome to** Cut Bank **, Montana!**

Proud home of the

## Lewis & Clark Days

June 19th to 25th

Butch glanced up at the sign as he snapped open the stubby shotgun, dropped in two new shells, flicked the killing thing closed and looked around for a second target.

***

There wasn't a hellova lot left of the BIG SKY BIKER RALLY. Oh, there was one hellova lotta _bikes_ still there, but most of the riders had --- well, you already know what happened to them.

Those few that hadn'tdrifted away on the western wind, soon jumped on their hogs and had gotten the Hell outta Dodge! A few, a _very_ few still lingered on. It was to those lingering few that Butch and his lady fair now made their way towards.

***

Butch pulled in next to a large mobile home and shut off the engine. When the deep throated motor stopped, the ever present wind took over. "Here, take this," he handed Charlene a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson five shot. "Try not to blow your tits off --- or my head."

Moving closer to the mobile home, he heard someone playing an acoustic guitar --- badly. Cocking the sawed-off, he advanced on the door.

_Snick- snick!_ Butch heard the slide of a 12 gage pump worked just behind him.

"Better drop that hog-leg, Dude," a male's voice called out. "I'd hate to have to mess up such a nice jacket. _'Satan's Children'_ ", the man continued, reading the club name on the back of Butches jacket. "I rode with a few of those boys --- back in the day."

Butch, still facing away from the man with the shotgun , called out . "Charlene! You got this motherfucker covered?!"

A female's voice, though _not_ Charlene's, spoke up. "Sorry, Asswipe, but your bitch is presently _indisposed_."

Butch turned slowly and saw a tall, very thin blonde standing behind a wide-eyed Charlene. The blond had a nine-mil pressed against the back of Charlene's head.

Shotgun spoke again, only this time there was an edge to his voice. "I said, drop the piece, friend --- or I'll drop you! _Pronto!"_

That last word rang a bell in Butch's brain. ' _Pronto!_ ' Only one biker he knew used that particular word. Smiling, he uncocked the sawed off and put it down, then slowly turned. As he did so his smile widened.

" _Ace_? Ace you old _fucker_! It's me! _Butch!"_

The biker raised the 12 gage and peered more closely down the long barrel. When recognition finally struck home, he lowered the gun.

"Butch? Butch! _Fuck_ man, I heard you were in the can!"

"Was," Butch replied, grinning from ear to ear. "Got out a couple of weeks ago. What about you, Ace? I heard you got knifed down in Mexico."

Ace touched his stomach. A five inch scar lay beneath his dirty t-shirt. "Take more than a greaser's pig-sticker to do me in!"

"How about the end of the fucking world?!"

"Fuck _that_!" Ace replied. "We're _both_ still here, aint we? Come on inside n' meet the boys!"

***

' _The boys'_ turned out to be four other bikers and three women, including the skinny blonde. Ace was the only one that Butch knew.

Two of them he'd already heard about --- the _Iseley_ brothers, Dwayne and Darrel, and what he had heard he hadn't exactly liked. Both looked like illiterate, inbred retards, but in reality Dwayne was sly as a fox while Darrel was just big, stupid --- and very, _very_ strong bear. They were 'contract killers' from someplace like Bumfuck, Georgia or Cornhole Kentuckey.

Their weapons of choice matched their personalities.

_Dwayne the Brain_ favored a pair of chromed lightweight Glock 9's in black tooled shoulder holsters. He had a .32 ankle gun and several knives at various places on his rail-thin body.

_Darrel the Dunce_ carried a Louisville Slugger baseball bat the way an Irish beat-cop used to carry his night-stick. Whirlin' & twirlin' the five pound bat like it was a goddamned toothpick! On a shoulder sling under his massive right arm hung a cut down Mosburg Defender shotgun. Black as a snake and about as long, this five shot pump action eight gage could bring down a fucking elephant! To top of Darrel's arsenal was a heavy Bowie Knife with a 12 inch blade.

The Isley Brothers often bragged that they would kill _anyone, anywhere, anytime --- if the price was right_. Give these two vicious siblings enough drugs, booze and broads and the price was _always right!_

The other two men were completely unknown to Butch, though the older one, _Pops_ , said he had heard of the infamous founder of _Satan's Children_.

Pops had been around for a mooo-cho long time. He'd spent more years _in prison_ than out --- both the military and the regular kind. He's been a Marine in his younger days, working his way up to Gunnery-Sergeant before his temper got him court marshaled for 'striking an officer'. _'Beating the living shit out of the brain-dead asshole'_ was how he put it.

When Pops wasn't locked up behind bars he was out riding free, wild and selling dope. Pops had iron gray hair pulled back and braided to his waist, a gut that hid one hellova lotta muscle and more tattoos showing than normal skin. He was missing two fingers on his left hand and had a glass left eye with a red skull etched into it. When he was in a _'piratical'_ frame of mind, he'd wear a black silk eye-patch, but most of the time he just let the skull glare out at a world that he didn't particularly like and that sure as Hell didn't like him!

For weapons Pops preferred to use either his fists or his feet. The prison tats on his fingers spelled out: WIDOWMAKER \--- one letter for each finger. However, since he was missing the two last fingers on his left hand --- he'd lost them in a little scrap with a pit-bull. Pops had kicked the shit out of both the dog and its owner with his Wellington 'Shit-Kickers' As a result his two beefy fists now spelled out: WIDOWMAK--

When push came to shove and Pops absolutely needed some _firepower_ , he chose a black Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum with elk grips that he justly called, 'Dirty Harry'

' _Go ahead, punk! Make my day!'_

The fourth _'musketeer'_ Butch met was just a snot-nosed kid of seventeen or eighteen. No matter what his 'real' name was, we might as well call him D'Artagne or 'Dart' for short. For, like Defoe's fabled lad of literary fame, the fourth male survivor was not a _'real'_ biker --- just a punk-assed, 'legend-in-his-own-mind', _wanna-be_!

Ever since he could remember, _'Dart'_ (for want of a better name), had dreamed of having the wind in his hair, a gun in his hand, a throbbing _'hog'_ between his legs --- oh ya, and a big breasted Biker slut clinging to his leather-clad back.

The unwanted and certainly unloved son of a casual union between a looser rodeo cowboy father and a looser junkie skag mother had produced Cut Bank's number one all-time _asshole_.

In and out of trouble all his life, 'Dart' had worked his way through foster home after foster home till he was finally shipped to Juvy over in Billings for trying to boink his last foster parent's eleven year old daughter. After bidding Billings a fond adeau by setting fire to the Juvy home and stealing a customized 350 Suzuki, 'D'Artagne de Asshole' hit the road with wild eyed dreams of becoming an 'outlaw biker'.

Get your motor runnin'! Head out on the highway!

Lookin' for adventure, in whatever comes my way!

Born, to be, wi-i-ild!

Naaa-na-na Naaa-na-na Na!

The _'Dartinator'_ was over two years on that long and winding road and, truth to tell, he was a tad disappointed in his progress. And rightly so! After being mentally spurned and physically beaten on a regular basis, both by the local poo-lice of the towns and bergs he visited and by the 'local chapters' of the biker gangs he tried to join, Dart thought it might be _'kinda nice'_ to sashay back home to good ol' Cut Bank and check out the annual 'Biker's Rally' held outside of town. You know! Take a _spin_ by the old place. Drop in at the corner pool hall. Show the local yokels all his scars and tats. Maybe do a few lines of Coke to set the mood and then _strut his bad-ass_ right down fucking Main Street!

_That_ would show 'em! Ever fuckin' one of 'em!

What he got instead was a mouthful of ashes as 95% of not only the town yokels but his Harley heroes suddenly turned to dust and blew the fuck away!

The Dartmyster, however, was _nothing_ if not resilient.

Instead of lamenting the untimely passage of all his fellow _Cut-Bankians_ and brother _'Riders of the Purple Sage'_ , he went around looting the dead instead.

Now, decked out in the best leathers, chaps and jacket he could find; sporting several guns, an original 'Loufdwafer' helmet, and riding _the biggest 'hog' he could handle_ , in his seriously fucked up mind he truly believed that he was now ready to take his rightful place as 'one of the big boys'!

Ladies and gentlemen, _The Dartinator_ is in the building!

***

"Who the fuck is this piece of shit?!" Butch remarked, after casting his rather critical gaze over Dart's rather short, frail form.

Ace shrugged. 'He calls himself Dart. I found him picking over the remains two days ago. He's a slimy little shit who wants to be a rider."

"That right, Shithead?" Butch demanded. "You robbing the dead? You stealing from my brother bikers?"

Dart glanced nervously around the room, seeking help. When none was forthcoming, he tried to bluff his way with what he thought was a joke. "Well, it's not like they were gunna _need_ the shit anymore. They were like, fuck man, you know \--- dust in the fucking wind!"

(Now, where have we heard that golden oldie before?)

Without saying a word, Butch moved in and punched Dark hard in the chest. The slight form was propelled backwards into the less than loving arms of two of the biker chicks. He lay there gasping for breath. He hadn't been hit like that since that big cop in Kansas City took the boots to him!

"Get the fuck off me!" the smaller of the two girls yelled. The tall one had already shoved the gasping form away.

The two girls were called Miriam and Janette, but seeing as how no-one gave a flying fuck what their _'given'_ names were, Ace had christened them anew according to their most obvious assets. _'Tits'_ was a tall, skinny bleached blond with humungous silicone implants and _'Ass'_ was a round faced, cute little brunette with a mouth like a sewer and a rear end just made for humping!

Butch looked around the mobile home, his eyes still glaring. Litter and dishes were everywhere --- and a very _large_ collection of weapons. "Looks like Asswipe wasn't the only fucker here robbing the dead." His icy gaze swept over each of them.

Pops stood there grinning through his massive gray beard. Butch noticed the prison tats on his arms and hands --- and the missing fingers. The glass eye with its red skull and the .357 in a shoulder rig did not escape his gaze either. Still smiling, Pops spoke quietly to all in the room, though most of his words seemed directed not to the diminutive Dart, but to the massive Isley brother. Apparently there was already some 'bad blood' between them. "In my book, anybody who steals from a brother rider, be he dead or alive, is a low down, cowardly sonovabitch!"

"Who ya'll callin' a sum'bitch, ya fat ol' sum'bitch?!" Darrel demanded. Bigger and taller than an already big Pops, the younger Isley brother was quick to anger and even quicker to strike.

A gleam of sorts came into Pops' good eye as he took up a relaxed boxer's stance, his heavy arms and hands moving in eager anticipation. "Old I may be, sonny, and fat also--- but I can still pound your sorry ass flatter than hammered shit!"

"Hold on there, boys!" Ace cut in. "In case you hadn't noticed, we're a little short on manpower around here. So save it for later!"

Dwayne, standing silently off to one side, nodded for his brother to back away. The younger Isley frowned, glared once more at a smiling Pops, then quickly back to his brother. This time Dwayne's head movement was more pronounced, adding an angry warning with his eyes. Darrel took a deep breath, shrugged and silently turned away.

As the tension drained from the room, the tall, slender dark haired woman that had held a gun to Charlene's head, came and whispered something to Ace.

They called her The Cat Lady, for she moved with a feline grace that was both sensual and dangerous. Not interested in clinging to some macho man's back, Cat drove her own bike, lived, partied and fought just like her male counter pots. When angered she struck swiftly and silently and though she carried a 9 mm, she preferred to use one or more of the several knives she had hidden on her. This was one bad-assed lady you did _not_ want to piss off!

"Good idea, Cat. Take the little shit along to help out." Ace turned, clapped his hands and beamed. "All right boys and girls, were gunna have ourselves an old fashioned wiener roast! Free beer, booze 'n broads outside!"

***
**Chapter** **17: 'Headin' Home'**

The #90 west going out of Billings was a nightmare. Wrecks, burnt out cars, overturned trucks were everywhere. They parked and got out. While Billy scouted ahead, Candice walked the dogs. It was an eerie feeling to see all those vehicles seemingly frozen in time --- almost as if The Big Cahoona upstairs had pushed the cosmic pause button and stepped out to make a quick snack before tonight's blockbuster continued.

"A penny for your thoughts."

Candice, startled out of her reverie by Billy's voice, blushed and turned away. "It was nothing, really. Just a crazy thought."

Billy laughed deeply --- the first time he'd done that in a long time. _"Crazy?"_ he managed, though still grinning. "That's a good one! Just look around you, Candice. It's _all_ fucking crazy!"

"There's no need for profanity, Billy. But I do see your point. The world _has_ gone crazy, hasn't it? That's actually what I was thinking about. It's like we're living through the end of the world, or at least, the end of mankind."

Billy's grin vanished. "Hey, _we're_ still here, right?! And we _will_ find others! Maybe not out here on the highway, but in the towns and cities." His grin reappeared as the little hound, McDuff came over to be petted.

"I found us a new ride. Come see!"

The _'new ride'_ turned out to be a fully equipped military hum-vee, complete with camouflage, armor and a .50 caliber machine gun mounted on the top!

" _That's_ our new ride?"

"You bet!" Billy beamed. "If we can't go around 'em, then we'll go _over_ 'em!"

***
Main Street, Melville, Montana

Across the park from City Hall

They called it _'The Beast'_ , and beast it was! Billy found the hum-vee easy to drive and easier still to shunt aside most obstacles. The few they couldn't, he did indeed _go over!_ But the #90 was still slow going. At Big Timber, they took the #191North. The smaller road was much less congested and they made better time. They were driving through the little town of Melville when they came to the small barricade in the middle of the road. Just a wooden saw horse and a sign that read:

### Welcome to Melville!

### Survivors wanted!

### If friendly,

### ring the bell on the pole.

### If not, keep the fuck moving!

"See, Candice? I _told_ you we'd find others! Now, what bell on what pole?"

"The flagpole over there on the lawn," she said, pointing. "There's a large bell on top --- and a red ribbon tied to the end of the rope."

Billy drove across the lawn, the grass now nearly a foot long. He then parked beside the flagpole, scrambled out of his seat and into the machine gun turret. "Don't get out, he said. "Just reach out and pull the rope from inside."

"Why not get out?"

"Because whoever wrote that may be just like you, Candice, sweet, kind and _very_ trusting. And they probably are --- but after what happened back in the Best Buy, _I'm not!"_ With a grunt he worked the heavy slide on the .50. "Now, please pull the bloody rope."

She thought for a moment, then opened the door and climbed down.

" _Candice! For Christ sake I..."_

"I _heard_ you, Billy! And I don't blame you for feeling that way. But I just _can't_ live like that. I _refuse_ to live like that!"

She took hold of the rope, wrapped it around her wrist, and pulled. It was one of those big old bronze bells that small towns used to put up in the center of town to warn people of some local emergency. Once Candice got it rolling, its own weight added to the force of the rings. Within seconds the sound was echoing back from the surrounding hills.

Lear began to bark, while McDuff jumped back into the safety of the hum-vee. "It's like the church bells back home!" Candice beamed.

"Bloody _loud_ , that's for sure!" Billy added, pivoting around both the seat and the long barrel of the .50 cal.

"Billy Raintree! Do you _actually think_ anyone is going to come running out to greet us while you're up there playing G.I. Joe?!"

Silence from Billy, though the echoes from the bell continued. Then he ducked back down and appeared seconds later. McDuff cradled in one arm and a 12 gage shotgun in the other.

"You're right, Candice --- as usual." He handed her the hound and worked the slide on the 12 gage. "Let's go meet our new friends."

***

"They are _not_ Army."

"They're in a fucking army _tank_!"

"It's _not_ a tank, it's a Hummer.

" _It's gotta fucking machine gun on it!"_

The first man paused to draw a deep breath. "They're _not army_ I tell you! Army would have _manned_ the fucking machine gun and come out ready to rock & roll! Those two are just civilians."

The second man was still not convinced. "How'd they get a fucking tank like that then?"

"Probably just picked it up sitting at some road block or somethin'. Besides, Army ---" The first man stopped taking and used his field glasses to peer through the open second story window of Melville's City Hall

"What the fuck they doing _now_?" the second man asked

"Walking this way. The chick's carrying a dog and the guy's got a rifle." He made a slight adjustment on the binoculars. "No, not a rife, it's a shotgun."

" _Big fucking difference!"_ the second one said, bringing his own rifle up to his shoulder. It had a scope on it, but was way too powerful for the idiot using it to be able to find shit. "You want me to drop the dude so we can do the chick?"

The first one continued to peer through the expensive field glasses. "What I want is for you to _shut the fuck up_!"

The second man sniffed deeply, lowered his rifle and reached for the half empty bottle of Captain Morgan's. _'The one good thing about this shit-bird town'_ , he reasoned. _'They got a well stocked liquor store!'_

Glasses spoke again to Captain Morgan. "Go _easy_ on that! I'm going out to talk to them, but first, lets go over the drill."

" _Shit_ , Lloyd! I _know_ the fucking drill. We've done this a _dozen_ fucking times"!

Lloyd's hand way a sudden blur, delivering a hard slap, causing Captain Morgan's bloodshot eyes to roll back in his head. Lloyd continued on as though nothing had happened.

"If I _bend down_ to tie my shoe, or if I _grab_ the girl and we _both_ go down, you _shoot_ the fucker with the shotgun." He stood up, slipped off the shoulder holster with the silver plated Red Hawk in it and slid the .9 mm automatic on his belt around to the small of his back. (Good ol' Lloyd was nothing if not thorough!)

He then leaned over and looked Captain Morgan in his blood-shot eyes. "Do _not_ fuck this us, Bobby-Joe! Leave the booze alone and _watch me_ through the fucking scope! If _I drop, you shoot!_ "

Bobby-Joe nodded. "I will, Lloyd! I mean, I won't fuck up n' I will watch you! If you drop, I shoot the fucker with the shotgun! I _got_ it!"

"See that you _do_ , cousin, or I'll gut you like a Sunday goose!"

As Lloyd walked away, Bobby-Joe eyed the bottle. The amber liquid seemed to call to him. 'Just a _little_ taste, Sugar! You know it'll make you feel _soooooo_ good!'

' _No!'_ another voice , a carbon copy of Lloyd's , yelled in his head. _'Cover my back, you gutless wonder! Now!'_

'Sheee-it, Sugar! Don't listen to that redneck asswipe! Come on. Have a leettle taste ---'

' _Bobby-Joe! Watch this fucker --- NOW, GODDAMNIT!'_

Bobby-Joe dropped the bottle and fumbled the rifle to his shoulder. He placed a blood-shot eye on the end on the scope and saw bugger all!

"Fuckin' mutherfuckin' cunt!" Then, taking a breath, he tried again. An extreme close-up of the flagpole swam into view, peeling paint and all. Bobby-Joe shifted to the right. _'Too fucking much, asswhipe!'_ Lloyd's voice growled _'Back up slowly._ '

The camouflaged hum-vee filled the lens. Suddenly a huge dog seemed to leap right at him!

" _Fuck!_ " Bobby-Joy yelleded, instinctively pulling the trigger.

Click.

Nothing.

Bobby-Joe , far from the sharpest knife in the drawer, looked down at the rifle as though it was his seventh grade algebra exam --- in a state of total fucking incomprehension.

"What the _fuck_?"

' _The safety, Numnuts!'_ Lloyd's clone yelled inside his head. _'The fucking safety's still on!'_

Suddenly in his mind Bobby-Joe was fighting mentally ( _never a wise move on his part_ ), with Lloyd's Ghost and _'Calypso'_ , that hot looking black _chick from '_ Pirates of the Caribbean'.

'Just a leeetal taste o' de rum, Sugar! You know De Cap'n, he gunna make evereryting aallll right!'

" _Shit_! Shit-shit-fucking- _shit_!" ( _Destined for the stage is our silver tongued Bobby-Joe_!)

Fumbling an awkward thumb over the safety, he attempted to find again his demanding cousin in the rifle's powerful scope, but alas, all was as a blurry, churning sea before him.

The road seemed to rise up like a huge wave. The distant pine forest became the masts of tall ships rushing towards him on the swiftly incoming tide. Even the summer sun's kindly rays cast tongues of burning fire into the eye pressed up against the thick, threatening lens.

In short, _the drooling 'tard couldn't see fuck all!_

"Shit!"

'Come on, mahn' Caylipso purred in his ear, dangling the rum bottle between her spread legs. _'_ Have a leettle taste o' dis!'

' _Bobby-Joe!'_ Lloyd's clone growled. _'Get your ass back in gear, boy, or I'll shove my boot so far up it the toe will come out your fucking mouth_!'

In what passed for a brain, Bobby-Joe eyed first the swaying bottle of Captain Morgan's, then the poised boot of his domineering cousin.

No contest, right?

Good ol' Lloyd wins every time --- one way of the other.

B.J. Braintrust hefted the rifle one more time. When he _did_ finally focus it, what he saw surprised the shit out of him!

Cousin Lloyd was lying on his back in the tall grass.

***

(Gentle Reader, please REWIND your thoughts to where

Lloyd stepped out to talk to Billy and Candice)

' _Nice looking tits!_ ' Lloyd thought as he strode towards the two strangers. _'She could use a little more meat on her though, but hey, beggars can't be choosers! Besides, I'll soon fatten her up!'_ Lloyd laughed inwardly, allowing his best smile to spread across his heavily bearded features as he extended his right hand in phony friendship.

"Howdy folks! Sure is a strange vehicle ya got there, son! Army, aint it? Any more of you boys following along behind?"

Candice involuntarily took a step back, physically repelled by this smiling man with the outstretched hand. Bram Stover's _'Dracula'_ flashed across her mind. Though nothing like the well dressed monster of the movies, this _'thing'_ before her made her think of a hungry vampire, though perhaps one that stole souls as well as blood.

At her feet, McDuff, the little hound began to growl. Candice felt like doing the same.

Lloyd's hand hung there between them like a hangman's noose in the wind. Candice, suddenly cold, hugged herself and glanced over at Billy.

Billy missed her look however, due to the fact that his gaze was riveted on this grinning stranger. _'A smiling-puke if ever there was one!_ ' Billy reasoned, shifting his 12 gage instead of shaking hands.

It was that refusal to shake that saved Billy's life.

Always before Lloyd's smiling offer of friendship had lured his victims in close. He'd grasp their hand in friendship, grip them tightly, then, like a poised spider, _strike_! Being ambidextrous, he'd yank the person towards him and, pull a heavy leather sap from his back pocket and 'SMACK!' --- down they'd go.

But Bill had _refused_ to take the bait, so Lloyd switched to 'Plan B'.

He smiled and offered Candice his hand, thinking to use her as a shield, giving him time to draw his gun and shoot this smart-assed kid!

But Candice, unexplainably _terrified_ of this grinning creature before her, stepped back from Lloyd's extended hand. The thought of actually _touching_ this 'thing' made her flesh crawl!

' _Fuck this shit!'_ Lloyd inwardly screamed and, still smiling, lunged at Candice.

As he was just about to tackle her, a heavy four legged creature slammed into him from the side. Lear, sensing the same repulsion as Candice and little McDuff, had been crouched in the tall grass, just waiting to pounce.

The German Sheppard hit Lloyd in the chest, knocking the man down and off to one side. Instinctively the big dog's teeth went for Lloyd's throat. Lloyd managed to raise his right hand in defense and found it clamped tightly between Lear's jaws. He let out a wail of pain, followed closely by threats and loud cursing.

"Nice mouth, mister," Billy said. "Where's your smile now?"

"Call off your fucking dog, Shithead, or I'll rip you fucking heart out!"

Billy took a step forward and kicked Lloyd hard in the head. Like before, doing the unexpected saved his life, for at the moment Billy moved forward, Bobby-Joe fired.

It wasn't a difficult shot; less than a hundred yards and if Bobby-Joe had been using his old Remington instead of this fancy bolt action _sniper_ rifle he'd picked up on one of their looting sprees, he probably would have nailed Billy --- as it was his bullet harmlessly pinged off the Hum-Vee's amour.

"Get down!" Bobby yelled at Candice.

She flattened out in the park's tall grass and pulled Lear to her. He reluctantly gave up Lloyd's hand. Lloyd was still out cold from Billy's earlier little 'love tap'.

Another shot came in from Bobby-Jose's rifle, cutting through the tall grass close to them like the Grim Reaper's scythe.

Though it was too far away to do any real damage, Billy still emptied the 12 gage side-by-side at the front two windows of Melville's city hall, headquarters for the past week or so of those notorious psycho killers, Lloyd and Bobby-Joe Cornhole!

"Here!" he said, ejecting the two spent shells and replacing them with new ones. He snapped the gun shut and handed it to Candice. "The safety is _off_. Keep this pointed at him. If he tries _anything_ at all, blow his fucking head off!"

"What are you going to do?" for once not pestering him about his swearing

Billy glanced back at the parked Hum-Vee. "I'm going to get to that bloody machine gun!"

***

Bobby-Joe was in quite a sate.

What to do? What to do? What to fucking _do_?!

' _Lloyd's not here!'Maybe he's dead!_

That thought alone froze him with fear.

All his life Lloyd had _always_ been there, telling him what to do and what to think. Guiding him, not always gently, over the many hills and dales of his unhappy life. Lloyd was always there when Bobby-Joe needed him. Sure, he swore and threatened, even hit him now and then, but Lloyd was the only _'family'_ Bobby-Joe really had!

Those two old fuckers back in Texas might have given him birth, but dam well little else! Both had pounded away at him for as far back as he could remember! His father with his fists and belt and his mother with her tongue and the 'Good Book'! Neither one of them _gave a shit_ about him --- not like Lloyd did!

' _Then go do somethin', shit-for-brains!_ ' Lloyd's clone screamed silently. _'Shoot these motherfuckers!'_

'But first, Sugar,' Calypso breathed deeply; "take a leettle seem o' da Cap'n!'

" _No time, bitch! Fuck off!"_ Lloyd's ghost yelled from deep inside him. _'Bobby-Joe! Move your ass, boy!'_

Lloyd's younger sibling tossed away the fancy-smancy sniper rifle with its useless goddamed scope and reached for his battered old Remington. Its familiar heft steadied him somewhat. Working the blot he sent a round into the chamber, took a deep breath and raced down the wide oak staircase and out the double doors of Melville's city hall.

It was then that Billy opened up with the machine gun.

A dozen or more .50 cal armor piercing rounds gouged fist sized chunks off the old, stone building. As he came into his stride --- just like Sly the Italian Stallion did in all those bloody 'Rambo' movies --- Billy worked the long barrel across the face of City Hall, taking out windows, flower boxes, and tree branches. His finger still depressing the trigger, Bobby Raintree blinked in amazement as several bullets, including several phosphorous tracer rounds, stitched their merry way across Bobby-Joe's plaid-clad chest, continued on through and tore up the matching pair of hundred year old oak doors.

Needless to say, gool ol' Bobby-Joe never made it off the top steps. Instead he was punched backwards and slammed into what was left of those now chewed to rat-shit doors. His large body lay there like some overweight scarecrow from the Grand Old Oprey as the phosphorus tracer round continued to burn a softball size hole in the chest of one of Captain Morgan's biggest fan.

***

Lloyd, on his knees now, watched his brother's demise through the long blades of grass on the once immaculate town square --- and the rage he'd drawn on all his life suddenly flooded through him once more. One part of his brain was aware that the skinny cunt was pointing a shotgun at him. Another part however, the seldom visited part that stored the treasured few and faded snapshots of a much younger little brother and himself actually being _happy_ , well, right now _that_ part seemed far more important than the bitch with the shotgun. For Lloyd, you see, Gentle Reader, truly _did_ love the little bastard! _Had_ loved him right from the start! Goddamned well loved him _still!_ And so, brotherly love, coupled with the slow burning hatred he always nursed in his tattered soul caused Lloyd to push himself erect with one hand while reaching for his 9 mm with the other. He knew that he probably wouldn't make it--- but with Bobby-Joe's smouldering body lying dead in front of him, Lloyd really didn't give a shit. _'After all',_ he thought --- _'at least he'd be with his brother._ ' As his calloused hand closed on the pistol's grip, the remnants of an old hillbilly hymn flitted across his mind.

My sins are dark, and multi colored.

They are not, just black and white.

But I'll bare my teeth and meet what comes

As I face eternal night.

Lloyd had the black thing half raised when Candice pulled the trigger and the snarl that had formed on his face vanished in a shower of blood, bone and brains.

Dropping the shotgun as her knees gave way, Candice covered her own face with her hands. Lear went to check the faceless corpse while little McDuff came and crawled into Candice's arms, his warm wet tongue washing away her tears.

***
**Chapter** **18: 'On The Road Again'**

They left the two brother's bodies where they lay and continued on up #191. Candice had been pretty shaken by what happened, but with Billy's repeated insistence that she really had no other choice, Candice finally started to come around. She had wanted to 'give them a proper burial' but Billy just shook his head and got her and the dogs into the hummer.

They stopped for gas, food and to check out the small burgs of Moore and Belt for some signs of any more survivors. Though they heard some shots and screaming in Moore, they could not tell where it came from and neither one was inclined to search too closely. The dogs seemed uneasy and Lear had stood with legs braced growling. They had left quickly.

Highway #87 winds its way through pine covered rolling hills, narrow rushing streams and small, crystal clear lakes. A 'playground area' for Montana's rich and locally famous. It is also the home of several expensive summer camps. It was while passing by one of these camps that they ran into Major Tom and his gang.

Candice saw the two kids first.

To help get her mind off what went on back in Melville, she had been watching for animals out the side window. Suddenly, in an opening in the forest, she saw two children running. They were dressed in some sort of camouflage gear and seemed to be carrying weapons. It was only for a moment and then they were gone.

" _Stop!"_ she yelled.

A startled Billy hit the breaks too hard and the Beast swerved, skidded and finally screeched to a stop. The dogs went flying in the back.

"What the hell?!"

"I _saw_ someone! _Two_ of them!

"Where?"

"Back there in the forest! A small clearing!"

Billy took a deep breath. This next one could go sour real fast. "Are you _sure_ you weren't just dreaming?"

Candice stiffened. "I was _not_ dreaming! There were two of them. Small, like children, Dressed in camouflage and carrying guns."

" _Guns?!"_ Billy repeated. "That's it, we're _out_ of here!" He made to put the Beast back in gear but Candice placed her hand on his, looked him squarely in the eye and spoke very softly.

"Billy, I was _not_ dreaming. They were just children. Children, Billy. We must go back." Then, after a long pause she continued. "After what happened --- in Melville I--- I feel somehow 'dirty'. And now, just back there I saw two _children_. If we drive away now and leave them, I'm not sure I can live with myself."

Billy was in a dilemma. His brain started racing _'If there are kids back there, she's right, we can't just leave them. But she also said they were carrying guns! Why would kids have guns? For protection? For hunting? And if for hunting, hunting what?'_

Candice solved Billy's dilemma by simply opening the door and getting out. The two dogs poured out with her. McDuff sniffed around near her feet and had a pee while Lear ran ahead, barking.

The two kids had vanished. Not too hard to do in a forest when camouflaged from head to toe. Candice walked back to the edge of the small clearing where she had seen them and called out.

"Hi there, kids. Everything is _okay_. You don't have to hide. We're _friends_. I'm Candice and my friend is Billy. _Please_ come out."

Nothing.

Lear came up beside her and sniffed the wind. McDuff was already there, the hair on his back up like a startled cat's. "BAARRWHOOOOO!" he howled. "BAARRWHOOOOO!" Then he was off, darting into the thick woods. Lear was right behind him.

"Duffy, _no_! Lear, come _back_!" But in seconds the woods had swallowed up both dogs. McDuff however, was still baying for all he was worth. "BAARRWHOOOO! BAARRWHOOOO!"

Then total silence.

Billy had joined Candice at the edge of the forest, the side-by-side that had done in good ol' Lloyd held at port. While Candice continued to call the dogs, Billy scanned the forest for movement, his thumb ready to flick off the safety.

Then, Splat! Splat! _Wizzz!_ Splat!

Seconds later, McDuff came bursting out of the forest, no longer the famous Beagle tri-colors of black, white and tan, but _red from head to toe!_ A moment later Lear followed, his nearly all black coat now splotched in patches of _red and yellow_.

Billy lowered his shotgun and started laughing. Candice, clearly confused, became angry. "I don't see what's so _goddamned_ funny!"

This, of course, only made Billy laugh the harder. "Candice," he sputtered. "You should... watch your... language!" It didn't help when McDuff, now looking like a running fire hydrant, came and tried to jump into her arms.

" _Really_ , Billy!" she said indignantly, her hands, clothes and part of her face covered in red paint. "You can be such a _child_ sometimes!"

"That's just it, Candace!' he managed to gasp out. "You saw some kids with guns alright --- playing _paintball_!"

" _Paintball?!"_

Billy nodded. " _Paintball_."

"BAARRWHOOO!"

Both looked up to see two small paintball warriors watching them from the edge of the forest.

"Hi there! I'm Candice? What's your names?"

Slowly, like wary animals, the two children let Candice approach them. When Billy went to go with her, they pointed their paint guns at him.

"Hold on there, fellas!" Billy smiled, letting the shotgun slide to the ground and raising his hands. "We're all friends here!"

"You stay right where you are!" the taller one yelled.

"Ya!" chimed in the shorter one. "Only the lady can come close!"

"Fine by me," Billy replied. "I'll just stay here and clean up the dogs."

***

Bruce and Brian were brothers. Bruce was ten, Brian a year older. Slowly at first, and then in a gushing rush, their jumbled, disjointed story came out.

They were staying at the summer camp when 'it' happened.

Most people, kids and councilors, had turned into ashes.

A few others _looked_ fine, but were really crazy. You know, like _Dangerous!_

Some people, adults and kids, ran away, screaming.

Some even --- killed themselves.

But we're fine now. About a dozen others are fine too!

Ya, Tommy takes good care of us!

But Miss Randle hung herself down by the swings.

Ya she did --- and Jimmy, the Head Councilor, blew his brains out!

We saw the mess on the floor. Grrr-owse!

Then Mister Shelby came at Tommy with an axe.

Ya, but Tommy stopped him _Dead_. He's buried out behind the barn.

There are lots of dogs now. We let them out of their homes.

Some of us are girls from the girl camp across the lake.

A few are okay, but most are a pain!

Ya, a _real_ pain!

Tommy is forming an army. With _real_ guns!

Ya, but he says that we're still too young for _real_ guns.

'Maybe next year!' Tommy said!

Tommy wants us all to call him 'Major Tom'.

Wendy, she's in charge of the girls, thinks that's stupid.

_But I don't!_ He's the leader! He's _got_ to be Major Tom!

From there it broke down into a typical young child's argument.

"No he doesn't!"

"Yes he does!

"Does not!"

"Does too!

"Does not!"

"Does too!

Soon however their curiosity overcame their fear and they lowly approached the Hum-Vee.

"Wow!!" said Bruce.

"Awesome!!" said Brian.

The brothers looked at each other, smiled and turned to Billy. "Hey, Mister. _Can we go for a ride?_ " they asked in brotherly stereo.

Billy took a deep, serious breath, held it, then said: "Only if one of you helps me steer."

Their eyes widened. "I will!" Bruce beamed.

"No! I will!" yelled Brian.

"I said it first!"

"Ya, well I'm the oldest!"

"Ya, well yer also the dumbest!"

"Am not!"

"Am too!"

"Am not!

"Am too!

"BAAARRWHOOOOO!"

Billy, taking his clue from McDuff, quickly jumped into the moment of silence. "You _both_ can help me drive. And to find out who goes first, both of you call McDuff. The first one he licks is the first one to help me drive."

The boys were instantly on their knees calling the little hound. Children and animals live almost constantly _'in the moment'_. It's only we adults that worry about the past and the future. Both McDuff and the two brothers were soon rolling around in the long grass.

"He licked me _first!"_

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"Did not!'

"Did too!!"

***

Bruce and Brian, having each had their turn helping Billy tear up the grassy glade in the forest, willingly led them back to the main camp. The two brothers, sitting out in the open on the front hood, looked like midget commandoes in some low budget war movie.

They had travelled several hundred yards along a dirt road and had just topped a rise when Billy hit the brakes. Spread out below then on the shores of a clear mountain lake was the camp. Main lodge, screened cafeteria, small cabins with rustic bunk-beds, the whole nine yards! Pulled up on the beach were a number of canoes and small sailing craft, while off to the right was a basketball court. A few children were playing with a large number of dogs. Several other kids were shooting some hoops. One of the older boys was cutting the grass on a lawn tractor while two others were painting a fence. Several stopped and looked when they heard the Beast's throaty rumble' from the top of the hill.

They were all just kids, ranging from age between ten to mid-teens. Ten or eleven boys and almost as many girls, all dressed in identical camouflage suits. They looked to Billy like they should have a sign that read:

### Welcome to

## Camp Splatter

### Montana

Home of the USA

### Paint Ball Champs!

Grinning like a child herself, Candice leaned over and honked the horn.

The game below was suddenly over. The ball was dropped and weapons were picked up. The children broke into what could best be called _'fire teams'_ of two, each team quickly taking up its assigned position. Dogs of all sizes, breed and color ran with them. In less than a moment the Hum-Vee was surrounded by small children with big guns.

Only a few besides Bruce and Brian carried the gas powered plastic paint chuckers! Most of the older ones carried what looked like automatic weapons! Billy recognized some of them, like the infamous Ouzie and the Russian AK47, but there were a lot of short, black, sleek looking killing things that he'd only seen Commandoes, Navy Seals and guys like that carry around in the movies.

" _Lock n' load!"_ the tallest one called out.

The ' _Snick-Snick' Shuffle_ boogied its way around the circle.

The tall kid, who looked to be around 16 or 17, cradled his own killing thing in the crook of his left arm and came forward. He was obviously the leader and just as obviously _very_ sure of himself.

"Bruce, Brian, come here _now_!"

The brothers, their smiles of a moment before having vanished, hastened to obey. The tall boy waited till they were behind him before he spoke again.

"You in the Hummer, step out _slowly_ , with your hands in the air."

Candice looked at Billy, who was already turning towards the machine gun turret. "Billy, _no!_ There just small children!"

"Small children with very big guns!" he replied.

Making up her mind, she opened the heavy door and stepped out. Lear and McDuff followed her. Immediately she and the two dogs were surrounded by a dozen or more of the camp dogs. Lear went stiff legged and began to rumble deep down. McDuff curled his tail between his legs and pressed close to Candice.

" _Stand perfectly still, mam_ ," the leader said. "All they want to do is _smell_ you. Just like at a dog park."

"Who --- _are_ you children? And are there no _adults_ around?"

The youthful leader smiled charmingly. "I'll gladly answer all your questions, mam --- _after_ your friend inside comes out as well."

The top half of Billy suddenly appeared behind the machine gun and the long barrel swiveled to face the smiling leader. "Tell those kids to drop their weapons and back away!"

"Or you'll _what_?" the taller boy asked, still smiling " _Shoot me?_ And kill these two boys behind me? Kill us _all_? I don't think so." He turned away from Billy's hot stare to address Candice. "I'm _Major Tom_. This camp we now call _'Ground Control'_. Both names are from an old song. You may have heard it?"

"Yes," Candice stuttered, amazed at this youths calmness. "Yes, I do believe I have. Though I've forgotten the words."

Major Tom held her with his old looking eyes. "Does it really matter?"

"No," Candice said. "I don't suppose it dose."

"Please tell your friend to come out. It's almost time for lunch. We're having a bar-b-q and you're both are invited." He then turned and motioned for two others to join him. Though both were dressed exactly the same, Candice noticed that the taller one was a girl. "Captain Wendy, will you please show the lady to one of our guest cabins? The one with a hot shower?

"Right away Tommy --- I mean, _Major Tom_!"

A hint of a smile flickered across his young face. The 'teacher' in Candice had already decided that this would have been one of her star pupils. As she followed the young girl Wendy to the promise of a hot shower, the _'Miss Brown'_ in her asked: _'I wonder if she likes to read?'_

Back by the Hum-Vee, Major Tom turned to Wendy's brother. "Captain Jack."

"Sir!" The military reply was actually followed by a crisp salute.

"You and four others will wait here till the man inside comes out. When he does, bring him to me. Clear?"

"Yes Sir!" Captain Jack replied. "One question, Sir?"

"Yes?"

"What if the man begins shooting, Sir?"

The answer came sift and sure. "Kill him."

"Sir, yes sir!"

***
**Chapter** **19:'Paths Meet'**

" _When_ are we gunna get the fuck _outta_ here?" the little shit wanna-be biker called Dart asked for the second time.

Everyone still ignored him.

Tits walked up and thrust her ample bosom into the short little shit's pimply face. "What's the matter, Big Boy? Ya don't love me no more?"

Several of the others thought that was a riot. Dart however, didn't. He jumped back and glared at the tall, bleached blonde. "Fuck you, _bitch_!"

Tits leaned down in a burlesqued Marilyn Monroe pose, pursed her painted lips and said. "In your dreams, Little Man."

Even Pops smiled at that. Charlene joined in the chuckles, along with Ace and Darrel Isley. Butch and Dwayne Isley never cracked a smile and, as usual, Cat Lady was off somewhere on her bike.

Charlene, still grinning, sashayed over to Butch and pressing herself against his back, whispered in his ear. "What's the matter, Big Boy? Ya don't _love_ me no more?"

Butch hawked, spit and walked away. "Love is for fools. I'll stick with lust."

Pops thought that one was the best joke yet. Everyone save Charlene and seemed to agree. As she flounced off in a huff, Cat Lady's voice came out of one of the small two-way radios Ace had found.

"Ya, what's up?"

"I'm up on the hill watching the road. Something's _big_ is coming!"

"A truck?" Dart asked.

Her answer made them all look up. "A fucking _tank_!"

***

"That's a _hummer_ , not a tank!" Ace said, looking through a pair of binoculars. "Check it out." He handed them to Butch.

They were up on the hill with Cat. On three sides of them the flat, high plains of Montana stretched away to the distant horizon. On the fourth side, towards the west, the majestic, snow capped Rocky Mountains hovered above the shimmering prairie heat.

"Military," Butch growled. "Looks like a bloody machine gun on top!"

Still a few miles away the hummer dipped into a fold in the road and vanished from sight. Butch turned and shouted. "Get the bikes hidden. Dump one on the road. Tits, Ass, lay down and play dead. _Now_!"

Everyone, including the two startled girls, hastened to obey. They finished just as the hummer topped the rise.

***

As the miles rolled by, Candice sat thinking about the three days they had spent with Major Tom and the children back at the summer camp.

'Oh, excuse me! ' _Ground Control'_ she smiled inwardly, remembering how seriously military most of them were, all _Yes, Sir! No, Sir! Right away, Sir!_ Especially the one they called Captain Jack. _'Wendy and the girls were wonderful! She watches over them like a mother, yet she's only fifteen herself! And so in love with her handsome Major Tom!'_

They had all been reserved, even distant at first, but had soon come around. The boys had flocked to the hummer and the machine gun, the girls had eagerly gathered around Candice and the dogs. Little McDuff was his usual adorable self and was an instant 'hit'.

At the end of their three day stay, Major Tom had officially invited them to _'stay on awhile longer if you like'_ , but he had also made it very clear that he was in charge and intended to keep it that way. 'No 'adults' calling the shots around here!' he had proudly proclaimed. 'The _old_ world is dead. It's up to us _young ones_ to build the new one.'

' _Wise words!'_ Candice though to herself as they topped the first of several dips in the rolling plain --- and Billy suddenly yelled: "Look! A _body_ on the road! _Two_ of them!"

He hit the breaks and the overlarge tires locked. Gravel, stones and Montana dirt flew everywhere! The little hound McDuff tried to jump in her lap, while Lear braced himself stiff-legged in the back. A dust cloud followed along and passed over them. Candice had the door half open when Billy reached over and pulled it shut.

"It could be a trap."

"A _'trap'_?" She looked out at the two bodies on the road. "Billy, their _women_ , for Christ sake!"

Billy, his age-old native senses screaming out danger, smiled coldly. "Good bait for a _mantrap_."

Candice frowned, shook her head and reached for the door. Billy puller her back; this time his fingers digging deeper, his voice dead serious. " _Wait! I want to try something first. Okay_?!"

Her wide eyes looked into his fierce ones. "Okay. But _hurry_!"

Billy scrambled past the dogs, into the turret and pulled back the slide on the .50 cal. As Candice watched from inside the Hummer, Billy began to stitch a line across the road from one side to the other, every fifth one a phosphorous tracer. He then concentrated on the motorcycle lying on its side thirty yards up the road. The two girls _'rose from the dead'_ when the gas tank exploded. The tall blond jumped up and started screaming while the shorter brunet sprinted for the bushes.

***

"Holy _fuck_!" Ace exclaimed, waiting with the others just over the crest of the hill. Black smoke from Dwayne's exploded gas tank filled the sky in front of them. Cat Lady was lying flat in the tall grass up at the crest, waiting to give the signal to attack.

Butch, sitting astride his idling chopper, was _not_ a happy camper! His hastily laid plans had all gone into the crapper, thanks to the quick thinking bastard with the fucking machine gun!

Once the shooting stopped, Tits could still be heard screaming her bloody head off. There wasn't a peep however from Ass. At least now he knew which one was the smarter bitch. Ace leaned towards him, his dark eyes dancing. "What's the play, Butch? Fight or fuck off?!"

Butch revved his bike. "Fight!"

"Against a fucking big _machine gun_?!"

Butch looked at his longtime friend and smiled. "Loosin' your _nerve_ , Ace? Or just getting' _old_?"

Ace shot him the finger and raced up to where Cat waited near the top of the hill. He was almost there when she stood up waving and yelling for him to get off the road.

_Too late_. The hummer suddenly came full tilt over the crest of the hill, pushing the smoking remains of Dwayne's bike in front of it! Candice, her hands holding the wheel in a death grip, had the peddle to the metal as both the big V-10 engine and the .50 cal gun roared away. The huge truck just touched the end of Ace's bike as it passed, but it was enough to send both the bike and its rider somersaulting into the bushes.

Billy wasn't really aiming as much as laying down a continuous field of fire back and forth across the road. Cresting the hill, he saw a cluster of bikers some fifty yards in front of him. Without thinking, he swung the long barrel in their general direction and pulled the trigger till the .50 ran dry!

" _Shit!"_ Billy swore, fumbling around one handed for another belt. "Candy! _Ram_ the bastards!"

" _What?!"_ Candice screamed up at him.

"Run over their fucking bikes!"

" _Shit!"_ was her only response; that and a yanking of the wheel hard to the left.

Dwayne's bike, now a flaming pile of scrap hooked on to the hummer's front left bumper, slammed into another bike and broke free. Flames, people and bits of hot metal scattered.

The hummer bounced over another bike, slammed Candice forward into the wheel, then fishtailed on down the road. Butch and several others managed a few parting shots, but it was no more effective than pissing into the wind.

"Mount up!" Butch yelled, fumbling new shells into his sawed-off.

'On _what_?" Dwayne demanded. "My fucking bikes _gone_! Two others as well!"

The twin barrels of the stubby shotgun suddenly appeared before his face. "Ride _double_ , Asshole! One drives, one shoots! Now _move_!"

Moments later the four remaining bikes raced after the hummer. Dwayne rode with his brother Darrel, Butch had the kid Dart behind him, Ace took Cat Lady and Pops rode alone. The three _biker beauties_ , Charlene, Tits and Ass, were left to fend for themselves.

***

"Are you alright?" Billy asked.

Candice, her face drained of color, her hands still clutching the wheel in a death grip, managed to nod as she drove.

"You did _great_ back there, Candy!" Billy beamed.

" _Great?!_ I nearly ran over a crowd of people!"

Billy's smile vanished. "That _'crowd'_ had set a trap for us. Those bodies on the road were _bait_!"

Candice tore here eyes off the road long enough to ask why.

Billy shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe they were 'Crazies', or maybe they just wanted the hummer." _'They most certainly would have wanted_ _you_ _!'_ he thought, but he wisely decided to keep that little tidbit to himself.

"Did you... _shoot_ anyone?"

"Don't think so," he said. "Sure as hell blew the shit outa one of their bikes though! And you did a _real job_ on a couple more!"

"Can you drive now, please?" she asked. "I think I'm going to be sick" --- but Billy was already back up in the turret. McDuff quickly jumped into the vacant passenger seat and stuck his nose out the window.

Billy had found a second belt for the .50 in an amo can at the back. There were a half dozen more belts inside. He handed Candice a bottle of water. "Drink some of this for now. I _really_ need you to drive while I watch our backtrail."

Candice turned a shade whiter than she already was. "You think they'll _follow_ us?!"

Billy shrugged. "Maybe. I would."

Her grip tightened on the wheel. _"Shit!"_

***

Several miles west of Cut Bank they came up behind the traffic jam. There had been a few abandoned or wrecked vehicles so far, but Candice had managed to keep the hummer humming along at a good clip. Then suddenly, when rounding one of the few bends in Highway #2, she came upon the tail end of a long line of motionless cars, trucks and several eighteen wheelers.

Candice shouted what was fast becoming her favorite swear word and shoved both feet down hard on the brakes. The hummer crunched over a small car, shunted aside another, swerved sideways, went up on its side and slammed into the back of some long dead good ol boy's Chevy pick-up.

Candice hit her head on the steering wheel before being nearly smothered in a rather tardy air-bag. Seeing double and half blinded by the blood in one eye, she managed to squirm her way out of the hummer. The dogs were instantly by her side. McDuff licking her cut forehead while Lear stood guard.

Billy however hadn't fared quite so well. Watching the tiny specks on the road following a mile or so behind them, he was not prepared for the sudden bumps and the very abrupt stop. The jolt of hitting the pick-up sideways sent him flying out of the hummer's turret, where he bounced off a car roof, landed hard in the gravel and lay there stunned.

All the while back up on the road those tiny specks began to get a whole lot bigger!

***

' _Got_ the bastards! Butch grinned, screeching his bike to a halt just as he topped the rise. Dust and gravel flew. The hummer was bout fifty yards down the gentle slope, slewed sideways across the tail end of a long line of motionless vehicles. ' _Looks like they had a little fender bender!'_ he chuckled to himself, yet even at that distance he could tell the big motor was still running, almost like the rumble of a beast ready to spring. He turned to Dart clinging to the back seat.

"Hey, Shithead! Get the fuck _off_ and check things out!"

Dart, eager to please, yet not so eager to walk towards that still smoking machiune gun, pulled out his stolen silver plated Beretta, and advanced slowly.

Just then Ace and Dwayne topped the rise and, in order to miss Butch, swerved and had had a little fender bender of their own. Pops arrived a moment later, grinning from ear to ear. He looked directly at Darrel.

"You girls stop for a picnic or a pee? I'm up for both!"

"Shut the fuck up, old man!" growled Darrel, rubbing his leg where it had banged into the back of Ace's bike.

Pop's grin widened. "What's the matter, Hayseed. Hurt your little leggie?"

"I'm gunna hurt you sum-thin' awful, _old man_!" Darrel yelled, advancing on Pops with a pronounced limp.

"Darrel!" big brother Dwayne yelled. "Get the fuck back here! We gotta find that shooter first! You can deal with that old fuck later."

Pops cracked his eight knuckles, winked his one good eye and taunted the brothers with a parody of their own 'infamous line'. " ' _Anytime, anywhere', ladies. 'Anytime, any-fucking-where'!_ "

Butch fired off one of the barrels of his sawed-off, he blast echoing back from the nearby hills. " _Hey!_ If you fuckups are finished, I want that hummer. Now, let's go!"

***

"Can you move?!" Candice asked, bending to help Billy to get up. The left side of his face was a mass of blood, dirt and gravel. His left arm felt numb and his hip hurt like hell. Billy leaned on her and used his good right arm to lever himself up. " _Christ!_ " he growled as pain shot up his left side. "It only hurts when I _laugh_!"

"Billy, _please_ don't blaspheme."

Despite the pain, he chuckled some more. "Lady, you are _one piece of work_!"

"Is that good or bad?" she asked as she got him back on the road. The banged up hummer was some distance away, blocking them from Butch and the others at the top of the hill.

"It's good," Billy grinned, wincing with the pain. ' _Damned_ good!"

The sound of Butch's shotgun made them both jump. "They're _here_!" she gasped. "Can you make it back to the hummer?!"

"I can barely _stand_ and you sure as hell can't _carry_ me!"

He looked quickly around. The line of abandoned vehicles stretched away over the next hill. His eyes suddenly widened. Parked on the side of the road just ahaead was an army jeep; olive painted, open toped with (thanks be to Man Above!) another .50 caliber machine gun mounted on the roll bar!

"Get us to that jeep up ahead! They can _have_ the fucking hummer!"

"Billy! Watch your tongue!"

He was about to reply when several shots rang out. Part of his brain recognized them as coming from a handgun while the other part focused on taking one painful step after another. The sound of revving motors floated on the wind. His vision blurred, focused, and blurred again. With every step he took his left hip felt like someone was driving a railroad spike into it! Blood, Sweat & Tears filled both his eyes and his mind as a band by the same name sang an old R&B tune that his Auntie Raven used to listen to while she baked bread for the hands at the Circle 'G'.

I laughed at love before.

Got mad and closed the door.

But you said, girl, 'Just once more!'

"The keys are still in it!" Candice said, pressing him up against the jeep with one hand and hauling the camouflaged bag of ashes out of the driver's seat with the other. "I just hope it starts! _Duff_! _Lear_! Get in!"

Billy, the pain somehow replaced by a fuzzy fog, smiled at the pretty young woman manhandling him into the back of the jeep. "Can you handle the gun if I drive?" she asked.

"Piece o'cake, Candy!" he muttered, finding his pathetic joke hilarious while the tune in his aching head moved on to the second verse.

"Billy! Billy! Billy, _wake up_!"

Smack!!!

Fireworks went off inside his head! Why was his cheek stinging?

"Billy! You've got to work the gun! Once I start the motor they'll know where we are! Billy!

Smack!!!

" _Alright_ already! Enough with the hitting!"

"I'm sorry! But you wouldn't wake up!'

"Well, I'm awake _now_!

McDuff licked his smarting face, the brown, soulful eyes gazing lovingly into his. "You too, eh pal? Okay! Let's move!"

Pulling himself up by the roll bar, Billy managed to pull himself upright and checked out the gun. _'Sure 'nough!'_ he thought. _'It's the same as on the hummer!_ ' He checked the amo belt and worked the slide. "Let's _rock_ , Candy!"

Fingers mentally crossed, she tried the key. A throaty roar followed.

Still in a pain induced haze, Billy said: "Houston, we _have_ lift-off!" Candice shifted into drive and floored the jeep. Spitting dust and gravel, it took off down the side of the road.

***

Back up the hill, Butch and his bikers, advancing cautiously on foot, saw the jeep pulling quickly away. Butch, Dart, Dwayne and Darryl all fired at its dust, but the shots either went wide or fell short.

"Back to the bikes!" Butch roared. He then pointed at Dwayne with his empty sawed-off. "You and your brother take the hummer. We're gunna _need_ that fucking gun when we catch 'em!"

Ace turned and grinned, his arms spread wide. "Butch-baby! Let the fuckers go! We got the hummer, man! We got the machinegun! I say we get the fuck outta here _'pronto'_! "I say we go back to that shitbird town we passed, send the hummer out to collect the broads, find us a liquor store and _party-harty_!"

" _You_ say that, do ya, bro?" Butch asked Ace as he broke opened the shotgun. "You the one calling the shots around here now, Ace?" The used shells were discarded and a new ones put in their place.

Ace stiffened and his smile vanished. He considered himself a pretty tough mutherfucker; tough enough to get gut-sliced in Mexico and live; tough enough to hang in there when the whole fucking world had shriveled up and died --- and tough enough to take Butch --- IF the bastard was _drunk_ and _empty handed_.

However, him standing there all quiet and holding a loaded cut-down hog-leg, was definitely _not_ the way to go about it!

Ace's fleeting smile made a dazzling second appearance. "Butch-baby --- _Amego!_ All I'm sayin' is why bother _chasin'_ these mutherfuckers?! Leave the bastards out here to rot! We go back, pick up Tits n' Ass and have ourselves a good time. Fuck those bastards in the jeep! What do ya say, Bro?"

Butch stood staring down at the gun in his hands. Long enough for a bead of sweat to run down Ace's forehead and burn its way into his right eye. Then suddenly Butch gave the gun a jerk and snapped the barrels closed. Ace hoped no-one saw him flinch.

"Ya know, Ace-baby. _Ameeego_. That sounds like a fucking good idea. The only _trouble is_ those bastards out there made us all look like _assholes_. Now _you_ may not mind looking like an asshole, but _I_ sure the fuck do! So we're gunna go show 'em just who the _real_ assholes are. Now, are you _with me_ \---or _not_?"

Ace, nothing if not savvy to what was needed to survive, flashed his infamous smile. "Sure, Butch. _Whatever_ you say, man! Let's _get_ those assholes!" But as Ace went to move past Butch, the sawed-off was suddenly pressed into his gut and the old knife wound down there started to itch something _awful_! Not to mention the sudden urge to urinate!

"And one more thing --- Ace ol' pal. If you _ever_ try to tell me what to do again, I'll leave your guts splattered all over the fucking road. You got _that_ , _Ameeego_?"

Ace found the kahonas to look Butch squarely in the eye. "Loud and clear, Butch. Loud and fucking clear."

The moment hung there between them, until Butch suddenly smiled and hugged Ace to him with his free hand. "That's my _man_! You 'n me, Ace --- _riding_ into the sunset --- just like the good old bad days!" He nodded back at the Isleys. "The Hayseed Brothers can follow along in the hummer!"

***
Chapter 20: The Ranch

Sam stood on a high ridge watching the two vehicles race along the road. Though he was using binoculars, the dust cut down what he saw more than the distance. There were three or four motorcycles as well! The vehicles were military; he could make that much out. An open topped jeep out front and one of those big hummer things following along behind. And that sure as hell wasn't thunder he was hearing! Those two fellas were _shooting_ at each other, and with high powered _machine_ guns!

He judged them to be a little over a mile away, running parallel to his present position. If they kept on like they were going, they'd pass right by the Circle 'G' in about fifteen minutes. Sam knew he could cut across country and be there in well under ten. The ranch was a half mile back from the main road. With any luck these assholes would drive right by it! Still, he couldn't take that chance.

"Elfago! Get the horses ready!"

Behind him, at the base of the hill, Elfago Baka, an old Mexican cowboy who had worked on the next ranch south of the Circle 'G', nodded and began to tighten the cinches on the two waiting animals. Sam had know Elfago for over ten years now. He was as old as the hills, spoke mostly Spanish and knew horses better than anyone Sam had ever met --- except maybe Big Jim.

Last month Sam had been scouting out the other ranches to the south of the Circle 'G' and come across Elfago at the Bronson place. There was a nervous looking kid with him called Jasper Spears from Colorado. Elfago said that old man Bronson and all his family had died. A couple more of the hands had survived the passage of the Death Clouds, but they had gone _'loco'_. When asked what had happened to them the old Mexican had just shrugged and held Sam's stare. Jasper from Colorado had become suddenly very nervous and averted his eyes. Sam had seen the two freshly dug graves when he rode up, but decided not to push for any more information. Instead he had invited them both back to the Circle 'G' and they had come gladly, especially when they heard that Miss 'R' was the cook !

With Raven, Dell Ross and his daughter Jolean, the members of the ranch now numbered seven, five of which were back there now. Sam would have to haul his ass in order to warn them about the rapidly approaching trouble!

"Let's go, Elfago! Pronto!"

"Si, Senior Sam. Elfago go _plenty_ pronto," the old man drawled, making no obvious effort to move 'pronto' at all. Once in the saddle however, it was another story. Both the man and the horse seemed as one and flowed like the wind over the rolling Montana hills. Sam, an excellent horseman himself, was hard pressed to keep up!

Seven minutes later they thundered into the main yard of the Circle 'G'. The house itself was a rambling, two storied log building with one of those old time verandas going all the way around. Originally, back in the beginning of the 1800's, it had been a solid log blockhouse built by the early fur traders as a convenient place to do business with the natives and the half wild mountain men. Over the years, generations of Goodnight's had added to the rather imposing structure.

Raven, who had been airing bedding out an upstairs window and had carefully watched their dust trail for the past five minutes, now called down to them. "Trouble, Sam?"

Despite the urgency, Sam smiled when he saw the rifle in her hand. The other day they had tried again to enter the reservation, to contact any survivors, but again they had been driven off by gunfire. Raven had called out in Blackfoot, but the shooting had just increased. Whoever was alive on the reservation seemed to want to have absolutely no contact with the outside world.

"Looks like it," Sam replied. "Two army trucks, heading this way, shooting at each other."

"At each _other_?" she repeated.

Sam nodded. "Machine guns by the sound of it. Heavy caliber. Best take cover."

She glared back at him, hefting the rifle. "Best _get ready_ you mean!"

***

Billy gave a last long burst with the .50, then turned around to check on Candice. By the grim set of her jaw and her white-knuckled grip on the wheel, she seemed as determined as ever. _'What a girl!'_ he thought admiringly. _'She's been through a hellova lot and still ready for more!'_

'Careful there _Billy-boy_!'

Fox's sarcastic voice whispered to him silently.

'You've been down _Lover's Lane_ before, remember?

And it always ended at _Heartbreak Hotel_ '

'Do not listen to Fox, Grandson!'

Billy's long dead grandfather warned him.

'His tongue is _forked_ and his heart is _stone_!

If this woman warms you inside as well as outside,

then she might just be _The One_.

Especially if she can she cook!'

" _Billy_ , is this the turn coming up?" Candice asked. "The one to your aunt's ranch?" A stray shot from far behind ricocheted off the jeeps roll-bar.

" _Yes!"_ Billy shouted back. "The Circle 'G'. The driveway's nearly a mile long! All dirt and gravel! We'll soon be lost in the dust!"

"Billy," she asked quietly; "do you _really think_ there will be someone there to help us?" Her eyes were wide and her voice strangely resigned. "Or are you... just going someplace familiar... to die?"

Wow! _That one_ hit home! Like a ton of bricks! Was she _right_? Was that _why_ he had been trying so hard to get 'home'? Back to the reservation? Back to the ranch? Back to a familiar place _to die_? _Shit!_

'Well, it took you _long enough_ , Sherlock!'

Fox's sarcastic voice chucked inwardly.

'I've been waiting for _that_ light bulb to go on!

You're not exactly the _sharpest_ knife in the drawer,

are you now, Billy-Boy?!'

' _Do not listen_ to his sly words, Grandson'

'Fox the Deceiver would have you believe that

you are _foolish_ to have hope,

_foolish_ to think of anyone but yourself!

His words are _all lies_ \--- even to himself.

He is to be pitied, Grandson --- but _not_ heeded!'

'Waist not your 'pity' on _me_ , old man!' Fox screamed inwardly.

'Deception has _ever been the way_ of the ' _Three Thinkers'_ ;

Fox, Snake and the two-legged Creature called Man!

All the rest of _'God's Creatures'_ are but _mindless followers_!'

Grandfather's spirit voice took on a sad tone.

' _But I do pity you, Fox, for in your arrogance,_

your disdain for all other forms of life,

as a result you are always alone.'

'That's the way I _like it_ , Old Fool!

We are _born_ alone, and we _die_ alone,

and everything in between is _up for grabs_!'

' _Grandson, heed not his false words and_

rather be like an arrow shot from a bow.

Stay true to your course and all will be well.'

'Ya sure, old man!

_Tell that_ to the biker boys hot on our tail!

You think having Billy-boy running home to his tee-pee will help?

The young fool thinks his Auntie 'R' is going to be waiting for him

with _milk and fucking cookies_!'

The old gentleman's voice was soft and kind.

' _In the end, Fox, we all go to the same place --- even you.'_

***

" _Here, Billy_? By the _mailbox_?"

"What? _Ya, right here_!"

Candice took the turn at full tilt, shearing off the mailbox and doing a job on the old wooden archway supporting a bleached cow's head and an ancient sign:

# Circle 'G' Ranch

### Goodnight property since 1837

### Enter at your own risk!

" _Sorry!"_ Candice smiled sheepishly. "I'm a little nervous at meeting your family."

Billy swallowed hard and touched her shoulder. "Candice, even if there _isn't_ anyone there --- the place is built like a _fort_! We can easily hold them off from inside!"

She smiled up at him as the jeep flew over a cattle grate. "Of course there'll be someone there. Have a little _faith_ , Billy!"

He tried to nod agreement, but the worm of doubt was gnawing at is guts.

'Told ya, _Billy-Boy_ ,' Fox whispered.

'She's bought your line of guff hook, line and sinker!

What she gunna think when she see's just _dead scarecrows_ lying all around, eh?

Think she's just gunna smile n' flash those big baby-blues at ya?'

"I can see the house, Billy! Oh my, it's _big_! And there's the horses!" Candice actually sounded happy!

' _Told ya, hero. Hook, line and sinker!'_

"Shut the fuck up!" Billy muttered fiercely.

"What's that, Billy?"

"Ahhh, _nothing_ , Candy."

They clattered over a narrow bridge that spanned a small brook. As they passed a battered tow-truck came out of a small grove of trees and fell in behind them.

"Who's that, Billy? One of your uncle's men?"

Billy couldn't believe his eyes. "That's... that's _Dell Ross's truck_ from Cut Bank! I used to _drive that_ as a summer job! And that's _Dell inside_!"

Butch and his group, choked and blinded by the cloud of dust the jeep kicked up on the long, unpaved driveway, hung back and finally stopped by the small bridge.

"Oh look, Billy!" Candice said, her blue eyes wider than usual. "A _rider_! Another friend of yours?"

Billy swiveled around and saw silver haired Elfago Baka suddenly riding alongside them. The old Mexican smiled at them, showing his gold tooth.

"That's old Baka from the Bronson place!"

"Hey _Beeely_! _Comesta_ amigo? Your woman, she is _moucho_ preety!"

Candice's eyebrow rose, secretly pleased. "Your _'woman'_?"

Billy shrugged, secretly pleased himself. "Old Baka's loco! A little crazy!

"And that young man over there by the barn? The one with a gun?"

Billy followed her gaze and saw a tall fellow about his own age and carrying a rife. "I don't know him at all."

Candice nodded matter-of-factly. "Must be a new hand."

Billy nodded while watching old Baka handle his horse like the rodeo expert he was. The old bugger was actually showing off for Candice!

Candice smiled at the old man's skill. "I can't wait to meet them all."

***

"I see the jeep, but where are the others?" Sam asked Raven. They were both up on the second floor front balcony sharing a pair of Big Jim's binoculars.

"Can't see them with all the dust."

"How many in the jeep?"

"Two," Raven said. "A woman driving and a man on the gun." After a pause she added. "No! It can't be!".

"Can't be what!" Sam asked.

She fixed him with her fierce dark eyes. "My nephew, _Billy Raintree_! And he has a white woman with him!"

"A white woman?"

"And she's a _real looker_ too! Billy always did have a good eye for the fillies!"

"What about the _others_?"

"Others?"

"The one's following on _bikes_ and in a _hummer_! The one's _shooting_ at that jeep!"

'Oh _them_ ," she said handing him the binoculars and heading for the stairs. "They're _stopped_ down by the main gate." Suddenly that old twinkle was in her eye that he hadn't seen since before things changed. "I guess they read the part on the sign sayin' ' _Enter at your own risk'_."

"Where you off to now?" he asked, as though he didn't know. Billy Raintree had always been like a son to her.

"I got fresh bread in the oven and blueberry jam in the root cellar. Billy always was partial to my blueberry jam!"

With the death of her husband Shorty and not being able to find out about any of her family on the reservation, Raven's usual unflappable spirit had been lagging of late. Now, with the sudden appearance of her nephew, that spirit had suddenly taken wing! Sam smiled and focused the glasses on where the driveway met the road a good half mile away. 'R' was right. It looked like the bastards had stopped down by the road --- for now.

***

"N' I saw we ride right up there n' _take_ the fuckers!" Dwayne Isley drawled, toying with one of the several knives he kept about his tall, lanky frame. "It's only a fuckin' _kid_ and a _chick_. Sheee-it! Me n' Darrel can take 'em _easy_! You pussy's stay here n' pull yer pudding if'n ya want!"

Ace, grinning like a Cheshire cat, looked over at Butch and waited for the axe to fall. Surprisingly, it didn't. Butch didn't seem pissed at all. He even looked down right _happy_!

"Dwayne, good-buddy," Butch said, a smile on his rugged face, though his voice dripped sarcasm. "That sounds like a damn good idea! You and your genius brother should be the ones to ride up there and check things out. Bring that long haired shit back here dead or alive, I don't give a fuck either way --- but Dwayne, make _damn_ sure the chick isn't hurt. Got all that, ameego?"

Dwayne hawked, spit and flashed his own near toothless smile. "Piece o' fuckin' cake, Butch. Mind if I _'sample'_ her first?"

Butch's grin widened. "Hey, knock yourself out. But one thing; the hummer stays here."

"Sheee-it! We don't need that fuckin' _shitwagon_! Let's go Darrel! We'll take your bike. I'll drive, you shoot!"

***
**Chapter 21** **:'Piece O' Cake'**

Sam saw the bike coming. Looked like two guys on it. The big bugger at the back was sporting either a rifle or a shotgun. Sam smiled, despite the knot in his stomach. _'At least it's not a bloody machine gun!'_

Billy had already arrived and Raven was clucking around the jeep like a mother hen. She was so happy to see Billy that she didn't seem to notice that the girl had managed to park the jeep half in her rose bed! The dogs leaped out and began sniffing around. McDuff peed on the roses.

Elfago sat his horse close by and beamed out his golden smile. Dell and his daughter Jolean also greeted the new arrivals. The youngster, Jasper Spears was still over by the barn. He was watching Sam for instructions, who motioned for him to climb up into the loft where he'd have a better field of fire.

"Good to see you, Billy!" Sam said from the second floor veranda "Right now though I'd like all the ladies inside. Looks like we've got company coming". As Raven ushered Jolean, Candice and the dogs into the house, Billy climbed back up into the jeep and got behind the .50 cal. Sam smiled and continued with his hurried plans.

"Dell, would you take you're your towtruck around the far side of the house? Could be we'll need you to come charging out. Right now it's only two guys on a bike. The rest are waiting down by the road. If shooting starts, run the buggers over!"

Dell raised his pump shotgun and smiled. "I'll be ready, Sam. Just give a holler!"

Sam nodded and turned to the old Mexican. "Elfago, I'd appreciate it if you'd wait just inside the barn and come out with guns blazing if I call."

The gold tooth flashed again and he patted the gleaming mane of his magnificent horse. "Si, Senior Sam!" He pulled out a massive Walker Colt and twirled it expertly. "Just like n' old west rodao!" He then spun the horse on a dime and galloped into the shadows of the open barn.

From his high viewpoint Sam looked down the long driveway. The bike was about half way and still coming. He then looked down at the jeep. "Glad you made it, Billy. _Real_ glad."

"Shorty's gone?" Billy asked.

Sam nodded, still watching the approaching motorcycle.

Billy sighed. "I didn't mean to bring this trouble your way, Sam."

Sam shrugged. "You're _home_ , Billy. That what counts. We'll soon send these boys packing!"

Billy grinned up at his childhood friend and cranked the slide on the machine gun. Sam looked to his own weapons.

***

Not long after The Cleansing Sam had put Wild Bill's original Navy .36's back in their fancy case and chosen a couple of Big Jim's modern reproduction pistols instead. A single action Colt conversion piece in a cross-draw holster and a top breaking Scofield six-shot he carried high on his right hip. Both revolvers used modern .45 caliber rounds, of which Big Jim had bought in bulk. He'd also traded his old 30-30 deer rifle for an 1873 lever action repro Winchester, also in .45 caliber. Less chance of putting the wrong bullet in if all his guns took the same ammo.

Beside him on the veranda he had one of his uncle's 'specialty guns' ---- a 45/70 single shot Sharps buffalo rifle. Almost two hundred years ago that rifle was the computer guided _'Stinger Missile'_ of its time. In the hands of a competent marksman, it was able to send it's thumbnail-sized led bullet over 500 yards and no four or two legged critter was safe out in the open!

Looking back at the long driveway, Sam smiled at what he saw. The bike and its two riders had stopped at the small bridge over the brook --- and the brook was just under 300 yards away.

Sam, feeling like a character from the one of Big Jim's old western movies, reached for the legendary long barreled Sharps.

***

"What're we stoppin' fer, Dwayne?"

"Just checkin' thangs out, brother. Don't wanna be too hasty."

" _Sheee-it_!" Darrel exclaimed, hefting his black Mossberg. A cut down five shot twelve gage, the Mossberg, loaded with triple ought buckshot, could bring down three men standing side by side a dozen yards away. "Let's go _get_ that fucker!"

"Not so fast, little brother. We got to ree-con-oiter this here situation some."

Darrel hawked and spit a wad of chewing tobacco into the roadside Daisies. A good portion of it dribbled off the stubble of his cheek and onto his stained T-shirt. "Ree-con-oiter my _ass_!" He pumped a shell into the Mossburg's chamber. "Come on, Dwayne. Don't be a fuckin' _pussy_!"

Dwayne, never able to pass up a ' _pussy challenge'_ , cocked and locked his pair of chromed lightweight Glock 9's, replaced them in their black tooled leather shoulder holsters, checked his five shot ankle gun and then revved the big Harley's engine. "We'll soon see who's ta _real_ pussy in the family, Darrel! Hang on boy, 'casus here we go!"

Brandishing the deadly Mossberg, Darrel gave his best imitation of a Rebel yell. _"Yeeeeee-haaaaaaaaaa!"_

***

Sam hefted the long barreled Sharps, glanced again at the two men sitting on the bike down by the bridge and then, with a shake of his head, leaned the heavy rifle back up against the wall.

' _Not a very smart move, Sam'_ , Big Jim's shadow-self whispered in his ear. _Honorable as all Hell --- but not overly smart! And, just exactly what I figured you'd do'._ Sam could almost feel the big man's hand on his shoulder. _'So, what say we get this show on the road, som? I always wanted to be in a_ real _gunfight!'_

Grinning to himself, Sam went downstairs. He was still smiling when he passed Raven and the other two women and stepped out onto the front porch. After noting that the motorcycle was moving again, he sat down on a rocking chair and waited. Drawing the Scofield from its holster high on his right hip, he then took off his dusty Stetson with his left hand and covered the gun with it.

' _Shit, Sam!'_ Big Jim chucked inside his head. _'All you need now is a raggedy old poncho and a half chewed cigar!'_

Sam snorted back laughter of his own. He could just imagine how ridiculous he looked.

Then BJ's voice went suddenly dead serious _. 'Sam, you watch your ass with these fellas, ya hear?! This ain't no goddamned' movie!'_

"I will," Sam muttered, cocking the hidden revolver just as the bike arrived in the front yard.

***

Dwayne had gotten about half way up to the ranch before serious doubts and a god awful urge to piss had made him pull over. He now stood in the tall grass shaking the dew off Lilly and talking to his brother over his shoulder. "N' I say we take 'er nice n' slow! Fer Christ sake, Darrel, use yer fuckin' head fer somethin' other than a bloody hat rack, will ya?!"

Darrel, angry that his 'big brother' was arguing caution in the face unknown odds, replied in a literal huff: "I don't wear no fuckin' hat, Dwayne. Makes my head sweat something fierce! You know that!"

"What I mean is that we don't know what's waitin' fer us up there! I mean, we know the kid with his fuckin' machine gun is there, but we don't know _who else_!"

Darrel's pig-like eyes blinked twice, then widened. "The cunt's up there, Dwayne! She was in the fuckin' jeep so she's gotta be up there with him!" A childish, yet sly look washed across his usually blank face. "I saw her har blowin' out the winder. It was yeller. I do like yeller har on a cunt!"

Dwayne sighed deeply, climbed back on the bike and headed on up the long driveway, silently cursing himself for bragging in front of that puffed up hard-ass Butch. A few tense minutes later Dwayne pulled into the dusty yard in front of the biggest two storied log house he'd ever seen.

The jeep they'd been chasing was parked half in and half out of a flower bed, the .50 cal was still mounted on the roll bar and the long haired Indian was still behind it. Up on the front porch a cowboy type fella was sitting in a rocker. His hat was tilted down and his face was deep in shadow.

"Howdy, friend," Cowboy said. "How can I help ya?"

Darrel, never as patient as his older, more cautious brother, climbed off the back of the Harley, looking like an angry bear in dirty overalls. Mossberg in hand, he lumbered towards the front porch.

"How the fuck can you help _me_?" Darrel drawled, glancing over at his brother and then back at Sam. "Well Tex, yawl can start by handin' over that there jeep with the fancy gun n' the long haired injun hidin' behind it! But mostly yawl can hand over the yeller hared cunt that drove in with him!"

Sam sniffed and raised his chin, a move he usually did when he was about to rip somebody a new one. Bar fights where almost a state sport in Montana, and in his younger days Sam had been in more than his share.

"Sorry, Slim. No can do."

Darrel blinked, unaccustomed to anyone refusing him, most especially when he was brandishing the Mossberg. "No can _what_?"

Sam, still smiling, leaned forward. " _Do_ , Slim! No can _do_! Billy n' his lady friend are under _my_ protection. I'd hate to have to dispute that point with you, but I _will_ if pressed."

Darrel, not known for his vast vocabulary, was at a loss over several of Sam's words. As a result, he did what he usually did in similar situations --- _he got angry_.

"Just shut the fuck up n' send out the yeller hared cunt now!" For added emphases Darrel raised the Mossberg --- which caused Billy to swing round .50 cal and Sam to point the Scofield. Seeing that, Dwayne pulled both of his chrome Glocks and was met by a number of _clicks, clacks and snick-snicks_ as various pumps and lever actions around the ranch to be were readied. Raven came onto the porch with her stubby Coach gun aimed point blank at Darryl's considerable gut. Gangly Jasper Spears from Colorado advanced across the yard with his rifle aimed at Darryl's back while Elfago galloped out of the depths of the barn to come to a skidding halt just behind Dwayne. The Walker Colt in the old Mexican's fist looked like a hand cannon compared to the senior Isley's puny little 9 mils.

"Hey, Meester Sam", Elfago beamed, exaggerating his already strong accent, the sunlight glinting off his treasured gold tooth, 'Eeet look like we got oursefs a reeel Meh-ee-ko stands-off, no?! You wants me to shoot dis porco in dee head --- or dee back?"

"Just keep him covered, for now, Elfago," Sam said softly, he then raised his voice. "That goes for the rest of you boys! Nobody _needs_ to get shot here today," both his glance and the Scofield slowly swung in Dwayne's direction. "Not unless their _real_ stupid. So how about you there on the bike, tell the foul mouthed talking bear to lower his shotgun, and you can both head on back to your pals down by the gate?"

Dwayne's gaze held Sam's for several heartbeats before he replied. There'd been times before when people had pointed guns at him. Lots of times. The difference then however was that those people had been frightened or nervous or strung out on drugs. But _this bastard_ was just sitting there smiling. Dwayne suddenly had to take another piss; still, bravado demanded that he at least make a good show before backing off. "N' what if'n I don't?!"

Sam's smile almost matched Elfago's. "Mister, we've been digging graves for some time now --- two more won't kill us."

When the cold logic of that set in, Dwayne swallowed what was left of his battered pride, lowered his Glocks and called off Darrel.

" _What_?!" the younger Isley demanded. "Ya just gunna _turn tail_ n' _run_?!"

"It's not running, friend," Sam put in quietly. "It's being _smart_."

Darrel turned on him like a cornered grizzly. "Shut the fuck up, you horse-fuckin' _cow-boy!_ "

That's when Sam shot him in the foot. Darrel toppled like a towering redwood, the Mossberg forgotten in the dirt. The heavy Scofield recoiled upwards. Sam cocked it on the way down and swung it towards Dwayne. "Collect your foul mouthed friend and _go_ \--- while you still can!"

"He's my brother," Dwayne said, helping a screaming Darrel back to the bike."

"You have my sympathy," Sam replied dryly. "We pick our friends. Don't get that luxury with kinfolk."

"Aint _that_ the fuckin' truth?!" Dwayne grunted "He's been like a bloody _millstone_ round my neck since the _day_ he was fuckin' _born_!"

The Scofield was suddenly pressed deep into Dwayne's ear. "Mind your manners, friend --- there's _ladies_ present."

Dwayne glanced back at the porch and saw Raven, Jolean and Candice, all pointing some kind of gun at him. Being _'Southern raised'_ , he automatically nodded his head and muttered an apology. 'Scuse my French, ladies. Me n' Darrel here had a God fearin' mamma that _tried_ to raise us right --- till the drink got 'er. Not much stuck though, less'n she used a hickory switch!" The fond memories of a wayward youth seemed to wash over the elder Isley. "M'ember that hickory switch Momma used ta swat us with, Darrel? _Mmm-hmmm_! She could make it _hum_!"

The younger Isley looked at his brother through pain-soaked eyes.

"I m'ember Daddy's _belt_ more. That n' his big fuckin' _boots_!"

Sam lowered the Scofield but kept it cocked and ready. "You boys do the rest of your reminiscing back with your pals. Their waiting on you down by the road. If you keep heading west you can make the ocean in a couple of days. Build a sand castle and talk about the _'good ol'_ times'.

Darrel, slouched over on the back seat of the bike, suddenly glared up at Sam. Hatred shown in his piggish little eyes. "Fuck _you_ shithead! I'm gunna ---

Sam smacked him alongside the head with the barrel of the Scofield. Darrel slumped forward against the back of his brother. "Elfago, toss a rope around these two. Wouldn't want the big one to fall off on their way to the ocean."

Within seconds the old wrangler had both brothers tied together on the bike. Sam moved up real close to Dwayne. The smile was still on his face, but he lowered his voice so the ladies on the porch wouldn't hear.

"You n' your piece of shit brother are _only_ alive because I don't want to upset the ladies. But if I _ever_ see either of you again, I'll kill you like I would a rabid dog. Now, _get-the-hell-off-my-land_!"

As the sound of their motor and the dust of their passing swirled down the driveway, Raven came off the porch. "That went rather well --- all things considered."

Sam smiled and patted her hand. 'Didn't it just?"

Raven leaned in and whispered. "You think they'll be back?"

Sam was still smiling. "Absolutely."

***
**Chapter 22** **:'Absolutely'  
**  
 **   
**

Ace took a long pull from the Vodka bottle and handed it back to Butch. It had been going back and forth between them now for some time --- ever since the killing. The body, just a short while ago so lush and full of life, now lay in the road before them like a dropped puppet. A large crow cawed noisily from its perch atop the cow skull nailed to the ranch's gateway, its hollow eyes fixed on the girl's unmoving form. High overhead vultures had already begun to circle. Hovering like wraiths on the invisible winds, the scent of Death drew them like moths to a flame. Neither man however, paid either the birds or the body the slightest bit of attention.

"So, you're _really_ going back up there?" By his tone it was clear didn't like the idea.

"Absolutely!" Butch said, the rage within him was slowly abating to something half way manageable, though his body still churned with a strange type of liquid fire.

" _Why?"_ Ace asked, the astonishment clear in his voice. "Because some hard ass cowboy shot Darrel in the fucking _foot_?"

"Because _nobody_ tells me what I can or can't do! Not _you_. Not _her_ ," Butch nodded towards the late but seemingly not lamented damsel lying face down in the dirt, then back up the slope towards the Circle 'G'. "And not some hayseed _cowboy_!"

A sudden emotional tsunami a few minutes earlier had caused Butch to shoot 'Ass', the shorter of the dynamic duo, Tits & Ass, right between her big brown eyes. The _'sweet young thang'_ had made the fault-pas of uttering a sarcastic remark about Butch's _'leadership'_ and had paid for it with her life.

Butch always did have a wicked temper. The 'paper trail' documenting his violent streak went all the way back to Miss Fishbeck's grade three class when Butch had stabbed Johnny Nosepicker in the hand with a pencil over a Chicken McNugget. From Miss Fishbeck's, Young Butch marched steadily from one foster home to another, with frequent 'guest' appearances at Seattle's Juvenile Hall. Soon after his eighteenth birthday he was given a five to ten year 'contract' for assault with a deadly weapon at a maximum Oregon State Penitentiary. Though there had always been violence in his life, after 'The Cleansing' his taste for chaos and cruelty seemed to soar.

***

Ya see, Gentle Reader, when the late, semi-great Estelle Daugherty and Wee-Willy Larch fist cooked up the U.S. of A's latest and _last_ chemical 'extravaganza', they knew it would kill _people, apes and chim-pan-fucking-zees_ , but they hadn't a _clue_ what ELSE it might do!! _One_ little side effect was that it fucked up the neurons, shitrons and ding-dongs that carry messages to the old gray matter. It seemed to heighten the emotions a tad in some and a whole mutherfucking _lot_ in others! And then there were those very few that didn't seem affected at all. Most, however, were not so lucky. Some, like Butch, became very, very ' _nasty_ '

***

Butch took another long pull on the bottle, then held it out to his longtime friend "What the hell _happened_ to you, man? The old Ace _I knew_ would be roaring up there with his guns _blazing_!"

Ace held Butch's gaze for several heartbeats, though it took all of his inner strength to do so. Then, in something close to a cathartic purge, he finally blurted out: "Shit, man! Don't you fucking _get it_?! The 'good old days' are _gone_! Dead n' fucking _gone_! Somehow you, me n' a few of us survived whatever the _fuck_ happened, but the world that we knew before is fucking _over_!" Ace grabbed the bottle, downed a good portion and handed it back with a grimace that had very little to do with the bitter taste of alcohol. "I guess, Butch, I'm just fucking _glad_ to be alive, man --- and I wanna fucking _stay_ that way!"

" _Told_ ya he was a pussy, Butch! Right from the get-go, I _knew_ he was a fuckin' pussy!" Dart, or _'DA'_ as he had started calling himself, stepped over the girl's stiffening body. His pimply face was screwed into a sneering grin, while his beady little eyes were alight with hidden desires. Above him a hungry crow landed on the bleached skull nailed to the Circle 'G' gate. It cocked its sleek head, eyeing the fresh meat lying on the road. Overhead more of its kind gathered on the wind.

Suddenly DA's nose came into intimate contact with the heel of Butch's right hand. The self-proclaimed clairvoyant was knocked backwards, tripped over the body and landed in the sticky puddle that was a combination of the sweet young thang's blood, brains and urine.

Streaming body fluids of his own, Dart scrambled to his feet, one hand trying in vain to staunch the flow from his mangled appendage. "Jeedus Chist, Buttch, why'd ya 'it me in da fukin' node?!"

Feeling better now that he had hit something, Butch handed Dart the near empty bottle. Snatching it like the hungry rodent he was, Dart drained it and tossed it aside.

"I still dun't see why'd ya 'it me in da fukin' node!"

Something that might have passed for a smile moved across Butch's face. Sensing a confrontation, the others had quickly gathered round. "It was either that, 'DA', or kill ya."

Then the grin was gone and his hard gaze washed over all of them, starting with the Isley brothers. Bear-like Darrel was nursing his wounded foot and Dwayne, his wolf-like brother, seemed to be nursing his fantasies of revenge. Pops, always fast with both a joke and his fists, had been silent as the grave ever since Butch had shot Ass in the head. The two other whores, Charlene and Tits, usually so quick with a fake smile or a ready tongue, were both shocked into a frightened silence by the sudden murder of one of their own. Cat Lady remained her silent, aloof self, content to prowl the physical and emotional outer rim of the human circle. Butch passed over _'Dum-Ass'_ Dart still nursing his bleeding nose and fixed his steely gaze on Ace, who seemed to be having some 'inner reservations' about his immediate future.

Butch snapped open the sawed-off and checked the loads. "There's not a hell of a lot of us," he spoke quietly, the fire raging inside him banked for the moment. "and I _need_ every last one of you to help take that ranch up there. Ace just asked me _'why bother'_. Why not just ride away into the fucking sunset?"

With a flick of his wrist he snapped the sawed-off closed. The noise in the cool dry air sounded like a steel door slamming shut. Tits flinched. Dart grinned and Cat Lady seemed indifferent. The rest leaned forward, waiting for Butch to continue.

"I told him and now I'm telling you. The answer's _real_ simple. All my life people have been telling me what I _can_ or _can't_ do. Parents, teachers, cops, _everyone_. Same for _you_. Always some _asshole_ pushing his weight around. Well, boys and girls, like Ace here says, _the 'old world' is dead n' gone_. Most people with it. I don't know _what_ happened or _why_ we're still alive and I really don't _give_ a fuck." He pointed the stubby shotgun up towards the ranch high on its hill. "But what I _do_ give a fuck about is that asshole up there is _still_ trying to tell us what we can or can't do! He's _still_ pushing his fucking weight around! Well, I say it's time we started _pushing back_!"

There followed a pregnant pause, broken by several cliché lines from very old movies.

"I'm wid ya, Butch!" Dart blurted out. "All, da fuk'n way!"

Dwayne spit tobacco juice into the dusty road. Some of it landed on the body near his feet. "No rich faggot cowboy is gunna tell _me_ what ta fuckin' do!"

Darrel, his left foot swathed in a reddish bandage, worked the pump on the Mossberg. "Fuckin' 'A', brother! Fuckin' _bloody_ 'A'!"

Pops remained strangely silent, chewing on an unlit cigar.

Cat Lady's reply was quick, decisive and sadistic. She pulled her nine mil and capped two in the ass of the dead girl lying face down in the road --- one in each cheek. Her pale blue eyes looked like chips of glacial ice. "Never liked the bitch," she said casually. "Don't like cowboys much either."

" _Sheee-it_!" Darrel cried. "If that don't beat all! Ta fuckin' _cunt_ just shot Ass in her fuckin' _ass_!"

Cat's nine mil was suddenly up against the thigh of Darrel's good leg. "You wanna be a _real_ cripple, asshole? Just call me a 'fucking cunt' _once_ more!" She cocked the handgun and pressed it down harder. " _Please_ ..."

Dwayne suddenly drew one of his chromed Glocks, Pops yanked out 'Dirty Harry', Charlene swore and Tits nearly pissed herself. Then Ace jumped into the middle of things, his hands held out like Jesus on the cross.

" _Stop it_! Just fuckin' _stop it_!" he yelled, turning from face to face, seeing the blood-lust shining forth, the desire to kill. "Will you _look_ at us?! For Christ sake, this isn't the OK fucking Corral or some bloody _video game_ we're playin' here! This is fuckin' _real_! If any one of you pulls a trigger, we're _all_ gone --- n' their aint no fuckin' _reset_ button, baby!"

Ace paused, took a deep breath and lowered both his hands and his voice, but not his intensity. "We already _used up_ our fuckin' 'Get Outta Jail Free' card a few weeks ago when _we_ woke up but the rest of the world _didn't_! Fuck _this_ chance up and it's _really_ game over. I shit you not!"

With that he turned and walked over to the hummer, sat on the runningboard and took out a smoke. Frowning, Butch watched him go, drew a deep breath, then suddenly smiled and lowered his sawed-off. " _My man!"_ he beamed. "Ace always was one of those _'deep thinkers'_. Crafty as a fox!"

Butch, a 'natural' when it came to leading crude, cruel, immature males, allowed his grin to widen. Those in the circle followed suit. "He can't shoot worth a shit, or ride worth a shit, but he can _out-think_ the lot of us!"

Outright laughter at this. Guns were lowered. Tempers checked. Vengeance postponed.

Cat Lady cracked her pearly whites and winked at Darrel while inwardly thinking: _'You'll get yours, Pig-boy!_ ' Evidently Cat Lady agreed with The Bard of Stratford when he penned those immortal lines: _'Revenge is a dish best served cold!'_ \--- though she preferred the _'Payback's a Bitch!'_ school of thought.

"And Ace is _right_!" Butch said, still smiling. "We _have_ been given a second chance. Most of the world's gone tits up, but _we're_ still here! We shouldn't waste that. We shouldn't fight each other." He turned and pointed back up the hill. "Who we _should_ fight are the bastards that still try to _tell us what to do_! That still try to _order us around_ and want us _jump_ through their _fucking hoops_!"

" _I_ aint jumpin' through no mutherfuckin' hoop fer _nobody_!" Darrel growled.

"Me nee-der!" DA put in. "I'm _wid ya_ , bro!"

"Fuck oof, asshole!" Darrel replied.

"Ace was right about another thing," Butch continued, ignoring the two mental midgets. "He said this wasn't the OK Corral --- and I _agree_. It's _not_ down here. It's _up there on that hill_! Fucking _'Wyatt Earp'_ and his buddies are up there _laughing_ at us! Up there _laying down the law_! Up there telling us to _throw down our guns_ and _get the fuck outta Dodge!_ "

"Fuck them!" Darrel bellowed, waving around the Mossberg. "I'll drive a fuckin' Dodge if I want too! N' as fer _throwin' down_ my guns, that cowboy cock-sucker can go fuck himself! Who ta fuck does this _Burp_ asshole think he is, anyway? Clint Fuckin' Eastwood?!"

Butch, now in full stride, aimed his next comments at Darrel, though they were meant for all of them. "He's the _bastard_ that shot you in the foot. He's the _bastard_ that made your brother back down and he's the _bastard_ that's waiting for all of us right up that bloody hill!"

"Well," grinned Pops. "I'm in --- as long as I get to work the .50. I aint used one of _those_ babies since we kicked Sadam's ass outa Bagdad."

Frowning, Darryl leaned over and whispered to his brother. "Where the fuck's Bagdad?"

Dwayne, ever the studious one, whispered back. "Some make-believe place in a story 'bout magic carpets n' a bunch o' Aay-rab knights."

(Ahhh! The Brother's Grimm ride again!)

***

Jolean felt strange. She'd felt strange for some time now. Ever since finding her mother all scattered about on the bedroom floor like cremated ashes.

A part of her felt dead as well. Sort of 'gone', or 'c _hanged_ somehow.

Not to ashes like her mother, but to something else \--- something _'different'_.

' _Oh? Different than what, Little Jolean?'_ demanded a nasty voice from deep inside her.

Even though she had heard the voice before, it still startled her. Made her feel all 'strange' inside.

_Different than what, cunt_ _?!_ the nasty voice growled from the back of her brain.

'Something different than _normal_ , she answered, frightened now, or excited. It was hard to tell. 'Different than _me_!'

_Different than human?_ Mister Nasty suggested.

There was a pregnant pause, then Jolean whispered: 'Perhaps'.

' _Fuck your 'perhaps', bitch! Old Jolean's dead! Dust on the fucking wind!_

You're LUCY now! Juicy Lucy, cute n' sweet, gives the boys a 'special' treat!

'That's _disgusting_!' Jolean cried, trying not to think of Sam.

' _Aint it just? Reeeel down n' dirty, eh bitch? Primal ooze._

Cosmic cum. Napalm in the fuckin' mornin'!

'I -- I don't _understand_!" Jolean gasped "Who _are_ you?!

Suddenly a dozen bongos began in the back of her head, pounding away with a spine numbing beat. A choir of fallen angels began a chant, while at the same time a conga line of demented clowns began dancing through her brain, all singing the same song:

' _Please allow me, to introduce myself,_

I'm a man of, wealth and taste.

I've been around for, many a long year,

Stole many a man's, soul and faith.

Pleased to meet you, Lucy! Hope you guess our name!

_But what's puzzling you is the,_ nature _of our game.'_

'What do you _want_?' Jolean inwardly screamed

' _Can't you guess, cunt?'_

'My... my _body_?'

' _Oh Sweet Lucy, Nothing so crass!'_

' _Tell me_ , damn you! What do you _want_ from me?!'

' _Isn't it obvious, Lucy? I want your soul.'_

Jolean/Lucy seemed surprised. 'My 'soul'? _Why_?

' _Why the fuck not?'_ Mister Nasty quipped _. 'What_ 'earthly' _good is it to you?'_

In her mind's eye she could see him now, up close and _very_ personal. Large. Fat. Bloated. Spittle dripped from his pealing lips; his breath smelling of the grave. His voice, however, was like dark silk.

'As Jolean you would have just _wasted_ it!

Squandered its power away on wifey-hood, mother-hood and fucking _PTA-hood_!

But as _Juicy-Lucy_ , the Cowgirl Slut of the Wild Wild West,

You will harvest me _a multitude of souls_!'

His rancid breath was hot and heavy on her flushed face. She tried to turn away, but his eyes, black holes into nothingness, held her fast.

' _Suck the suckers dry for me, Lucy!_

Suck them dry and bring them before me

Do this and you shall sit at my right hand

Do this, and I will grant you all your heart desires

I will, Sweet Lucy --- give you Him!'

'I don't know what you're talking about! I'm _Jolean_! I don't want --- what you _said_! I just want \---

' _Sam?!'_ Nasty hissed. _'Mister Long Tall Sammy Himself!_

Isn't that what Little Goody Jolean Two Shoes really wants?

The Sam-myster throwing his saddle over you and climbing on board? Or better yet, how about bareback?! Ooooooooohhh, Lucy!

'You're _disgusting!_ ' Jolean shouted back. 'And stop calling me _Lucy_! I've told you, my name is _Jolean_!

The velvet voice suddenly took the gloves off.

' _Jolean's dead, bitch! She died back when she found pill poppin' mumsy dribbling out on the bedroom floor!_

She died when she saw her football chuckin', cheerleader fuckin' Big Brother reduced to a pile of ashes on the bathroom tiles!

_Unlike them, however, she didn't suddenly dry up and blow away ---_ _not all at once_.

Mr. Nasty chuckled to himself and then continued.

' _After all, Little Jolean had already been fading away for years! All that silly pouting and pretending to be a 'rebel''. I mean, pink hair and nose rings, give-me-a-fucking-break!_

'Stop it! Leave me alone! _Get the fuck out of my head!!_

' _I rode a tank! Held a general's rank,_

When the blitzkrieg raged, and the bodies stank!

I shouted out, 'Who let the Death Clouds free?'

When after all, it was you and me!

Pleased to meet you, Lucy! Hope you guess my name!

But what's puzzling you is the, nature of my game!'

"Leave me the fuck alone! I'm Jolean, not this Lucy bitch!!

' _Temper temper, Lucy. And always do try to remember:_

' _I am you and you are me and we are all together!_

Goo-goob-a-joob!Goo-goob-a-joob!'

Nasty's sing-song voice suddenly became a hissed threat, his words slicing into her like hot knives at the same time a cold, black hand seemed to squeeze her pounding heart. 'You're Lucy now, cunt! And your mine!'

***

Billy looked up from his plate, and showed a blueberry stained smile, the sight of which tugged at Raven's heart-strings, opening the floodgates for bitter-sweet memories from the distant past.

"Don't mind if I do, Auntie 'R'," Billy grinned boyishly. "You still make the best damned pies in the whole state!"

"Probably in the whole damned world!" put in gangly Jasper Spears from Colorado as he held out his plate for a refill. "Pardon my French!"

"Why Jasper," beamed Raven. "I do believe that's your third piece!"

"My fourth, Mam, but I just can't resist your exemplary cookin'!

Raven's dark eyebrows rose and her smile widened. " _'Exemplary'_ you say? Well, that's very kind of you Jasper. In that case, you may _most certainly_ have another piece. Tomorrow the girls and I will be making a raspberry cobbler --- right after you and Billy here fetch us a few pailfuls from up on the hill."

"Be my pleasure, Mam," Jasper ginned, displaying his own blueberry stained teeth.

"Soon as you're all finished up with the pie," Sam said from his customary place at the head of the table; "I'd like to talk over a few things." He'd been cleaning his Winchester and was finishing it off with an oily rag.

"Sure thing, Sam"," Dell Ross agreed. "I'll go get Elfago. He's still watching those characters down by the front gate."

"Leave him be, Dell. I want someone keeping an eye on them at all times."

Raven, hearing the serious tone in Sam's voice, stood up. Jolean, Candice, Billy, Jasper and even Dell quickly began to clear the dishes. Minutes later, all seven of them were again gathered round the large table. Elfago was still on 'guard duty'. All signs of the delicious meal they had just enjoyed had vanished. Sam cleared his throat and began.

"I think it's time we made a plan of just how we're going to defend ourselves against those fellas down by the road --- or anyone else like them."

"You _really_ think they'll be back, Sam?" Jolean asked, her eyes bright with excitement --- and something a touch darker. "I mean, after how you shot that big one in the foot and backed them both down, I'll bet they'll _think twice_ before coming up _here_ again!"

"Sooner or later, Jolean, men like those _always_ come back. If not that bunch down by the road, they'll probably be others. And since 911 and the local sheriff are both out of business, I think we have to be ready to take care of things ourselves."

His attempt at humor created a few smiles. Raven however, got right to the point. "You have some kind of a _plan_ , Sam?"

"I have some _ideas_. I'm sure some of you all do as well. Let's talk 'em over and come up with a workable plan."

And so for the next hour they discussed just how they could defend the ranch against any unwelcome visitors. Sam's main idea was that instead of all congregating in the large house, they should have _assigned positions_ in the various out buildings that they went to immediately if the alarm was given. The idea took off and several people elaborated on it. It was decided that besides weapons and ammunition, that bandages, food and water should also be stored at these stations. Candice suggested that they work in teams, either two at one station or two stations close to each other. A fall-back plan was organized that would eventually see them all retreating back to the main house if forced out of their station. Billy suggested that each station have a personal fallback place if pressed before heading for the main house, this also to be well stocked with weapons and supplies. Later, when Jasper replaced Elfago on 'guard duty', the old gentleman came up with a few good ideas of his own. Mainly that one or possibly two should _remain mobile_. He volunteered to stay on horseback for as long as possible, and Dell suggested that he stay in his heavy towtruck and, as he so colorfully put it; _'So I can ram the shit outa anyone stupid enough to get in my way!'_

Raven thought Sam should try to be centrally located in case things had to change quickly. "I also think that I should stay here in the main house," she added. "Maybe station one of the girls up on the second floor. With a gun at every window, we could make them think the place is over crowded!"

"Shades of _'Gunga Dinn'_?" Sam smiled, referring to one of Big Jim's old movies most of them had watched a few nights ago. That remark got more than a few smiles.

"Also," Sam added; 'the sound of the _dinner bell_ ringing at _any time_ should bring everyone running back to the _main house_!" Every nodded agreement and Sam was pleased that they were all so interested --- all that is, except for Jolean. During the entire discussion she had seemed either bored or preoccupied.

"Jolean, what about you?" Sam asked. "I think its best if you stay with your dad. Del wants to be in his towtruck, at least to start off with. You can either ride shotgun with him or stay in the house with Raven."

Jolean's heavily made-up eyes flashed. "I want to be with _you_ , Sam. I'm _not_ riding in that smelly truck and Raven doesn't _want_ me with her. She doesn't even _like_ me!"

"I _never_ said that, child!" Raven protested.

Jolean faced the older woman squarely. "Not in _words_ , no. But I know what you think. It's written all over your face."

"I don't approve of some of the things you say or wear, child, but I don't _dislike_ you, Jolean."

" _Really_? You could have fooled me. And _don't_ call me a _child_!"

" _Jolean!_ " he father cut in. " _Mind your manners!_ "

She shot Dell a look that must have twisted his heart. " _Whatever!_ I wouldn't expect _you_ to take my side!"

Dell's voice rose. "That's _enough_ young lady! I think you better go to your room!"

Flouncing out of the kitchen, she turned at the door. "I _hate you all_ and I hope those men _do_ come! At least _then_ I could _get away_ from this place!"

***

"Please excuse her," Dell said sheepishly. "She's been through a lot lately."

Sam nodded sympathetically and then changed the subject to something most felt more comfortable with --- guns. Except for Candice and Jolean, the other six, including Raven, had used guns all their life. On a farm or a ranch, a gun was a _tool_ like any other. It was mainly in the 'big cities' that they became things connected with murder and mayhem. Handled carefully and with respect, most guns were no more dangerous than a chain saw, a tractor or a kitchen knife.

(Of course, the other side of that argument is that a bullet can go a hell of a lot farther than a chain saw or a kitchen knife --- but let's leave that for now, shall we?)

"Big Jim, as most of you know, was a gun collector." Sam smiled and continued. "Some might even say a gun 'nut'. He collected all kinds, but his passion was for the guns of the old west. Since his heart attack a few years back he got into it _big time_. Set up his own Cowboy Action shooting stations in that rocky canyon just over the hill. Fake storefronts, saloon, flip-up targets, _the whole works_. Elfago and I used to shoot with him a couple times a week. He'd often lend guns to the other hands that worked here and give them a go as well." Sam's smile cracked as he remembered those happy times spent with the man he loved like his own father.

Sam had walked them into the large living room, where rustic furniture, a massive stone fireplace and log walls over a foot thick set the tone. Along the wall opposite the fireplace was glass case containing the pride of Big Jim's collection. His 'Wild West Originals', about two dozen handguns, rifles, shotguns and tiny derringers. The box containing Wild Bill's matching Navy Colt's was back there where it belonged, between a rifle that once belonged to Anny Oakley and a Hawken muzzloader that Kit Carson had once owned. The rest of his collection and all his modern reproductions were in a locked vault in the basement.

It was to the vault that Sam now led them.

Lighting several oil lamps, the group waited while Sam turned the dials on the massive steel door. Once inside, it was like seven kids being let loose in Willy Wonka's chocolate factory! _Guns, guns and more guns!_

On one side he had the rest of his originals. Each piece pre World War One. There were no German Lugers or AK 47's here. Strictly 19th century and older. On the other side of the rectangular room was his modern reproduction collection of Cowboy Action weapons. Colts, Remingtons and Winchesters for the most part, of all sizes, models and calibers, though most were chambered for modern .45 or .38 Special bullets.

"Pick whatever you like," Sam said to the wide eyed bunch. "But please make sure the pistols, you should have at least two, and the rifles are the same caliber. I find the .38's shoot straighter but the .45s have much more punch. I advise taking a shotgun as well, either a side-by-side or a pump. They're all 12 gages. Oh, and also one of those little hideaway Derringers."

He smiled and raised his lantern high. "In about fifteen minutes I'd like to see you all out front with your chosen weapons. Don't worry about ammo, Elfago and I took care of that early this morning. There's several large boxes up on the porch waiting for you. The targets are already set up."

"We gunna have ourselves a shootin' match, Sam?" Billy asked, his eyes unusually bright in the lantern's glare. Candice, more than a little intimidated by all the guns and testosterone in the crowded room, stood slightly behind Billy.

"Well, Billy," Sam replied. "I want you all to fire off your chosen weapons as much as you like --- as long as you aim them towards the cow's head over the front gate."

"But Sam," Dell put in. "That's where those biker fellas are hanging around!"

Sam's smile widened into a sly grin. "Absolutely!"

***
**Chapter 23** **: 'Payback's A Bitch!'**

At first Butch and his crew though it was the rumble of distant thunder, but then the odd chunk of led whizzed by, some cutting into the grass along side of the road.

"Jesus Christ!" Pops yelled. "That's _incoming!_ Someone's _shooting_ at us!" Just then something pinged off the armored side of the hummer and everyone scrambled for cover.

"It's that Wyatt Earp fucker up on the hill!" Dart screamed, scrambling into the ditch beside the road. He then fired several futile shots in the direction of the distant ranch. His stolen Beretta jammed and he threw the thing down. "Fuck!"

" _Mount up_!" Butch roared, heading for his bike. "Dwayne, you drive the hummer! Your brother can work the .50 if need be. Girls, get the fuck in there as well! The rest of you, _get on your bikes!_ "

"Hey Butch! If we're gunna go up there with guns blazing," Pops beamed. "I'd be more use on the .50 than that foot-shot _hayseed_!"

Butch shook his head, looking over at Ace and then back to Pops. " _Later!_ Right now we're just going _back to that piss-ant town_ and get our shit together. _Then_ we'll be back!"

Pops looked disappointed. Ace looked relieved. And Butch looked madder than hell!

***

" _Wwoooo-eeee!_ " Jasper yelled. "This was one _hellova good_ shoot-em-up!" Jasper had just finished blasting away a dozen shots from his matching Colt Peacemakers. The targets Sam and Elfago had set up earlier were all along the top rail of a wooden fence that led down to the entrance where Butch and his pals were parked. None of the bullets from any of the pistols or shotguns made it that far, but many from the rifles did.

"Look at those bastards go!" Jasper pointed down the hill. "Churnin' up dust all the way back to Cut Bank!" He holstered his Peacemakers and picked up a stubby Coach Gun. Cocking both barrels, he gave Butch and his hastily departing crew a final grand send-off. He fired from the hip, the force of which shoved his lean body sideways.

" _Shee-it!"_

Elfago's gold tooth flashed. "Hey Hombre, next time put the butt against yer leg n' she won't keek like a mule."

Sam had stood back and supervised as everyone, including the women, had fired each of their chosen weapons in the general direction of the road. Before that he had give a crash course on safety, loading and handling of each piece.

Candice had been a bit timid at first, but Billy had coached her and soon she was firing and loading like a pro --- and grinning almost as much as Jasper.

Jolean had not wanted to participate at all until Sam had brought out a light weight .410 shotgun. The gun had belonged Big Jim's wife. Before she died of breast cancer, the lady had used it for partridge and sage hens whenever she accompanied her husband on one of his fall hunts.

Jolean took to the light double barrel right off. The teenager soon turned out to be a natural, especially with the small, five shot Colt Pocket Pistol Sam found for her. It only fired .22 long's, but was perfect for her slight frame. In a tooled black leather shoulder rig it gave the young girl a decidedly dangerous look, something that she seemed to enjoy immensely.

As well as his gun collection, Big Jim had a large collection of western hats, chaps and other clothing. The hats were not the slim, modern Stetson or the stylish straw rodeo hat, but the thick felt, high crowned, wide brimmed _'real'_ cowboy hats seen in tin-types and old photographs.

Everyone except Dell had selected one to go along with their guns and soon the front porch of the Circle 'G' looked like the set of a western movie. Dell grinned at his smiling daughter (a sight he had not seen very often since The Cleansing) and looked at his battered, greasy baseball cap.

"Ahhh, what the hell!" he smiled, tossing the cap away. "Give me one of those big buggers! If I'm gunna live on the _'Ponderosa'_ , I may as well dress the part!"

***

Butch put his scuffed biker boots up on the tables' edge and tilted back his wooden chair. He was on his way to being two sheets to the wind and getting ready to hoist the third. He was also still seething inside, though distance, time and the whiskey had dampened the flames somewhat.

They were all in the _'Longbranch'_ , Cut Bank's combination bar, hotel and restaurant. The others were either drinking, bitching, cleaning guns or playing cards. Most were doing at least two at the same time. Charlene and Tits were out back in the kitchen cooking something to eat. Though the electricity was long gone, the kitchen ran on propane. Since the shooting of Ass earlier that day, both women were more than content to keep their mouths shut and stay the hell out of Butch's way.

Butch reached for the bottle and took another long pull. Ace sat across from him, nursing his own bottle and inwardly weighing his words. He didn't want to say the wrong thing and set Butch off again, yet he felt compelled to find out his old friend's plans. He'd toyed with the idea of just fucking off. Hoping on his hog and literally getting the hell out of Dodge, or Cut Bank or wherever the fuck he was!

He'd also thought of asking Cat Lady to come with him. She wasn't exactly his _'old lady'_ , though he'd banged her skinny ass once when they were both high on grass. He actually found her _interesting_ , in a screwed-up, anti-social kind of way. The bottom line with Cat Lady was that she didn't like people. Men or women, but especially women. She wasn't a 'dyke', or a 'whore' or a 'biker bitch'; she was, well, _'unique'_ was the only way Ace could put it. She went her own way and didn't seem to 'need' anybody --- even him.

"Hey Ace," Butch said, cutting short the other man's inward musings on _'to flee or not to flee'_. "I've been thinking. Those bastards up there are probably expecting us to hit them tomorrow, right?" Butch let his feet drop and leaned forward across the table, snagging the bottle just before it fell. He grinned and took a drink. "What say we hit then tonight?"

" _Tonight!?_ In the fuckin' _dark_? We won't be able to see a goddamned thing and they'll hear us comin' before we're half way up that fuckin' hill!"

Butch's face, flushed from drink as well as lack of sleep, cracked into something close to a smile. "Not if were on _foot_! Leave the bikes down on the road and walk up behind the fuckin' hummer. The moon's nearly full and if anything goes wrong, Pops opens up with the .50! That old fucker used to be a gunner in the fuckin' army! Desert Storm or some such shit! Whatdaya say, Ace? It'll be just like old times. _'Satan's Children'_ ride again!"

Ace reached for his bottle. "Except we won't be ridin', we'll be on foot, stumblin' up some fuckin' dirt road in the fuckin' moonlight!"

Butch leaned in and clinked his bottle against Ace's. "But we'll be doing it together, amigo! Just like the fucking _good old days_!"

***

Sam and Dell were sitting at the large kitchen table. Raven was bustling around the big ancient wood stove she'd used for the past thirty-five years. Billy, Jasper, Candice and Jolean were delivering steaming dishes to the table.

" _Mmmmm-hhmm_! Sure smells good, Miss 'R'!" Dell grinned. "I _do_ miss home cookin'!"

"Well now you just hold off, Dell, till we all get settled and Sam says a few words of thanks. I never was much for religion _before_ my Shorty was taken, but now it _comforts_ me some to think he's up there watchin' over us."

"I never was much of a church-goer myself," Dell said; "but Jolean's mother went real regular."

"Your June was a good woman, Dell." Raven smiled. "I'd see her now n' again in town n' she'd always stop n' chat some."

"She liked people," Dell said absently, lost in his own memories about his dead wife and son.

Jasper put down a big bowel of steaming mashed potatoes and took his place at the table. "Well Miss 'R', I never met you late husband, but from what I hear from these fellas, he was a _right fine gentleman_ and a _damned good hand_ with horses! Ah, excuse my French."

Raven smiled at the red-faced young man. "That's alright, Jasper. And my Shorty was a _damned fine husband too_! Not every white man in these parts would marry a Blackfoot woman, but Shorty marched right up to the Cut Bank Presbyterian, looked the head fella in the eye n' said: 'Let's _get 'er done_ , Reverend! I got _work_ to do back at the ranch!'"

Candice eased in beside Billy and smiled. "Your Shorty was the _'romantic type'_ , Miss 'R'?"

"Call me Raven, honey, seein' as how you're family now." Candice went beet red while Raven merely smiled and continued. "I don't know as I would say my Shorty was very _'romantic'_ , but he did bring me wildflowers every now n' then. Especially on our anniversary. He knew I was partial to Daisies."

There was the hint of a tear at the corner of her eye. Candice reached out and touched the older woman's hand. The touch was returned with a gentle squeeze and both knew that a bond had been silently made.

"I've been thinking," Sam said after dinner was finished and coffee and blueberry cobbler were being served. "Those fellas might not wait till tomorrow to come back here. They _might_ just come tonight."

Several cups and forks stopped in mid air. All eyes turned towards Sam. "How do you know they didn't just keep going?" Candice asked.

Sam smiled and nodded to Elfago. The old Mexican flashed his gold tooth. "Seniour Sam, he sent me to _watch_ those fellas. I sat up on a high bluff just west of Cut Bank n' I seed 'em go into the Longbranch. They didn't come out 'cept ta take a piss, n' they was still inside drinkin' when I left."

Sam grinned, feeling Elfago's 'report' was a little more detailed than needed. "They're probably in no condition to do much till morning, but I think a couple of us should go camp out down by the main gate. Maybe set up a road block or two. Something to _'discourage'_ them or any other strangers that might come wandering up here."

"Count me in, Sam!" said Billy. "You know I can ride n' handle a gun. Besides, I'm lookin' forward to meetin' those bastards again!"

"I'm sure you are, Billy," Sam replied; "But I want one thing clear right from the get-go. No shooting unless I give the word! And if I _say_ you high-tail it back here to help Dell, Jasper n' the ladies, you _ride like the wind_ n' no sas!"

"When have I ever sassed you, Sam?" Billy asked.

"Well," Sam grinned; "you're a might _cockier_ now that you brought this pretty blonde back with ya."

"Samuel!" Raven smiled, slapping him gently on his shoulder. "Don't embarrass the young girl like that!"

As Candice reddened for the third or fourth time that evening, Jasper spoke up, red faced himself. "I'd like to go along too, Sam, Sir--- if that's alright with you?"

Sam sipped his coffee before answering, seeing the eagerness in the young man's face. "Jasper, I have a special favor to ask of you."

Jasper blinked, smiled and said: "Sure thing, Sir. _Anything!"_

Sam put his cup down. "I'd like you to stay here with Dell and the ladies. They'll mind the house, but I'd like you and Dell out in the barn. Sort of _keepin' an eye out_ just in case. Will you do that for me, Jasper? I'd take as a personal favor if you did."

His chest swelling, Jasper replied that he'd be proud to.

So, when the last rays had faded from the setting sun, Del and Jasper headed for the barn and Billy, Sam and Elfago rode out through the south pasture towards the clump of trees down by the main gate.

***

"Wake the fuck up!" Butch roared, picking up one of several empty bottles and smashing it on the floor. Two candles still flickered away on the bar, as did several more around the large room. Their light was faint and sickly, enhancing the shadows rather than dispelling them. Through an eastern window dawn was a distant promise on the horizon. Overhead stars still winked back from an uncaring heaven. Butch bellowed again and a number of heads appeared from various places. Pops came out of the kitchen with 'Dirty Harry' in his hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other. Cat Lady stood by the far window, silent and deadly as ever. Upstairs Dwayne stuck his head out of the room he was sharing with Tits and his brother.

"What ta Christ's all ta yellin' 'bout?" the eldest Isley called down.

"Sun's almost up, boys!" Butch replied. " _Payback time_!"

"Shit, Butch, I just got to fuckin' sleep!" Ace grumbled.

"No rest for the wicked, Ace!" Pops chuckled as he sipped from a streaming cup. "Like my old drill sergeant used to say; 'Drop your cocks and grab your socks, boys; there's fellas out there than need killin'!" Pops strode over to the eastern window and looked out.

"Yes, sir, Master Sergeant Howard T. Crebbs. Now _there's_ a mutherfucker I aint thought of in years! He hated my guts almost as much as I hated his." Pops smile widened through his thick, salt and pepper beard, the red skull etched in his glass eye mocking the ways of the world as much as his voice did. "It broke me up _somethin' awful_ when I heard some sand nigger had fragged his sorry ass!"

Butch grunted. "Whenever you through strolling down memory lane, Pops, I want you to check out the .50 cal. See how much ammo we got."

Pops turned quickly, clicked his heels together and thrust out his right hand. " _Ya vol, mine fureur!_ I already did that last night."

"And?"

Pops shrugged and took a sip of his coffee. "The kid we were chasin' used up a hell ova lot before he ditched the hummer. Then _Gomer Pyle_ upstairs wasted most of what was left."

"N' just _how much_ is that?" Butch demanded.

Another shrug, another sip. "If I only use _tripple bursts_ instead of full auto, and if I only fire at _seen_ targets, it should be enough."

" ' _Should'_ be? What the fuck does _that_ mean?!"

In the glowing candle light Pops could easily have passed for a jolly _Biker Santa_. Round, rotund and dangerously robust. A wide smile beamed through a thick grey-white beard. His eyes, one real, one glass, glittered mischievously out at the world. Yet neither the world nor those pathetically few souls left in it _really_ wanted the gifts that this particular 'Santa' could leave under their tree! Butch was _very close_ to learning that rather harsh fact for himself.

For a big man, Pops could move _remarkably_ fast. He did so now, heading directly towards the little group's self-proclaimed leader, scooping up a handful of nuts off the bar as he passed. Since he had used his three-fingered hand, a few dribbled out the bottom.

Now a lot more 'up close n' personal', he spoke directly into Butch's face. His voice still held that flippant, mocking tone though the good natured warmth in it was all gone. "That _means_ , Butch, that if these hayseeds are asleep, hung over or fuckin' the dog, we'll have _enough_ ammo for the .50. _But_ if they decide to _fort up_ in that big log house the Brothers Grimm told us about, why I do believe your .50 shall run dry _right quick_!"

"Fuck!" Butch cursed, looking around for something or someone to punch, kick or throw. At that particular moment a bleary eyed, bowel-rumbling Dart just happened to be shuffling by. That did the trick.

***
**Chapter 24** **: 'The Widow Horn'  
**

Prudence Horn, fifty-five, tall, athletic and _very sure_ of herself, had been a widow now for over seven years. She had loved Hoyt, her soft spoken, hard working husband dearly and had truly grieved his passing. Some days she still did. But eventually she had gotten used to being a widow. Used to the long, lonely nights and cold beds, used to the worry and responsibility of raising four children on her own.

In time she had also gotten used to being _The Widow Horn_ , the tough, no-nonsense woman that ran her late husband's vast ranch with a firmer hand than Hoyt _ever_ had! She had also gotten used to the independence, respect and _power_ that came with it.

Prudence knew all about what it meant to be both a 'widow' and 'The Widow Horn' --- but she didn't know a god-damned thing about being a grieving parent! How do you even _begin_ to deal with the death of a child? Did they even have a _name_ for that? A parent that has survived not one, _but two_ of her four children. Probably a _third one_ as well!

Mark, her second oldest, in the Army for the past two years, had been stationed someplace back East. Somehow he had managed a short phone call before the lines went down. At least she had heard his voice that _one last time_!

Then there was talk of bombs.

Soon, however, there was no more talk at all.

The other two, Mathew and her baby girl, Mary, had just shriveled away to nothing before her very eyes!

In the middle of the night she had heard violent coughing coming from both their rooms. One minute they had been there sleeping the sleep of angels, the next they were squirming in their beds, tugging at their throats and gasping for every breath!

Thank Christ for Marcy!

Marcy was her oldest and probably the most like her. Strong, steady, serious. Hoyt used to say Marcy would have made a good tree. 'One o' those big ol' buggers that lives high up on th' windward side o' th' mountains. Blasted n' gnarled to a special, hyp-no-tizin' kinda beauty.'

At fifteen, the slim as a whip redhead had not taken her father's rather strange complement as he might have wanted, but now, a decade and a half later, with her father in the ground for the past seven years, Marcy was finally beginning to see his point.

Marcy had stayed with her brother Mathew while Prudence had gone to Mary. 'Momma....' was the last word Prudence had heard her child speak this side of the grave. She had been holding her baby's hand --- crying, preying, beseeching:

' _Please_ Dear God! _Please!_

I'll do _anything_ You want, anything at all!

Only _please_ don't take my baby girl !'

The answer, _if answer it was_ , came in the form of a strange transformation. The hand she was holding, indeed, the entire nine year old body, went quite swiftly from soft, pliable living flesh to something hard, rigid and mummy-like.

At that same moment, as she sat holding her dead child's crumbling hand, a twisted piece of nightmare-logic came to her.

There may not be a name for a grieving parent, but there most certainly was a place ---

and that name is HELL!

As the small hand crumbled to dust, Prudence started to scream.

***

Marcy Horn, twenty nine, like her mother, was tall, blonde, athletic and _very_ sure of herself, had sat on the edge of her little brother's seemingly too short bed and had not known what to do. She had held his hand as he gasped for breath, each of which came a little shallower than the last, though obviously, at a higher cost.

"That's it, Matty! Nice and deep!" she had soothed. "You're a tough little bugger! One of the toughest hands on the ranch! Everybody says so!" Since hitting puberty a year back, Matt had been growing like a weed --- hence the reason for the short bed. Prudence had wanted to get him a bigger one but in his cracking thirteen year old voice Matt had both proudly and firmly declared that 'The one I have now will do me just fine till I'm ready to move into the bunkhouse with the rest of the boys.'

To which his mother had replied, quite unaccustomedly, absolutely _nothing_ at all.

'By the looks of it, _the weed_ is dying', Marcy thought, angry with herself an instant later.

Suddenly Marcy felt pressure on her hand. Hard, cold, stone-like pressure, almost a 'grinding'. She looked down into Matt's amazingly wide green eyes. The pressure increased. She wanted to pull away but made herself lean down to that once fluid face, where passions had so often chased emotions around like fairies on the head of a pin.

"Tell --- Mo --- Momm --- "

"Tell Mom what, Matty? She's right next door with Mary."

She saw her reflection in the clear, still waters of his eyes --- and then suddenly the waters clouded over. She could still see herself, but all the life was draining away.

She leaned a little closer. "Tell her what, Matty-darlin'?"

"Good...bye."

Just after Matt's passing, the screaming had started in the other room.

***

All that had played out a little over three months ago. Looking back on it now as Prudence waited on the front porch for Marcy to bring the truck around, the rising sun coming off the eastern prairie like liquid fire, Prudence saw most of what had happened as a weird, disjointed kind of nightmare.

The death of here children, both near and far. The death of almost everyone else on the ranch. The death of the _entire world_! So much bloody death!

Of the twenty-seven hands the vast Horn Ranch was employing at the time of The Change, a total of nine had not turned to dust. Of those nine, two had run off crazy-like into the foothills and one had shot himself in the head. Two young brothers had stayed on for a few days, then sheepishly asked 'permission' to 'head on home to Wyoming to check on the folks'. That left four; three of which were tending to what stock they could. As for the fourth, he had made the foolish mistake of trying to _attack_ Marcy.

Burt had _'seemed'_ okay. Much like the others; shocked all to Hell but trying to cope, though perhaps a little more withdrawn. A few days after the Wyoming brothers had left, however, quiet, withdrawn Burt had suddenly attempted to drag Marcy into the barn.

He must have been crazy to try a stunt like that! In the past Marcy had won Cut Bank's women's bronk riding and steer roping championship not once but three times. She soon had a wild-eyed Burt trussed up like an old mangy stallion ready for gelding. She just might have done it to, swinging there by his heels from the heavy rafters of the barn, his pants still down, if Prudence hadn't stayed her daughter's hand.

Now, months later, sitting in a rocker on the front porch, waiting for her daughter to bring the truck around, the incident in the barn came flooding back to her. In her mind's eye she saw herself turning to the pair of slack jawed hands standing awkwardly by the swinging body.

Prudence had curtly issued her orders. "Go get your guns, then get him a horse from the far corral. The mangiest one you can find. Come back here, cut him down and see him off my property. Now _move_!"

The younger man started to scramble away, but the older one, assistant foreman Roscoe Banks, politely stood his ground.

"Ah, 'scuse me mam, but as you know, almost half the hands that work here got there own truck, horse n' travelin' rig. We park 'em way out..."

"I know where we park them, Roscoe! You saying we've got this Burt fella's gear and horse?"

Roscoe's right foot started scuffing at the dirt at his feet, a nervous tick he'd had since childhood, yet he bravely stood his ground --- no easy feat when the _Widow Horn_ had her temper up! "Yes, mam. The trailer n' truck are both rustin' out somethin' awful, but Burt's mare is in good shape."

Prudence held the young man's gaze till he blushed and turned aside. _'Is this the one that Marcy's been sneaking out lately to be with?'_ she thought, then forced herself back to the issue at hand. "All right, Roscoe. I'm putting you in charge. Get his horse, his gear, _all_ his personal belongings and be in front of the big house in an hour. I'll have a month's wages in cash money ready for him when you come." She nodded towards the gagged, inverted, slightly swaying body. "Until then, however, he stays _exactly_ where he is. We _clear_ on that, son?"

"As glass, mam!"

"I give the money to you, you give it to him later when he's off my property. And Roscoe, I don't _ever_ want to see his face again. You think you could maybe _'impress'_ that thought upon him? Make it so he _remembers_ it for a _long_ time?!"

The smile that was on his tanned face suddenly vanished, leaving a darker, more troubled canvass. Once again the right foot started questing for the Orient. "Mam, er, I'll _give_ him the money n' I'll _strongly_ pass on your verbal message, and I'll _fight_ him if he tries to come back, but... er, but..."

"But _what_ , Roscoe? Tell me what you _won't_ do?" she quietly asked, all the while thinking: _'What he says next will prove if he is good enough for my Marcy!'_

Roscoe planted both feet and stool up straight as though for some sort of inspection --- which in a way, it was.

"I _won't_ hit a man that's tied, held or already down. I'd do most _anything_ for you, Mrs. H, but I won't do that."

"And why is that, Roscoe?"

There was one long, drawn out moment before Roscoe's answer gushed out like a roaring torrent.

"Because I _liked_ the sonovabitch! Because he once shared his cheese sandwich with me in a blizzard; because he pulled me out of a freezin' stream, leant me his coat n' taught a poem while I shivered by the fire!" He looked up at the two women standing before him, for Marcy had quietly joined her mother. Behind the Horn women the gagged body still twisted and swayed from the rafters. Roscoe's voice dropped a tone.

"You all know I ain't no kind _deep_ thinker. But I was listenin' to a scientist fella on my portable radio not too long passed. Back when radio n' TV still worked. He said that some of the survivors kinda turn inwards n' just sit around staring at nuthin' but that some others turn real nasty n' want to hurt or kill any one they see." The toe of his boot started another hole, but he kept on recounting what he had heard. Marcy was watching him intently, her eyes bright, a small, proud smile at the corner of her pretty mouth.

"The scientist fella said that _everyone_ that survived probably was changed _somehow_. Maybe something that _worked away slowly from the inside_ , makin' us say n' do things we'd have never done before. Maybe Burt was on of _those_ guys." Roscoe, fighting back tears now, pointed at the trussed up dangling figure. "'Cause that _ain't_ the same guy that shared his cheese sandwichwith me and taught me a song!"

Prudence, fighting back tears of her own, managed a half smile. "You think, maybe he'd like to hear that poe one more time before we send him off?"

Roscoe stopped his fancy footwork and looked her in the eye."I don't know it all, but I can say the beginning. That be alright?"

Prudence nodded gently, all her anger bled away by this fine young man's compassion and loyalty to a friend.

Roscoe took a deep breath, then began. His voice was stiff and school-boy like, but the words came out strong and clear.

' _There are strange things done,_

Beneath the Midnight Sun,

By the men who toil for gold

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see,

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lefarge

When we cremated Sam McGee. _'_

Roscoe stopped his recital and looked at the two women before him. "There was a lot more. A _hellova_ lot more \--- and ol' Burt knew _every_ verse, n' nary a _one_ of 'em had anything to do with attackin' women. Mostly it was about keepin' yer word to a friend." He nodded his chin at the shadows. " _Now_ look at him. I doubt that he could remember a line. Hell, I doubt he could even remember what _cheese_ is!"

As Roscoe strode away to gather Burt's belongings, Prudence whispered quickly in her daughter's ear. "You got yourself a _real_ diamond in the rough there, girl! And it'll take a _real_ woman to make him shine, but I believe you're _up to the task_! _Go_ with him now, I'll see to this."

Pleasantly shocked at discovering both her mother's astuteness _and_ understanding, Marcy caught up with Roscoe in the full sunlight just beyond the open barn doors. Prudence watched them both for a moment, content that her last remaining child at least had a _chance_ at some kind of happiness.

Slowly she turned back into the barn's shadowy depths, walked over and squatted down to look into Burt's inverted face. As she did so she began pouring fine sand into one of her leather gloves. It was a little trick that Will had told her about years ago to 'help even up the odds'.

Burt's eyes were wild and feral. Unseeing. Uncaring. Unreadable.

She smacked him hard with the half filled glove.

"It _may_ be like young Roscoe says, that none of this is your _'fault'_. That whatever killed my children and most of the world killed all that was good in _you_ , leaving only the bad. If so, that is a _real damn shame_ , and _part_ of me feels for you and those like you."

She added another handful of sand and smacked him again. When he stopped thrashing around she leaned in closer. There was a wild fire in Burt's eyes that had nothing to do with the smacks. They looked --- _'hungry'_.

"But that doesn't change the fact that if I _ever_ see you again, _anywhere, any time_ , I'll shoot you down like a mad dog!"

With that she had poured the sand back onto the barn floor and left the man dangling there.

***

The yellow pickup pulled up in the early morning light, startling Prudence out of her less than pleasant memories. Marcy, the sunlight turning her long, blonde hair to molten gold, leaned across and opened the door for her mom.

"Think I'm getting too old to open my own doors, daughter?"

"Well, I'm sure if a certain Mister _Will Penny_ was back from his gallivanting around, you'd be _more_ than pleased to allow _him_ to open your door for you, Momma."

Prudence gave her only surviving child that 'special look' that had backed down government officials, Cut Bank's sheriff, two US Marshals and the biggest of cowboys in the middle of a mean drunk.

Marcy merely smiled. "Don't go wasting your 'evil eye' on me, Momma. The last time it worked I was _fifteen_."

" _Thirteen_ , I believe." Prudence replied begrudgingly.

Marcy checked that both the shotgun and the rifle were in the rack behind them, glanced at the extra box of shells for each on the floor and smiled at her mother.

"You _believe_ what you want, Momma, you always have, always will. But there's one thing you _can_ believe for sure n' certain, Will Penny _loves_ you. He _has_ loved you ever since daddy died --- probably long _before_ he died \--- but that's none of my business. But what _is_ my business is your happiness! I _saw_ the way _your_ eyes lit up when Will came riding into the ranch a week ago. When you found out that wild old mountain man was still alive, you had a smile on you like a cat that's been into the cream! And that _kiss_ you gave him was a hellova lot more than just the ' _welcome back Uncle Bob'_ kind!"

She reached across the seat and squeezed her mother's hand. "Momma. After _all_ that's happened, all the deaths and all the hatred, should _any_ of us pass up a chance at something as precious and rare as love? Will Penny loves you _dearly_ , has for years --- and you damned well _know_ it!"

Before she could reply, Roscoe Banks suddenly appeared at her side of the pickup.

Roscoe, now the 'foreman' of the three man team that now attempted to work the giant ranch, certainly looked exactly like what he was, a hard working cowboy. Run-down boots, dirty, stained leather chaps, a clean long sleeved shirt and a hat that looked like he used it for a pillow --- which of course he had on many occasion. A well serviced Winchester was held loosely in his gloved right hand. Since he had woken up after The Death Clouds three months ago, it had never been far out of reach.

"Good mornin' to ya ladies. Where ya'll off to this fine mornin'?"

Prudence was about to tell the grinning young pup that it was none of his damned business, but a look from Marcy held her back.

"Off to Cut Bank for supplies, Roscoe," Marcy smiled sweetly. "And to take a little look around. Need anything special?"

Roscoe snatched off his hat. "Why, I don't believe I need a single thing, Miss Marcy, but I thank you for offerin'!" Roscoe, thirty five if he was a day, suddenly became red faced and fifteen again. "Mister Will, he, er, well, he kinda charged me with yer protection. Both of yas."

" ' _Charged'_ you, did he?" Prudence barked from the passenger seat. "N' just what the hell does _that_ mean?!"

The right toe of Roscoe's boot once again began its slow dig towards China. "Well mam.... er, he kinda made me _promise_ to watch out fer yous both when he's away on one of his scouts."

"Did he indeed?!" Prudence's voice almost crackled she was so angry. "God _damn_ the man!" She turned on her daughter. "Did _you_ know anything about this?"

"Of course," Marcy beamed. "Roscoe can't keep a secret from little ol' _me_." In the last few weeks Marcy had made it quite clear that she had set her cap for the tall cowboy.

Roscoe flamed two shades redder and started working overtime on the China Project. Marcy batted her baby blues at the handsome young man she had decided to marry and went on to explain the _'charging'_ to her mother.

"Will took Roscoe aside the day after he arrived here last week. Made the fool swear he'd not let _either_ of us _'helpless ladies'_ go anywhere alone!"

Prudence's eyes flashed. Her gloved finger stabbed Roscoe in his chest. "Will Penny used _that_ word? _'Helpless'_?!"

" _No-one's_ fool 'nough to call you helpless, mam!" Roscoe stammered. "They wouldn't _dare_!"

Macy sighed. " _I_ said 'helpless', ma. _Not_ Will and _not_ Roscoe."

Prudence eyed them both for some time, then allowed a hint of a smile to crack her wind worn features. Despite the rough outdoors life she had led, at fifty-five the _Widow Horn_ was still a very handsome looking woman.

"All right then Roscoe. I see you got your rifle. Hop in the back and you can ride to town with us _'helpless ladies'_.

Roscoe was shaking his head, his hat once again scrunched in his free hand. It seemed his foot hadn't completely forgotten about China either.

"What's wrong _now_?" Prudence demanded. "Will get you to promise to ride up _front_ on the hood with a bloody shotgun?!"

"No mam, though he _did_ say to bring a shotgun as well as a rifle. It's just that I'm supposed to bring one of the fellas with me and we're supposed to follow along in _another_ vehicle. _'One to ride and one to shoot'_ was how Mister Will put it."

Prudence shook her head. "Roscoe, who _owns_ this ranch?"

White teeth flashed through a rugged face. "Why, _you_ do, Mrs. H."

"And _who_ do you work for?"

More teeth. "You, of course."

"How _long_ you worked for me, Roscoe?"

"Five years this July. Hope to stay another five, if'n you'll have me!"

"We'll _see_ about that." Prudence cocked her head. "Roscoe, what if I _ordered_ you and all the boys to _stay here_ while Marcy and I went to town?"

Clouds suddenly rolled in on Roscoe and the excavation southward was resumed post haste. "Why, er, then I'd guess I'd have to, er, sort o' _follow along anyways_ , mam."

Silence, then: "What if I told you I'd _fire_ your sorry ass if you _did_?"

His grip on his hat had become a stranglehold and there was actual _dust_ rising from the China Project. "Oh, I _dearly hope_ it doesn't come to that, mam!"

Prudence leaned out the window and motioned the sweating young man closer. "But _if_ it did? Would you _leave_ here, a place where people _need_ you and _care_ for you, _especially_ now, with the way the world has gone? Would you give _all_ that up for a _promise_ made to some foolish old _relic_ from the _past_?"

Suddenly the quest for China ceased and the hat was pulled down firmly on his head. All nervousness had vanished and like a lost mariner who finally can see the stars, Roscoe set both his course and his broad shoulders straight ahead.

"With _all due respect_ , mam, I'd have to keep my promise, _regardless_ of the consequences. That's the way my _daddy_ raised me and that's what my _momma_ would expect.

Prudence was taken pleasantly by surprise by Roscoe's sudden assertiveness. She knew her headstrong daughter cared for him and she herself had always thought him to be a hard working, steadfast and honorable young man.

Roscoe took a deep breath and relaxed a bit, that wide smile starting to flood back in. "Besides, Mrs. H, I gave my _word_ to Will Penny.--- n' he is the _last man on God's green earth_ that I would want pissed off at me!"

Both women were laughing now. "All right, Roscoe, go get one of the boys and the other truck. Bring a _bazooka_ if you have one, but I want to leave for Cut Bank in five minutes! Now _move_!"

As Roscoe ran off, Prudence got out of the pickup and headed back into the house. "Forget something, Momma?" Marcy asked.

"Gotta pee," came floating back.

***
**Chapter 25** **: 'Cupid's Arrow'  
**  
 ** **

" _Fuck this shit, man!"_ Dart yelled, the veins on his skinny neck protruding, as were his beady little eyes. He was frustrated over the endless bitching about going, not going; riding in or sneaking in; during the day or during the night; as well as from the pain in his jaw where Butch had hit him for absolutely no goddamned fucking reason at _all_! Bastard had even knocked out a fucking _tooth_!

"I say, if we're gunna fuckin' _do_ it, then lets stop all the fuckin' around and just fuckin' _do_ it! 'Cause if we _don't_ , we're all a bunch of fuckin' _pussies_! _Every fuckin' one of us!"_

All movement and noise had stopped at Dart's somewhat less than eloquent outburst. The silence seemed to hang in the air like static before a sudden storm. All there _knew_ it didn't pay to cross Butch. Already Ace had nearly had his teeth handed to him just for asking a question, and only yesterday the shorter bitch with the big mouth had taken a round between the eyes for much the same thing. Dart himself had stopped an angry roundhouse just an hour ago and yet here the stupid fool was shooting off his mouth _again_!

Ahhh, the folly of youth!

Butch, sitting at a table with the remains of breakfast spread out before him, took a long drink from his third cup of coffee, then slowly put the cup back down. "Ya know something, kid, for a _stupid little shit_ , you _aint_ as fuckin' dumb as you _look_."

Miraculously the storm clouds broke and the sun peeped through in the form of their volatile leader's smile. Across the high ceilinged room Dart began to preen in its golden glow. Butch, three quarters sober now, stood and faced his motley crew. "Out of all of you big ' _tough guys'_ , this little shit was the _only one_ with the _balls_ enough to say what had to be said! Either we _go_ , or we're _pussies_. It's as simple as that. And so, as a reward, I'm giving him the _honor_ of riding point! Dart on his hog will _lead_ the rest of us back up that farmer's hill! (No-one felt inclined to remind Butch that it was a _ranch_ not a farm.)

"The Isley boys will follow with the hummer. Dwayne driving, Darrel on shotgun, with Pops up top working the .50." His gaze switched to the two women standing in the far corner. "You two go in the hummer as well. If you don't want to shoot you can reload, play nurse, blow job the wounded --- do _some_ fucking thing!"

Charlene screwed up her courage. "Couldn't we stay here, Butch? I mean, won't we just _be in the way_? Here were can have everything _ready_ for when you get back. Lynda's a great cook! We can ---"

" _Enough!_ " Butch roared. "Stay the fuck here then if that's what you want, just _shut the fuck up!_ "

The two women nodded agreement and fled back into the kitchen.

"Where do you want us, Butch?" Ace asked, nodding to Cat Lady and himself.

Butch grinned. "On your bikes and back with me. No sense of all of us sticking our necks out, right amigo?"

Ace's grin matched Butch's. "Right on, compadre!"

As usual, Cat Lady said nothing.

***

"I wonder why they run away when they see us?" Marcy asked as they neared the outskirts of Cut Bank."

"Frightened, probably. Or crazy," Prudence added. "You recall last week when we all came in for supplies? That fellow walking down the street _stark naked_ with that what-ya-call-it on his head?"

"A turban," Marcy added.

Mother and daughter smiled at each other, their eyes asparkle and said in unison: _"of toilet paper!"_

They were still smiling when the motorcycle suddenly appeared in front to of them. _'It must have come out of a side street!'_ Marcy reasoned, quickly glancing in her rear view mirror for Roscoe and Pete who were following in the old white Chevy. "Shit!" she swore out loud. The battered white Chevy had somehow been cut off by a bloody big army truck, complete with machine gunner on top!

"Where'd _he_ come from?!" Prudence demanded, nodding her jaw at Dart's leather clad back up ahead on the bike.

"Never mind that!" Marcy said. "Check out what's behind us!"

As Prudence did, she swore. When the voice came booming over the Hummer's loud speaker, she swore again.

"Y'all up ahead in t' pick-up! Pull over, now!"

Marcy met her mother's eyes. "Should we? They could be the real Army."

Prudence reached for the shotgun and the box of shells. "They _could_ be, then again, they..."

There came a sudden burst of thunder and the mailbox just in front of them exploded, sending old letters to dead people flying on the wind.

"Pull t' fuck over! _Now!_ " the metallic voice commanded.

Marcy glanced in the mirror and saw what looked like a biker Santa smiling back at her from the machine gun seat. Looking ahead she saw the motorcycle was slowing down. _'Should I ram the bastard and make a run for it?'_ she thought frantically. _'But to where? The ranch was behind them!'_ That made her think of Roscoe! _'He's back there behind the army truck! Oh God, please don't let him get killed!'_

"Here, take _this_!" Prudence said, thrusting the now loaded shotgun at her daughter.

"I'll use the rifle. Pull over and we'll _both_ get out. Leave your door open for some cover. You watch the one up ahead on the bike! _Ready?_ "

Prudence seemed no more ruffled than she had when Marcy was twelve and Prudence was the local Girl Guide Leader. _Do this, do that, 1,2,3! Chop chop!_

' _I hope she fares as well with these road warriors!'_ Marcy said to herself, easing the pick-up to a stop in the center of the road. She put it in park and left it running, chambered a round in the shotgun, opened her door and stepped out. _'Hold on Roscoe-honey. I'm commin'!'_

Dart had just removed his helmet when he looked up at the tall blonde pointing a big mother of a shotgun right at his face. "I _sure hope_ your friends back there _like_ you a lot, buddy," she yelled with more moxi than she felt; "because the first thing goes wrong, I _pull_ this trigger."

***

" _Look!_ It's two _cunts_! Ooohh _shit_!" 'Debonair Darrel', in his haste to get at the fresh poon-tang, banged the foot that Sam had shot the day before.

Dwayne reached over and grabbed his brother by the scruff of the neck and hauled him back inside the cab. "Stay _put_ , Little Brother, looks like _both_ those ladies got guns."

"Looks like they know how to _use'm_ too!" Pops chuckled from above. "The younger redhead's got a shotgun in the kid's face! The older one's got a rifle. Lever action held at port \--- and she's comin' this way! My oh _my_! That is one _fine looking woman_! Mind yer manners now boys, _hear_?!"

Prudence took two steps past her open door and halted. This close, the hummer seemed huge and totally blocked all sight of what might be going on behind with Roscoe and Pete. "You up there, _Santa Clause_! Is my _white Chevy_ still back there?"

Pops' grin widened. For a moment he couldn't take his eyes off this vision of loveliness. Tall, tanned and 'mature'. A _'take charge'_ kind of woman! No make up, no fancy 'fuck-me' shit like all these young whores all wore. Here was a _real_ woman! The woman of his dreams!

Chick-Click!

Prudence worked the lever on Hoyt's well used and well kept .303 Marlyn. "Hey, _Chubby_! The white Chevy! It _still_ back there or not?!"

' _She's already given me a_ nick-name _!'_ Pops sighed, his heart literally skipping a beat. _'Who'd a fuckin' believed it? Love at first sight at my age!'_ He cranked his snowy head around, saw Butch and Ace standing on either side of a battered white pick-up. Cat Lady was hanging back with their bikes and guarding their rear. Pops turned back to his new-found lady-love.

"Right behind us, Darlin'. My boss if havin' a _wee chat_ with the driver."

Prudence hefted the Marlyn and laid it in the crook of her left arm, her finger beside but not on the trigger. She half spoke over her shoulder. "You all right back there, daughter?"

"I'm doin' just _fine_ , momma! Dart n' I are getting _real_ acquainted like. I think he's about to _propose_ , 'cause he's down on his knees."

Prudence looked back up at Pops, who was smiling from ear to ear. "Anything goes wrong back there with my boys, your point man won't see the sunset. Best pass that along to your boss, Santa."

' _What a woman!'_ Pops made a half bow. "Your wish is my command, _m'lady_!" He swiveled the seat, gun and all, and spoke quickly to over the long perforated barrel. "Hey _Butch_! Got a real _lady_ and her daughter up her, Boss. _Good_ people. Those are _her_ boys you got back there with you. Everybody's packin' but so far nobody's got themselves killed. I'd _really_ like to keep it that way."

Butch's eyebrow rose. " _Would_ you now? Since when did you give a _flying fuck_ who gets whacked and who doesn't?"

Pops held Butch's steely gaze. "Since right _here_ , right _now_." Then his tone lightened somewhat. "Look Butch, I'm _askin'_ for a _favor_ here, man. I aint never asked nothin' before, but I'm askin' now. Let 'em _all_ go."

Butch held out his hand to the side. The right one held a massive .357 Red Hawk revolver. There was blood on the long barrel where he had smacked Roscoe for being a little too slow in handing over his rifle.

"And if I say no? _What then_?"

Pops took a deep breath and sighed. "Then I'm afraid that you and I are gunna have a _serious disagreement_." He stared down at Butch, leaning forward over the .50's barrel for emphasis.

For several long heartbeats Butch didn't react. Time seemed suspended like a fly in amber. Suddenly Pete, who had been sitting with Ace's gun in his ear, reached up, grabbed the stubby barrel and twisted.

" _Drive Roscoe! Drive!_ Pete screamed.

Roscoe put the Chevy in gear and hit the gas. As the car tried to get around the back of the hummer, Butch dove to the left, firing the Red Hawk even as he landed.

The heavy handgun momentarily numbed his hand and his shoulder hurt where he skidded in the gravel. Then he saw the Chevy go off the road, its tail lights pointing to the sky, its horn blaring.

"Momma?!"

" _I'm fine, Marcy!"_

"Where's _Roscoe_ , Momma?"

"He's still _in the Chevy_. He's... Oh _Lord!_ "

"What, Momma? What?!"

' _If they've hurt him I'll kill every last_ one _of the bastards!'_ Marcy thought, striding over to where Dart knelt shaking. The twelve gage was suddenly against his nose. _'Starting with this asshole!'_ She pivoted slightly and swung her right hand, arm and shoulder around in a short, vicious arc. Wood and bone met, and then the wood travelled on. Dart collapsed like the sack of shit that he was.

***

Pops shook his head. _'That tears it! Yer fucked now, old man!'_ he said to himself. Still facing backward in the gun-seat, he took in the scene as he had once been trained to do all those long years ago.

' _That's it, son. Take a second longer. It's always ta fuckin'_ little things _tha' get ya killt.'_ Master Sergeant Howard T. Crebbs's rough, southern voice spoke to a much younger Pops --- of course, way back then he was known as pimple faced _Private George Graham_ from Lubbock, Texas --- a wise-ass young shit that had run away to the 'big city' to be a 'big man'. Six months later a judge had given Georgie -Progie the choice; six years in the state pen or three in the Marines.

' _Just like on the street, right Sarj?'_ an eager young George had replied all those years ago back in Boot Camp. They were half way through a 'live-fire moving tactical' where various targets would pop up all around him. 'Gotta watch out, maggot, for both ta'good guys n' ta fuckin' bad guys!'

Master Sergeant Howard T. Crebbs --- as black as the Ace of Spades and with an southern accent only his mother could fully understand, had smacked young Private George Graham alongside his helmeted head. 'Shut your piehole, _maggot!_ N' watch your _cussin'!_ I read yer jacket, _asswhipe!_ Boostin' cars n' sellin' dope to little _kids!_ Sheee-it! _Marines_ gunna make a _man_ outa you, son, 'stead of some _pussy assed_ drug pusher! Now _check out_ that field of fire and _take out_ ta closest threat!'

POP! Up came a target. A life-sized silhouette of a mother pushing a baby carriage had appeared to his left.

The young private aimed, but held his fire.

POP! POP! Behind the mother was a terrorist with an AK-47 and a turban. To the right another towelhead with a grenade launcher. Young George put two in the turban and two more in the smiling puke with the launcher.

'My _man!'_ Master Sergeant Howard T. Crebbs had beamed. _'_ For _that,_ Private _Asswhipe,_ I'll let you buy me a _beer!'_

' _Sir, yes Sir!'_ Young George had replied, happier at that moment than he had ever been before in his short, violent life. Sadly enough, it was probably the happiest he had ever been since then as well.

Now, a _hellovalotta_ years later, Retired Gunnery Sergeant George Graham, US Marines, a.k.a. _'Pops'_ , once more _'surveyed his field of fire'_.

Butch, immediately below to the right. Scrambling for cover.

Ace, standing off to the left, stunned like, holding his gun in the air.

The Chevy, in the ditch, two bodies in the front seat. Driver _might_ be alive.

Cat Lady, waiting, astride her bike, seventy odd feet to the rear.

Butch n' Ace's bikes beside her.

Beneath him in the hummer's cab the Isley boys.

Dwayne still behind the wheel.

Darrel getting out the side door.

Target? _A fuckin' no brainer!_

***

" _Fuck this!"_ Darrel growled, fumbling for the door handle. He'd just watched Marcy, here long blonde ponytail swinging in the breeze, calmly walk up to a kneeling Dart and all but crack his fuckin' skull open! The other one, Blondie's _'momma'_ , was now pointing some big bore deer rifle at him! Then, without a word or a flinch, she began to fire! Darrel's half opened door was hit twice, with both heavy slugs leaving large dents in the thick metal!

"Fuck!" he yelled, squirming his large body down in the seat while at the same time thrusting the Mossberg through the open side window and letting go a blast in the older woman's general direction.

The window in the back of their red pickup shattered as Prudence continued to work the lever on Hoyt's old gun. It ran dry after seven. " _Marcy!_ _Keep these bastards busy_ while I reload!"

Marcy raised the Mossberg 'Defender' to her shoulder. The heavy #2 steel shot was made for geese and wild turkey, _not_ Hummer, but it got the point across just the same. Sitting behind the wheel, Dwayne thought about making a run for it, then wisely decided to stay put, reasoning that the Hummer was a lot better at stopping bullets than he was.

After three direct blasts at the big truck's windshield produced only hairline cracks, Marcy turned to her mother. " Momma, where's _Roscoe_?!"

"He's in the Chevy, darlin'. Hurt but _alive_!"

"And Pete?"

"Gone," Prudence called back sadly.

Up above, Retired Gunnery Sergeant George Graham, US Marines, a.k.a. _'Pops'_ , leaned back in the big .50's seat and smiled. The two lovely ladies seemed to have the situation _well_ in hand!

***

Down below, just as Darrel shoved his Mossberg out the window for a second 'shot in the dark', Pops reached down with his five fingered hand and latched on to Darrel's wrist. Yanking upwards the top of the younger Iseley brother's forearm met the top of the metal frame and something snapped _._ The Mossberg fell to the dusty road and Darrel began screaming.

' _Next target',_ Pops thought as he swiveled the gun turret around and placed both hands of the firing handles. The perforated barrel sought out Cat Lady and the two bikes a fair distance to the rear. A long shot for some --- but not for an old retired 'master gunner'.

For a split second their eyes met. Cat Lady's widened in fear until Pops smiled and waved her away. She hesitated just long enough to flash him a smile of her own, then raced her bike off the road and up some dry riverbed.

With the Cat Lady gone, Pops squeezed off a couple of triple bursts at each of the two remaining bikes. With every fifth round being a white-hot phosphorous one, the bikes were soon reduced to twisted burning bits of steel and rubber.

' _Next target. Butch or Ace?'_ Butch however was nowhere to be seen, but Ace was still standing by the white Chevy. A single burst in the dirt close by was more than enough to get his attention. " _Drop_ the piece, Ace and _follow_ your old lady! She went _that_ -a-way!" Pops motioned to the dry riverbed and Ace took the hint. In a moment he also was gone.

That left Butch.

Pops sat back, drew Dirty Harry from its shoulder holster and slowly asked himself. _'Well, punk? Do ya feel lucky?'_

"Hey, _Santa_! Whose side you _on_ , anyway?" Prudence called up to him, the Marlyn aimed in his general direction. Inside the cab Darrel still sobbed and moaned, cradling his broken arm to his chest.

"Why, _your_ side, pretty lady, _always!"_ A small bow from the waist followed.

" _Humph!_ " Prudence snorted. "I _saw_ what you did to that fella with the shotgun."

Pops shrugged. "He's just another misguided oaf. I fear, pretty lady, that the world now _abounds_ with them."

The Widow Horn cocked her head to one side and took in the older, bearded man beaming down at her. _'A rascal and a rogue for sure,'_ she thought. _'Perhaps even a good man forced to do bad things. Time alone will tell'._ "That's my daughter, Marcy. With the long gun. I'm Prudence Horn. And _you_ are?"

Pops' drew himself as erect as he could in his gunners seat. "Retired Gunnery Sergeant George Graham, US Marines, mam. At your service."

"Well, Sergeant Graham, I thank you for your timely intervention. I have ---I _had_ a son in the service." Prudence paused for a moment, made a snap decision and continued.

"You _seem_ like a fine man, sergeant, but you _travel_ with a _rough crowd_ and they've done _serious hurt_ to me and mine. I'll thank you to _stand aside_ while I see to the youngsters back there."

' _Snap to, asswhipe!'_ Pop's old drill sergeant yelled in his ear. _'There's still an enemy fuckers out there!'_

"Hold on a minute, Mrs. Horn," Pops called out as he quickly climbed down. He picked up Darrel's fallen Mossberg, checked to see if there was one up the spout, then turned to Prudence. "My boss, er, _ex-boss now_ , is still around here someplace. So are a couple of his men."

"What are you _suggesting_ , sergeant? My _boys_ need help."

"What I'm _suggesting_ is that you get the hell out of here as fast as you can! Butch isn't the kind to forgive and forget. He's more of an _eye for an eye_ kind of fella."

The Widow Horn fixed him with her fierce yet handsome stare "You've _already_ helped us, sergeant. Will you _continue_ to do so?"

Surprising even himself, Pops took a step back and nodded. "Till the _end of my days_ , m'lady."

Despite herself, Prudence found herself smiling. "Oh I doubt it will take _that_ long, Sergeant Graham. But we can _start_ by getting those two out of the cab. And will that big one _ever_ be quiet?!"

Pops reversed the Mossberg and slammed the butt end into Darrel's ear. The younger Isley slumped sideways onto his big brother's shoulder. "You, Dwayne! Come out nice n' slow. If I see either one of those chromed Glocks of yours, I'll shove them _both_ up you ass! Now _move_!"

"Interesting manner you have with your men, sergeant. Colorful and to the point!"

Pops beamed. 'You have to find their softer side, mam --- then _squeeze like hell!"_

Prudence stopped abruptly, fixed him with what Marcy called her 'evil eye', and then shook here head. "I _like_ you, sergeant! I shouldn't, but I do. I just fear what your 'friends' have done to my two boys! Will you watch these two while my daughter and I see to them?"

The slight bow again. "Like a hawk, m'lady."

Prudence and her daughter rushed back towards the white Chevy. Two bodies were slumped forward as the truck tilted nose down into the ditch. Blood and brains covered the inside windshield.

' _Whose?'_ Marcy silently screamed. _'Roscoe's or Pete's?'_ Hating herself for thinking it, she continued nonetheless: _'Oh Dear God, please let it be Pete's!'_

Jumping into the ditch, Marcy fumbled for the handle on the driver's side. Reluctantly it opened and Roscoe slid out into her arms. He _groaned_ as he did so and looked up at her with his one good eye. The other was covered in blood from a scalp wound and already swollen shut from when Butch had smacked him with the barrel of his Red Hawk.

"What --- took you --- so --- long?"

"I had a date with acute kid up the road."

Roscoe tried to laugh but spit blood instead. Marcy took him by the shoulders and heaved, getting him free of the truck. Pete's brains were spattered all over the inside of the cab.

" _Cute_ kid, eh? Cuter than... _me_?"

"Not when I left him."

This time Roscoe did laugh, and spit more blood.

***
**Chapter 26** **:'A Change of Heart  
**

"And they just fucking _left_ you here?" Butch asked Dwayne, who was sitting in the shade smoking and working his way through a bottle of something strong.

"Ya."

"Two women? A mother and her daughter?"

"Ya."

"And _Pops_?"

"N' _fuckin' Pops_. Ya."

"Anything else?" he asked, running his hand through his long hair.

"Ya. They took one o' t'others with 'em."

"From the white Chevy?"

Dwayne nodded and had another swig.

Butch pointed towards Darrel and Dart, both lying unconscious a few feet away. "Pops do that?

"To Darrel, ya. Broke his fuckin' arm. Wrist too! Then cracked 'im longside ta head wi' 'is own fuckin' gun!"

"And just where the fuck were _you_ while all this was happening?" Butch demanded, his tone low and dangerous, but Dwayne seemed oblivious to it all.

"Me? I was sittin' right there in t' fuckin' cab. T' daughter had a shotgun on me n' t' mother a rifle! As for the kid, t' daughter did for 'im earlier, right after t' shootin' started. Liked t' crack 'is skull _wide open_ she hit 'im that hard!"

"Is he dead?"

A sly southern smile slipped through Dwayne's craggy features. "Only 'bout _half_. I drug 'em both inta ta shade. Set Darrel's bones as best I could. I reckon he's still got some miles left in 'im yet. Can't say 'bout t' kid though."

'Christ!" Butch said, reaching for the bottle. "Two women and an old man did _all_ this? Those two won't be worth shit for days, maybe fuckin' weeks!"

"Ya, well, what's yer fuckin' _rush_?" Dwayne asked. "These folks, ranchers n' such, they be _settled_ on t' land. They aint _goin'_ nowheres. Soon as Darrel heals up some he'll be back at 'er! Kid too, probably, but not settin' here in this heat, they won't. Best we get 'em back to where t' women is waitin'."

He took a drag on his home-rolled cigarette and slowly uncoiled himself from the ground. 'By t' looks o' tha leg o' yern, ya snagged a little buckshot yerself. That'd be ta yeller har'd daughter. If'n momma hada nailed ya wi' that big rifle o' hers, you might o' been laid out permanent like!" Arching his back, Dwayne continued in his slow southern drawl: "Hell, I wouldn't be sayin' no to a cold beer n' a soft bed _myself_ anytime soon."

Butch turned to Ace, who'd been listening quietly nearby with Cat Woman. Butch had seen first her, then Ace, head off down the dry riverbed. He'd circled around and followed them, no easy thing with several of Marcy's #2 pellets in his right thigh! Being careful to stay clear of Pops and his big .50, Butch had limped down the riverbed and soon caught up with the other two. From a safe distance away, all three had watched what went on back on the road.

The two women had indeed guarded Dwayne, while Pops dragged Dart back and laid him alongside Darrel. Pops had then carried the wounded driver from the Chevy and laid him like a newborn babe in the pickup's open bed. Then, to add insult to injury, just before they _all rode off into the sunset_ , that no-good, two-timing piece of fucking white-haired shit had scrambled back _up_ on the hummer and _took the .50 and all its ammo!_

'Oh, I'm going to make that sorry old, son-ova-bitch _bleed_ through his fucking _asshole_!" Butch ranted. "Before I'm done with him, good, ol' 'Pops' will curse his mother for ever _shittin'_ him out into the fuckin' _world_!'

"One more thang, Butch," Dwayne said, his southern drawl cutting across Butch's frayed nerves like a rusty saw. "Ya know Pops could o' done us all _real easy_ anytime he took a notion to? Him sittin' up there with that big gun 'n all. Just like shootin' fish in a fuckin' barrel."

Butch looked at the long, lean man standing before him. "Ya? Well I'll tell ya _why_ he didn't! 'Cause deep down, he's a fuckin' _pussy_!"

Dwayne took a last,long, coffin-size drag on his umpteenth home-rolled of the day and looked at Butch through the dirty, yellow smoke. "Wall, that's what ol' Darrel will say for sure. Pops a fuckin pussy, through n' through! He'll hate him now just as much as he hates that cowboy that shot him in the foot. Maybe _more_ so! But all that don't make it _true_."

"Let me get this straight! You _don't_ think Pop is a pussy?" Butch scoffed. "Why the fuck _else_ would he leave us all alive?"

Dwayne answered Butch's question with one of his own. "Dij'you'all know that ol' Pops was once a jar-head? A grunt? You know, a fuckin' United States _Mo-reeen_?!"

Butch shrugged. "I heard him mention Iraq or some _shit like that_ once or twice. I figured maybe army --- or just macho _bullshit!_ "

Dwayne's scarecrow frame became suddenly quite animated. " _Sheee-it!_ T' fuckin' 'army'! Now there's some _real_ fuckin' pussies for ya! One time those limp dicked bastards tried t' close down my daddy's _still_. Fuckin' weekend warriors t' whole goddamned lot o' 'em! Eatin' _pizza n' pullin' their puddin'_ is all they's good fer! Liked t' pissed their pants when daddy n' me started shootin' _back_ at 'em!" Dwayne's cigarette had burnt down to his tobacco stained first and second fingers, but he seemed to taket no visible notice.

"Naw, Pops was a _real jar-head_ all right, just like my Uncle _Silos_. Meanest mother fuckin' _bastard_ that ever came outta Louiseeana! Wouldn't drink, wouldn't smoke, wouldn't even _fuck_ nuthin' less he was _married_ to it! But that bastard was one _tough son-ova-bitch!_ One night at a barn dance I seen him take on _four_ good ol' boys all by his lonesome! _One_ damned fool pulled a knife. Ol' Uncle Sy took it off 'im n' nailed t' fool's hand to t' fuckin' _wall!_ "

"And you're telling me all this hillbilly shit _because_ ...?"

Dwayne stared his psycho boss in the eye. "Pops let me, Darrel, you, _all of us,_ fuckin' _live_ be-cause deep down under all that hair n' fat, he's still a lean-mean, goddamned leather-necked _Mo-reeen_! Those fuckers _live_ to fight! _He don't want it to be over!_ That ol' fucker _want's us_ t' come after him! He's just _dyin'_ t' test his fuckin' hard-assed Mo-reen trainin' against _all_ our asses --- _n'_ he wants to do it _in front o' t' lady with the silver har!"_

"What, the _old_ woman?" Butch scoffed.

Dwayne lit another cigarette and sucked the death deep down to his toes. "She aint _that_ old. I watched her from inside the hummer. She's still a mighty _fine_ lookin' woman! Regal like."

" _Regal_ like?" Butch questioned. "As in, _'like a fucking queen'_?" His right thigh was hurting like a bastard and here he was listening to Forest Gump go on about some aging rodeo 'queen'!

Dwayne ignored him. "She's got _guts_ too! Her n' her daughter _both_! Cool as ya please they took turns pumpin' shells into t' hummer's amour plattin'."

Butch smirked. "Sounds like your in fuckin' _love_ , Gomer!"

Dwayne barked out smoke and a cold, cruel laugh. "Not _fuckin'likely_ , Hoss! Me, I get the chance, I'll fuckin' waist _every last one ov 'em!_ Momma Bear, Poppa Bear n' Baby fuckin' Bear. It don't mean _fuck-all_ to me! But ol' Pops now; _Mr. Tight-Assed United States Mo-reen himself_ , he'll sure as Hell wanna show off for his new lady. N' what's t' best fucking way to do that?"

Butch filled in the rest. "Leave us hurting _but alive_ so we can come for him again. But that's just fuckin' _crazy!_ "

"Wall, they say love can make a man do _strange_ thangs." Dwayne drawled, nudging his brother's still unconscious body with his heavy boot. "We'd best move Darrel whilst he's still out. He can get a might _feisty_ when he's hurtin'."

Butch called Ace and Cat Lady to help and soon the four of them had the younger but far heavier Isley in the back of the hummer. They tossed the kid in with him and Dwayne headed back to Cut Bank with Ace riding shotgun. Cat Lady and Butch led the way with the two remaining bikes.

All the way there Butch kept running over in his mind various ways he would take his revenge. He worked on it the way an old dog will go at a bone; from all sides and angles, gnawing away to get at the marrow. Now and then he'd put it aside, but always with one eye on it; its smell, taste and _feel_ always playing at the back of his mind. Like a sore tooth, the idea was almost too painful to touch but _impossible_ to leave alone.

***

The Horn ranch was almost fifteen miles north-west of where they had left the hummer, while the Circle 'G' was only about five or six to the south-west. Once Prudence heard from Pops that there were a fair number of people at the latter, including at least three women, one being an older lady with long black hair, the Widow Horn made up her mind there and then to go visit.

"That'd be Big Jim Goodnight's spread. Jim passed some years back. His nephew Sam's running the place now. The black haired lady's his housekeeper, Raven, a Blackfoot medicine woman. _Best_ there is! She'll fix roscoe up _just fine_!"

"Well, mam," Pops said through the small sliding window in the back of the pickup's cab. "Like I told you, I was never up to the house myself, just those two brothers we left back there. Darrel the big one's as dumb as a post, but his older brother Dwayne s miss much. Sounds to me like this Sam fella's the one that shot Darrel in the foot."

"Sam never did take any sass." Prudence replied. "Just _one_ of the things that makes him such a damned good ranchboss!"

She glance over at her daughter behind the wheel, "I'd always hoped you and Sam would hit it off like Hoyt n' me did.' She smiled to herself as sweet memories flooded back. _'Lordy, but we had us some knock-down drag-out fights in our time --- but the makin' up was well worth the trouble!'_

"Sam and I are just good friends, Momma," Marcy said quickly. A bit 'too quickly' to her mother's way of thinking. "He's never been interested in anything more." Marcy added quietly, her voice clouded with both anger and regret. Glancing at her mother she noticed the Widow Horn drifting off. "Momma? Are you alright?"

"Just thinking on your father, Honey."

"Daddy's been gone some years now, momma. It's time you start thinking on the _living_." She smiled and her blue eyes twinkled mischievously. Now that she had seen for herself that Roscoe's wounds were only superficial, and that they were taking him to see Raven, her relief and the excitement of the gunfight were making her a bit giddy. She felt bad about what happened to Pete, but he had only been with them for a month or so and she hardly knew him at all.

"Will Penny comes to mind. "Marcy's smile widened. "Then there's this latest admirer ---y _our_ Sergeant Graham?"

Prudence whirled around and swatted her daughter on her arm. "Mercedes Horn! _Mind_ your tongue! And he's not _my_ Sergeant Graham at all!"

"Oh, I wouldn't be too sure of _that_ , Momma. I see the way he _looks_ at you. Like a man dying of thirst and you're the only water for miles. Either that, or he sees you as his _salvation_."

Prudence snapped the back window shut and looked at her daughter. "And just what does _that_ mean, young lady?"

"It means, Momma, that your Sergeant Graham's been in _more_ than just in the Marines. Biker gangs is my guess. _Prison_ too! Did you see those tattoos? And what about his missing fingers? And that _weird_ glass eye? Your Sergeant Graham, Momma, has been _around_!"

Prudence made to speak, but Marcy was far from finished. "And now, after he's somehow _survived_ all that, even the end of the flippin' world, he gets this _one final chance_ to do something _good_ in his life. Something to make up for all the _bad_ he's done. Why else would he go _against_ his own kind and saves us?!" Marcy took a deep breath. "Oh, I'm not sure _why_ he did it, but it's got _something_ to do with the way he looks at you!"

"Well, that's quite an imagination you've got there, daughter --- and you're right about one thing, Sergeant Graham certainly _did_ save us. The least we can do is show him a little western hospitality!"

"Long as that's _all_ you're planning on showing him." Marcy teased.

That little comment earned her a _real_ swat on the arm!

***

"Truck comin', Sam!" Billy Raintree said peering through a set of field glasses from his spot just inside the small woods down by the main gate. "A red one. Only the one dust trail, so nobody's followin' 'em."

Sam and Elfago were thirty feet further in. Elfago was frying some bacon in a blackened, battered pan that looked older than he was. The fire was small and smokeless. Sam was pouring from an equally battered coffee pot. Their three horses were further back, tied to a picket line. Saddled, but not cinched tight.

Sam came up to Billy, a rifle in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. He leaned his riffle against a tree and handed Billy the cup. "I'll take the glasses." What he saw pleased him immensely.

"Why, that's _Marcy Horn_ drivin'! Looks like her _mother's_ with her. They got some big white haired fella in back."

Billy was half way through swallowing when it hit him. "Sam, wasn't there a big white haired fella with those _bikers_?"

"Sure was," Sam replied.

"Well, what'd ya _make_ of it, Sam?"

Sam smiled at the younger man. "Don't know yet --- but I intend to find out."

A few minutes later Billy and Sam were sitting their horses on the small bridge. A fallen tree had been dragged across the road. Elfago was off to the side and back about fifty feet, his rifle held casually in the crook of his arm.

The red pickup came up to the downed tree and stopped. Marcy jumped out smiling. Prudence followed more sedately. Neither women were armed. "Sam Goodnight," Marcy beamed, "I am _mighty_ glad to see your still alive, Sam! _Mighty_ glad!"

Like a number of the local girls, Marcy had had a crush on Sam since she was a kid. Though he was a number of years older than she was only made him all the more _'interesting'_. But then he'd gone off to the army for a spell and she'd gone away to college. They hadn't seen much of each other in the years since, and when they had Sam seemed to keep his distance. Now that the world had turned upside down, Marcy had found some comfort in Roscoe's company. Seeing Sam again however revived old feelings that she thought were --- like the man himself, gone forever. Roscoe was a nice, honourable young man; kind and funny and honest as the day was long --- but he wasn't Sam.

"It's good to see you, Sam," Macy said, reaching out and touching his horse's bridle. "I thought you were gone like everyone else! When I heard that you and Raven might still be alive, me and Momma just had to come see for ourselves!"

Sam rode around the log and looked down at the pretty young woman he had loved from afar for years. "Good to see you too, Marcy," Sam said. "You've grown some since I last saw you."

Marcy's heart skipped a beat at that, then started racing. _'Calm the hell down, girl!'_ she told herself. _'He's just being polite as usual!'_ "I see ya got Billy Raintree with ya, Sam. N' that crazy old Mexican too! Anyone else I might know make it?

Sam shook his head ever so slightly, most of his attention now on the white haired man in the back.

"What about Shorty and that tall fella, Dave something? And George Brass Buttons and the rest of the hands?"

Again the slight shake of Sam's head.

"Damn!" Marcy swore, her mood darkening, anger and nerves making her over talkative. "It was the _same_ over at our spread. Me, momma and a half dozen hands was all that was left. My brother and sister..." She looked up, her blue eyes longing for some of his quiet strength.

Sam nodded a silent understanding. It seemed to help a little.

Marcy sniffed and ran a gloved hand under the bottom of her nose. "Some went crazy. A couple ran off. One _shot_ himself!"

Prudence stepped in then, clearly seeing that her daughter was caught up in a whirlwind of emotions. She knew that Marcy had been in love with Sam for some years now. Since The Cleansing she had sought comfort with the boy Roscoe --- but now that she knew that Sam was alive --- _'Well, Marcy-Girl'_ , Prudence sighed to herself, _'no-one said that life had to be fair. Best grab at happiness when you can!_ ' She looked at the tall, intense young man sitting his horse so confidently, all traces of boyhood burned out of him by the Montana sun and his years in the army. _'Sorry Roscoe,'_ she thought. _'But you don't stand a chance in Hell against this one.'_

"We ran into some trouble on the way into town, Sam." Prudence said out loud "A biker gang with a big army vehicle."

"Probably the same _bastards_ that chased Candice n' me up to your place, Sam!" Billy put in as he rode up behind Sam.

Prudence continued. "We got Roscoe Banks in the back. You remember him, Sam?"

"I do. Good hand with horses as I recall."

"Roscoe's been beat up some by those bikers. Wounded in the ear as well, but he's coming round. A new hand, young fella named Pete Hudson, was shot dead. We heard Raven's still with you. We'd appreciate it if she could have a look at Roscoe."

"Sure thing, Mrs. Horn," Sam said, "but first I'd like to know how you heard about Raven?"

Marcy jumped in again, jerking her thumb back towards the pickup. 'The big white fella in back, Sam. Seems some of his friends were up here the other day. Saw you, Raven and a few others. He also says that you shot one of 'em in the foot."

"Well Marcy," Sam said quietly, "his _friends_ had awful poor manners, but we can discuss that later. Right now I'd like to _meet_ this white haired fella." As he spoke he walked his horse closer to the red pickup. Both women caught the sharp edge in his voice and quickly followed along.

Prudence made the introduction, and there was a sharp edge to her voice as well. "Sam, this here is Marine Sergeant George Graham. About half an hour ago Sergeant Graham _saved both our lives_. He went up against the rough bunch he was riding with _all by himself_. He didn't _have_ to, but he did. I'm not exactly sure _why_ he did it, other than, despite appearances, he seems to be a good man. I'd _appreciate_ it, Sam _,_ if you'd cut him a little slack."

Sam shifted in the saddle and moved his horse forward with his knees. Both his rifle and his shotgun were in their scabbards, but his right hand was about an inch away from his Colt.

Sam eyed the large, white haired man for several heartbeats; noted the glass eye, the tattoos and the missing fingers; noted as well the look of steely determination in the one good eye and the set of the broad shoulders. He caught too the fleeting glimpse of a smile through the bushy white beard, as though the man found life itself some sort of strange joke.

' _After all that's happened lately_ ,' Sam thought, _'he might just be right!'_

Sam then looked over at the man in the back of the red pickup. He was propped up on an old saddle. One eye was purple and swollen shut and a bloody bandage swathed his head. Blood stained his neck and the side of his shirt. A large machine gun, much like the one on Bill's jeep, lay off to one side.

"How ya feelin', Roscoe? You _look_ like shit."  
"I've been better, Mr. Goodnight, sir, but I'll live!"

"Glad to hear it. You hang on a bit n' Raven'll have you up _dancin'_ in no time."

Sam then turned his gaze back to the white haired man. "Sergeant Graham, is it? Didn't know _Marines_ rode with outlaw biker gangs."

Pop's smile burst through his busy beard. Surprisingly white teeth flashed. "It's been quite a few years, son, since I _was_ a marine. Since then I've mostly been a convict. Spent as much time _in_ jail as out."

Sam's next question went directly to the point. "Why'd you go against _your own_ to save those two women?"

Pops sighed and the smile vanished. "I've done a lotta bad things in my life, friend; most of which I don't regret one goddamned bit. I've been a drug dealer, a thief, even a hired killer, but there's some things _I will not do_."

"Ya? N' what might they be?" Sam's voice was flat, untrusting.

The answer came quick and sure. "Sell drugs to kids, kick a dog or hurt a woman. Those boys back there saw things a might differentl, so we sort of had a _parting of the ways_."

Once again Sam held the older man's gaze for several heartbeats, glanced down at the machinegun in the truck-bed and back up at the ex-marine. His next question seemed chipped out of ice. "Why didn't you _kill them all_ when you had the chance?"

Pops stiffened and decided it was time to stand his ground. "Would _you_ have, son? Killed all _six_ of them? One of them a woman? A stone cold killer for sure, but a woman still! _Six people_ you'd rode with, shared food with, _lived with_ through whatever the _fuck_ just happened to the world!" Pops paused, drew a deep breath, then continued. "Also, killing someone's _not as easy_ as some might think. Human beings are _tough_ son-ova-bitches! I'm good, but I'm not _that_ good."

He paused again and looked at Sam sideways through bushy brows. His voice, when it came, was a rough whisper. "Besides, after while, killing can start to _weigh_ on a man." The sergeant leaned a bit closer. "Did you ever serve, Mister Goodnight?"

Sam stiffened ever so slightly. "Three years in the army."

"See any action?"

Sam nodded. "Iraq. Afghanistan."

The ex-marine nodded. "Then you know of what I speak."

Sam held the older man's one-eyed gaze before answering. "Sadly, sergeant, I do".

Graham shrugged and looked around him. Billy had placed himself between the truck and the ladies and Elfago has worked his way in behind the pickup. When he spoke again there was a resigned tone of defiance in his voice. "So Sam, _what'_ s it going to be? You going to have that old Vaquero back there blow my brains out, or is it to be _'exile'_ from the 'Kingdom of Samuel'?

Sam seemed to like that, for a smile spread across his tanned face. "No kingdoms around here, sergeant. No kings neither. Just some good folks tryin' to get by."

The old marine grinned back. "And just where, prey tell, _do I_ fit into the scheme of things?"

Sam settled himself in the saddle and looked up at the vast, cloudless sky. "Well, I don't need any thieves or drug dealers --- but I _could use_ a good marine. At least for a little while. You interested?"

Sam held out his hand.

The sergeant didn't move for several seconds, then reached out and took the younger man's hand. "I am ---for a little while."

***

"So that was _it_?!" Jasper said, his face a study in disbelief. "Sam just shook the bugger's hand n' said, _'Come on back to supper'?!"_

"Somethin' like that," Billy grinned, pleased at seeing his young friend so shocked.

"But he's one o' _them_ , for Christ sake!"

" _Was._ Aint no more. Not since he saved Marcy n' Mrs. 'H'."

"Well I swear!" Jasper said, scratching his head. "First the end of the world, n' now _this!"_

The two young men were sitting out on the front steps. Overhead the first stars were just winking into existence, while off to the west, the dying rays of the sun were fast fading away. Raven called to them from the screen door. "Dinners on the table, boys, but it won't last long!"

Both young men scrambled up the stairs. Inside the rest were just setting down to a hearty meal. Earlier in the day Elfago had taken Del Ross, Jasper and Billy out on a little hunting trip. With a total of twelve mouths now staying at the Circle 'G', fresh venison would be more than welcome at the table. By mid afternoon they were back, Del, a mechanic much more than a hunter or a cowboy, was ecstatic as it had been his shot that brought down the mule deer.

His daughter Jolean, who before had always hated guns and hunting, had suddenly found the sight of the dead deer slung over her father's saddle fascinating.

"Oh, daddy, you just _have_ to let me come along the next time! I so want to see you _shoot something!_ "

It had been a disquieting remark that everyone tried politely to ignore --- but Raven, as ever, believed there was something terribly wrong about Jolean's behavior. _Had been_ ever since The Cleansing. She was usually sullen and withdrawn, except for unexplainable burst of giddy joy. Another thing that bothered Raven was that the young girl often toyed with the small revolver Sam had given her. She wore it in a black leather shoulder holster and seemed to be constantly caressing the handle.

"Another slice of meat, Sergeant Graham?" Candice asked, forking a slice of steaming venison onto his plate without waiting for an answer? "More potatoes to go with it?"

"I'm fine, mam, thanks. I want to save some room for that pie." The sergeant was on his best behavior and making a conscious effort to watch his swearing. He also looked different. Gone were the dirty black leathers and torn T-shirt. The biker vest and the leather skull cap were gone as well. After a hot bath, he had washed and cut his long hair, trimmed his beard way back and put on the fresh clothes that Raven had laid out for him.

"Mister Jim was about your size, sergeant," Raven had said earlier as she had readied his bathwater. She had then fixed the aging biker with her piercing stare. "He has no need of his clothes now but _you_ certainly do! I had the boys _burn_ what you came here in. Too filthy to wash n' frankly, you seem to me like a man about to _make a new start_ in life. New clothes, a different _kind_ of clothes, can help. Anyway, they sure as hell can't hurt!" At the door she stopped and mentioned almost like an afterthought: There's scissors there as well if you feel so inclined --- and I really hope you are. Anyway, sergeant, dinner's in an hour. See that you're not late."

"Yes, _mam_!", he had replied, a broad smile lighting up his face. A strange, almost forgotten feeling had then washed over him, almost like an electrical current. It took a moment or two for him to recognize it for what it was. For the first time in a very long while he was actually _happy_.

Sergeant G. W. Graham then picked up the scissors and went to work with a will.

***
**Chapter 27** **: 'Lord Troy'  
**

_Troy and his Trojans_ were headed west on the old highway #2; that straight, narrow, dusty blacktop that runs over a thousand miles from the modern world of Chicago all the way to the rugged, not so modern world of the Rocky Mountains. Never more than fifty miles from the Canadian border, for the last several generations #2 had served as a sort of _Oregon Trail_ for the modern Lewis & Clark's in their massive, gas-guzzling RV's. A beckoning, seductive _Yellow Brick Road_ for any contemporary Odysseus or American Express Card carrying Dorothy that wished to experience a taste of what the 'Wild West' just _might_ have once been like, while at the same time being able to stop off for a hot meal, a soft bed and either a marathon bout of shopping in the _'quaint little towns'_ or a drink or three with the even _quainter_ locals --- _maybe_ even an inexpensive 'quickie' with the cowboy-booted barmaid!

_Troy and his Trojans_ were no less susceptible to the lure of the open road, especially since whatever the fuck had happened to the world had over night ripped away all forms of civilized restraints.

The rioting, raping and looting in Chicago had been _biblical in proportion_. Roaming, drunken mobs had destroyed everything in their path. The remnants of rival gangs, desperate to protect their 'turf', had killed anyone not wearing their gang colors. Bodies were everywhere. Gunfights erupted when various groups crossed paths. Blacks, Whites Christians, Muslims; all were _equally racists and equally dangerous_. Total and complete chaos reigned in all the major big cities across the land.

And Troy, a _'poor little rich boy'_ who had majored in sex, drugs and sociology, had _loved_ it! He had revelled in the instant breakdown of society, joining in and eventually forming his own 'gang' from the more sadistic and chaos driven survivors of the University of Chicago.

However, after a rival gang had killed several of his people and he himself had been badly beaten, Troy had decided it was high time he folded up his tent and vanished into the night.

His 'tent' however, and those of the hundred or more of his eager, young 'followers', were a combination of four-wheel drive SUV's and huge, state of the art RV's. After stocking up on supplies at the local supper markets, sporting goods stores, various liquor and gun stores, Troy and his Trojans were ready to head west in a quest for 'bigger and better' thrills.

***

Since The Cleansing, very little on old #2 had actually changed at all. The grass still grew and the wind still blew. Herds of wild deer, elk and in a few places, buffalo, still roamed. The sleepy little towns, often tucked away out of sight in their ancient river valleys, were just a little sleepier. Traffic was almost nonexistent, but then it had never been _'heavy'_ to begin with.

During their two weeks on the road, Troy and his followers had come across a survivor or two, usually huddled in a local bar, café or run down gas station. These he had treated according to his mood at the moment, for though Highway #2 had hardly changed at all, Troy Reginald Wentworth III had changed _one Hell of a lot_! Always vain, pampered and self-indulgent, since The Death Clouds had blown civilization away, he had become cruel, sadistic and very unstable.

Changed too were the majority of his followers. With the passing of those poisonous winds, instead of leaving a dry, lifeless bodies, with a surprisingly large number of survivors they left dry, lifeless _souls_ behind. No longer capable of feeling love, pity or remorse, they endlessly sought greater, more perverse stimulation to fill the aching whole in their consciousness. Sadly far too many of these 'soulless-humans' found the greatest stimulation to come from inflicting terror, pain and death.

Like a number of the followers of kings and emperors in ancient times, or Hitler or Stalin's followers in not so ancient times, many joined 'Lord Troy's entourage' and Biker Butch's ever growing 'army' for the sheer thrill of being allowed to kill wantonly.

***

For the two weeks Troy and his band of merry men and women had been on the road, they moved like a sort of motorized version of the ancient hoards that sacked Rome. They burnt, raped and pillaged their way across the northern section of the United States. Bloodlust drove them onward, while cocaine, methane and _Marry Jane_ fuelled their young bodies.

The few _idealistic_ followers that resisted were themselves subjected to either ridicule and banishment or torture and death. Lord Troy, who secretly believe himself to be evolving into _'The Lord of Chaos'_ , wouldn't brook the slightest criticism of any kind. _'After all,'_ he reasoned, _'am I not becoming a god?'_

Right _now_ , however, his name might as well have been _Jack Shit_ , for he was stuck out in the middle of Bum-Fuck Montana with a giant RV that wouldn't start!

"What the _fuck_ is wrong with you people? Don't we have _anyone_ that knows anything about motors?!"

The elite of his entourage shrugged and passed the buck, until one lone voice spoke out from the back. "My brother Brain is pretty good with is hands, sir. Maybe he can take a look?"

Troy turned his princely gaze on the trembling youth. "Your name, friend?"

"Bruce, sir. Ah, Lord Troy, sir"

"Ah, named after the legendary hero of Scotland! Well, Bruce, send you brother Brian forth, and we shall _see what we shall see."_

Ten minutes later Troy's gigantic _'Troymobile'_ and his caravan of other RV's, Fifth Wheels with campers, SUV's and jeeps were once again rolling westward on good old #2. Brian had been raised up to _Master of Mechanics_ and his brother Bruce his apprentice. Lord Troy had his 'Chief Advisor', Gregory, put out the call for five more 'apprentice mechanics' to be found.

"Let it be know, Gregory, that they shall be _amply_ rewarded."

Gregory, a brilliant exchange student from war-torn Somalia, knew exactly how to handle this maniac that was their self-proclaimed _leader_. Gregory, dressed in the flowing robes of his long-lost country, bowed. "It shall be so, Lord."

Troy, pleased with the formality that Gregory always showed, went back to his latest distraction.

The driver of the Troymobile read aloud a sign stating that Cut Bank Montana, home of the famous 'Lewis & Clark Rodeo' was only twenty miles away. Lord Troy however, was too busy to notice, trying his best to keep his hash pipe going while Suzy Rottencrotch rode the Troyanator like the fiercest of contestants in the 'Woman's Bronk-Riding Association of Montana!

***

Four days after Pops' _'defection'_ to the other side, a still bandaged Dart came rushing into the Longbranch. Though he still had terrible headaches, he refused to let it slow him down. He took his duties as 'chief scout' _very_ seriously, and was pleased to report that half a dozen or more large campers and motor homes were headed their way.

"They're comin' from the east, Butch! There's a couple of jeeps out front, probably runnin' point. Ya want us ta _hit_ 'em?"

Butch finished his drink and then stood up. Slowly he surveyed his shrinking, wayward flock. First the Iseley brothers: Dwayne was as taciturn as ever, cautious and sour. Just as deadly as usual, but somehow marching to his own strange drum lately. Darrel, his stupid brother was restless and angry. A malevolent child in a giant's body. Though the wound in his foot and his broken bones still bothered him, Darrel thought of little else other than getting his revenge against the two men that had caused him so much pain.

Next came Ace and Cat Lady. 'The pair that _isn't_ a pair,' Butch thought. It was obvious to everyone _but_ Ace that Cat Lady no more gave a shit about him than she did dim-witted, foul mouthed Darrel. She _used_ Ace when she felt like it and then ignored him --- and he, dumb, horny male that he was, following some twisted need of his own, always came back for more. Butch drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Though he and Butch went back a long way together, ever since the goddamned 'Cleansing', Ace had seemed to have _lost his edge_ \--- and that wasn't good.

What it came right down to was, when the shit hits the fan, Butch didn't feel he could count on his old buddy they way he used to.

That left the kid, Dart. _'DA'_ as he liked to be called. Eager as a puppy and twice as stupid. But at least he _tried_ to follow orders.

With Pop's desertion to the enemy, Butch was under no illusion that his 'fighting force' lacked one hell of a lot of punch. _'Maybe I can find a few 'recruits' from this group the kid spotted?'_ he reasoned.

Then it stuck him like a bolt out of the blue!

'Why not take _the whole fucking lot of them?!_ Kill a _few_ right away, then anyone else that even looks like they're trouble. After that, they'll _all_ fall into line and I'll have myself a fuckin' _army!_ '

His mind made up, he began issuing orders. "Dwayne, you and your brother take the hummer and block the main road. Wait till everything is stopped, then _kill everyone in the two lead jeeps_. I want it to look like Bonnie n' fucking Clyde! Got it!?"

Dwayne's granite face slid into a sly grin. "Shore thang, Boss. Bonnie n' _fuckin_ Clyde it is!"

"Ace, you and Cat Lady take the far side. Ace, you stay up here near the front. Cat, you cover the rear and block any retreat. Dart, you stay on this side with me. Once the Iseley's have taken care of the lead jeeps, I'll step out and demand to see the _asshole_ in charge." He turned and faced the rat-like little man, then Ace. "This part is important, so listen up! If I raise my arm, _shoot_ anyone with a gun in their hand!"

Dart's beady eyes shifted. "But what if they're some chicks with this cocksucker? Ya want us to shoot _them_ too?"

Butch's face twisted into what some people might have mistakenly called a smile. "Just the fat ones, DA. Any skinny ones we'll keep for later."

Dart's ferrite eyes lit up. "Right on, Boss! You lift your arm, Ace n' me kill every fucker with a gun!"

Butch glanced around at his motley crew. Various emotions registered on various faces. He snapped open his sawed-off 12 gage, checked the loads and snapped it shut.

"Ready?" he barked. Everyone knew it wasn't a question. "Fine. Now let's go get ourselves some recruits!"

***

"Holy _shit_ , will ya look at that?!" a pimple faced Geology major fumbled with the AK they had given him as a large, camouflaged truck suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Before The Cleansing Geology-boy had hated guns and all forms of violence, but since waking up in this _'Brave New World'_ many of his former viewpoints had been considerably revised. Every Trojan must attended and pass the firearms training class Troy had set up. Oddly enough Geology-boy was strangely proud of the 'Weapons Proficiency Award' he now carried in his wallet. Troy had even signed it himself! _'Now, is the safety on when the switch is up or down?'_

The three of them, the Geology major, a towering jock with a blond beard and a skinny bitch with a Fine Arts degree, coke bottle glasses and a serious case of the zits, were riding in the lead jeep well out in front of the main caravan. A second 'team' in a Land Rover followed along about a hundred yards behind.

Ever since some crazies had shot at them, Troy had ordered at least two 'point vehicles' out ahead at all times, each member to be armed with a pistol and either a rifle or shotgun.

To make sure everyone at least knew how to fire these various guns, Troy had appointed Blake Hudson, an impressionable young psychopath, as his 'Weapons Master'. Blake, who had spent a year in Iraq killing everything that moved, had been going to Chicago U. on the GI Bill when the world suddenly went into the crapper.

Another young misfit, Bobby Johansson, a shy farm boy from Kansas who had been studying to be a vet and had grown up around guns, was Blake's assistant.

Farm Boy-Bobby had suggested that 'certificates' be given out when a certain proficiency level was reached. By the end of the second week on the road, over half the thirty women had them and three quarters of the seventy some odd men. Lord Troy's Trojans, who numbered over a hundred lost souls, were now well armed and very dangerous --- _especially_ to themselves.

"Holy _shit_ , will ya look at that?" the Geology major yelled.

The Jock had already seen it; he just couldn't believe his eyes. "It's a fucking _hummer_ blocking the road!"

Cathy Coke Bottles leaned forward to get a better look. As the image cleared, her hold on the Defender shotgun became a death grip.

"What'da we do?!" the Jock demanded.

" _Stop!_ " Geology yelled.

" _No!_ Go _around!_ " Coke Bottles screamed.

"Shit!" the Jock swore, hitting the breaks and swerving to the right. The jeep fishtailed, spraying dirt, dust and gravel in its wake and came to rest not twenty feet from the hummer.

The Land Rover following them slid to a dusty stop just behind and to the left of the jeep.

The Isley brothers, both armed with machine pistols, grinned like demented demons. The jeep and the Land Rover were in their direct line of fire. Darrel opened up on the former while Dwayne did the same for the latter. Within fifteen seconds both guns had emptied their sixty round clips and Geology, Coach and Coke Bottles, along with three other former U of C students, ceased to be anything other than riddled pieces of bleeding meat.

Still grinning, the Iseley brothers ejected their spent clips and put in fresh ones. In a mater of seconds they we once again ready and eager to unleash instant death.

Troy's driver skidded to a sudden halt twenty yards behind the shattered, bullet riddled, blood soaked vehicles. His hands, white-knuckled on the large wheel, seemed to be welded in place. "Jesus fucking Christ! _They're all dead!"_

" _Who's_ dead?" Gregory, Troy's 'Chief Advisor' demanded, leaning over the frozen driver and taking in the carnage in front of him. "Oh _shit!_ "

"What the fuck's up?!" Lord Troy demanded, shoving Suzy Rottencrotch to one side and zipping up his once upon a time expensive L.L. Bean's 'cameos'. Apparently he had managed to keep the hash pipe going, despite Suzy's most vigorous efforts, for Troy was in a _'warm, fuzzy place'_ and he really didn't appreciate the interruption.

"Who's that?!" Gregory gasped, seeing a large, shaggy man suddenly step out into the road just in front of them. He was dressed all in dirty black Biker leathers, had bulging, tattooed biceps and an expression that not even a mother could like. Cradled in his massive arms was a short, stubby shotgun. A large handgun was thrust into his belt. For some strange reason, Gregory notice the belt buckle was a large, silver skull.

"I don't know who he is," the driver said, "but he _looks real pissed off!_ "

Butch nodded to Dart and the little man, standing just off to the right, sprayed a burst of automatic fire in the air.

"You in the _fuckmobile_!" Butch yelled. "Shut it down now!"

The driver instantly turned off the engine. The stereo system went off with it, leaving an ear-splitting silence in the large mobile home.

Butch spoke again. "You've got _one minute_ to send out your leaders.

_No less_ than three, _no more_ than five. And if I even _see_ a gun, I'll kill you all!"

Inside the lead RV all was instant bedlam. Everyone was yelling at once. Several of the girls began to cry. Suzy started to swear and reach for the AK-47 she always kept close.

"Shut the fuck up, _everyone!_ " Troy bellowed. His 'mellow yellow' mood had suddenly evaporated. "Suzy, put that thing _away!_ You heard this fucker! _Any_ guns and he'll _kill us all!_ "

Suzy sneered and worked the slide on the infamous Russian weapon. "With _what_ , that fuckin' little shot gun of his?"

"That and the half dozen _machineguns_ he's got pointed at us! Now put it _down!_ "

Reluctantly Suzy lowered her piece.

Butch's voice came again. "Tick - tock, _assholes!_ You got under 30 seconds!"

Troy hit the door lever and pushed Gregory towards the opening. He pointed at the driver. " _You too!_ And _you_ with the _shaved head_ , Doug, Dave, whatever! _Move!_ Suzy, you're coming as well, and _put that fucking thing down!_ All of you, all guns on the floor, now!

Reluctantly, Gregory led the five of them out the door and around into the bright sunlight. Lord Troy was in the middle, trying his best not to shake.

' _He's just a fucking biker!'_ Troy told himself. _'All brawn and no brain! I can outwit him any fucking day of the week! I'll offer him some drugs, maybe a couple of the girls and he'll be gone!'_

There was another part of him that _just knew_ they were all royally fucked!!

***
**Chapter 28** **: 'Negotiations'**

"Well, well, well! What the fuck do we have here?" Butch, clad in a studded black leather jacket, said as he slowly walked around the five people standing before him. "A faggot _costume_ party! A spear chucker in a dress, three skinny white boys playing GI Joe and a slutty looking 'Tomb Raider' with face piercings." With his left hand he suddenly pinched the nipple of Suzy's right breast. Through the thin tank top he could feel the nipple-ring. Giving it a little tug, he smiled and let go. "I _thought_ so. Tell me honey, you got one of those on you _tongue_ as well?"

"What the fuck's it to you, _old man_?" Suzy snarled.

Butch's smile was still there. "Thought maybe we can _give it a try_ a little later?" Before she could respond with an 'In your dreams!' or 'Up yours!' he reached up an yanked the largest of several gold rings from her right ear, then shoved the sawed off in her open mouth. "Here, practice on _this_!"

Suzy Rottencrotch/Creamcheese tried to pull away, but his left hand grabbed the back of her neck and held her immobile. Suddenly he pulled the barrel free, but held his grip on her neck.

"Now, _bitch_ , tell me which one of these _fuck-ups_ calls himself the _leader_?"

There was a short period of silence that seemed to stretch on to eternity. Suzy remained defiantly silent, glaring hatred at Butch as blood flowed over her chin from a split lip and down her neck from her mangled ear.

"I'll give you to the count of three," Butch said softly. "One."

Dave the driver fought back a nervous giggle and the insane impulse to shout out: _'I am Spartacus!'_

"Two."

Then Troy lifted his head and looked Butch squarely in the eye. "That would be me. My name's Troy. And _yours_ is?"

Butch ignored him and pointed at the guy with the shaved head. "And just what's _your_ job in this circus?"

"Me? _Nothin'!_ I mean, I just see that everyone's got plenty of _booze n' drugs_."

"A _noble_ profession,' Butch said, his hard face attempting a smile. " _You_ can live." He turned to Gregory. "You in the dress, what's _your_ claim to fame?"

"I'm one of Troy's, er, _'advisors'_. A 'planner' so to speak. I er, help him..."

The sawed-off was suddenly in Gregory's face. "Shut the fuck up! You're a _'talker'_. I don't much _like_ 'talkers'. But --- for _now_ , you can live."

Butch's gaze swung back to Suzy. His eyes travelled up and down her lush, young body. Blood still flowed from her torn ear and split lip. She smeared some on her finger and licked it. Butch saw she did indeed have a tongue stud. _'This one_ likes _pain,'_ he warned himself. _'Both to give it and to take it. Maybe I should kill her now?'_

Suzy's green eyes flashed and her spiked blond hair bristled. She was positively vibrating! Butch decided to gamble. "No need to ask what _you do_ for him, is there, honey? But hey, being a leader is a _stressful_ job, right Troy? Tension builds. 'A blow job a day keeps the doctor away.' Right?" He winked at Suzy. "So you we will _definitely_ keep --- for now."

He turned to the last one in line. "And you, my man? What do you do for this fancy piece of shit?"

"I...I drive. I'm one of his drivers."

"Ahhh," Butch said, shaking his head. "Ya see, I'll tell ya my problem. I gotta make a fucking _point_ here, and these _other three_ all seem way more important to the Big Kahoona than _you_ are. I mean, the black guy in the dress _'thinks'_ for him, the skinhead feeds him _drugs_ and the bitch _sucks his cock_. All _you do_ is _drive_ his fuckmobile. Any _asshole_ can learn to do _that_. Sorry man, you loose.

The sawed off came up like a striking cobra, paused a split second in front of the driver's face and then BAM!, erased the face.

" _Shit!_ " Skinhead squeaked, Dough-or-Dave's blood, brains and bone fragments covered him from the chest up. " _Shit! Shit!_ Fucking _shit!"_

Butch suddenly pointed the sawed off at Skinhead's face and pulled the second trigger.

"Come to think of it, pushers are _easy_ to come by as well," he said casually, breaking the shotgun open and putting in two new shells. Snapping it shut he looked around at the three awe-struck, gore covered faces. "Anyone _else_? No? Good! _Now_ we can get down to some _real_ negotiations! Say, Troy, got any cold beer in there?"

***

"So let me get this _straight_ ," Troy said, taking a hit from a joint someone had given him and then offering it to Butch. "You want _my group_ to join up with yours and we then go _attack some cowboy that pissed you off_. Is _that_ about it?"

"To begin with."

"Ya? What you got planned for _'after'_?"

This time Butch actually smiled. " _After_ we take the cowboy, we head west to the coast. Then down to California for the winter. With our two groups combined, _nobody or nothing_ can stand in out way. We'll be like fucking _kings_!"

Troy took another hit and squinted at Butch through the smoke. "I _already_ live like a king now. Why do I need _you_?"

Butch snorted and nodded to the bodies lying just outside the picture window. Flies now crawled where the faces had been. Just beyond them were the two bullet ridden point vehicles with their assorted bodies.

"You _got_ fuck all because you can _hold_ fuck all! Look what I just did with _only two guys_ to your so-called 'security system'! But with _me and my crew_ watching your back, _nobody gets near you!"_

Troy, far from being a dummy, held Butch's gaze. "And just how do I know that I won't end up like _those_ out there?"

"Look, college boy, I'm a biker. I don't pussy-foot around or worry about people's 'feelings'. I'm the boss of five fucking killers! And _every one of 'em_ looks after themselves. Everyone's _self sufficient_. No problemo. _You_ however, got what? Around a _hundred fucking pussies_ that can't even feed themselves and have never taken a dump in the woods in their whole, pathetic little lives! So you and your _'team'_ continue take care of the everyday shit --- food, shelter, gas for the vehicles, shit like that and and my crew will teach these college kids how to fight. What do ya say?"

Lord Troy, sporting his clean L.L. Bean fatigues, adjusted his Sam Brown holster with the pearl handled Smith & Wesson revolver, arranged the white sash he now wore over one shoulder to denote his 'rank' and leaned in to Butch.

"Just between you and me, _'partner'_ \--- do I have a _fucking_ choice?"

Butch poured himself another shot of Jack, drank it off and banged the glass down. "Not if you want to go on _living_."

Troy nodded ever so slightly. "Well, in _that_ case, you got yourself an army to train."

"Good. _Boot camp_ starts tomorrow morning. Your people have less than a week to get into shape --- then we take the cowboy."

"My people have already had weapons training." Troy said smugly.

"Your guys showed them how to shoot," Butch grinned " _My guys_ will teach them how _to kill_."

***

On the afternoon of the third day, the two unlikely 'co-commanders' of _the Trojans_ sat on the roof sundeck of Troy's RV. Butch and Troy were sipping their own personal libations while surveying the various _training sessions_ going on all around them.

Despite himself, Lord Troy was _pleased_ with what he saw. Who would have thought this crude, arrogant, psychopathic biker would have a hidden flair for organization? Of course it was organized _violence_ , but it all ran with a certain chaotic efficiency that both Alexander the Great and Napoleon would have appreciated, if not applauded.

The set up was simplicity itself. The one hundred Trojans had been divided into five squads of twenty each. Each squad had been given a number and elected a sergeant and a corporal.

There were five numbered training stations; running & exercise, hand to hand combat & knife fighting and three weapon stations. Each squad started the day at it's assigned number station and were rotated every hour. Forty-five minutes _'on'_ , fifteen _'off'_ , then hump your ass over to the next station. An hour beak at noon when everyone ate under a big tent that had been set up in the town square for the Lewis & Clark Days. The tent had been dubbed _'Chez Charlene'_ , due to the fact that Charlene, Tits and several other women and a few light in the loafers 'men' had opted to _'cook rather than fight'_. That was fine with Butch. Didn't some wise-ass general once say that _'an army moves on its stomach?_ '

Each squad did its five stations each day --- then hit the portable showers set up on the edge of town and the relaxed. Supper at 'Chez Charlene's' at 6 to 7 and then 'party time'. As long as you were at your first station at 9 AM the next morning, everything was cool. _If not, you skipped lunch and ran the two mile course instead._

Except for Dart and his _'Scouts'_. They watched both ends of the town for any 'strangers'. Two men on the east end and three on the west, the side facing the Circle 'G'. Butch did _not_ want to take any chances where _that_ motherfucker was concerned! The watch was rotated every four hours. Extra 'pay'( _pussy, booze and/or drugs_ ) was awarded to those who volunteered to 'Scout Detail'. Dart of course was the Chief Scout.

Lord Troy took the lit joint from his latest 'female assistant' and, after drawing in a lungful of God's herbal handiwork, looked out upon his toiling multitudes.

Directly in front of him was the firing range. Handguns to the left, rifles and shotguns in the middle, automatic and semi-automatic weapons to the right. Suzy Rottencrotch had surprisingly volunteered to 'instruct' trainees on the proper use of the automatic rifles. Especially the AK-47.

It seems that Suzy's dad had been a 'gun nut' and had often taken 'his baby girl' out to an old quarry near there Iowa farm where he would let little Suzy play with daddy's toys to her hearts content.

Another surprising volunteer instructor had been The Cat Lady. Using as few words as possible, she deftly demonstrated various hand to hand combat moves as well as close in knife fighting. Women especially seemed to like her silent way of stalking up behind a man and almost casually slitting his throat. (simulation, of course.)

An elite group of exceptional good shooters were doing _'sniper training'_ up in the hills with the ex-soldier, Blake Hudson. His time in Iraq killing enemy officers (and anyone else that wandered into his scope) at two thousand yards plus was proving _very_ useful. Blake truly _loved_ his work.

Three physical education majors handled the two mile run everyone must do as they worked their way from station to station. Each day another two pounds sandbag was added to their packs. Last one in went _again_.

Lord Troy took another long drag and looked over at his co-commander. As the cannabis danced through his neurons, the ideal name for his new 'partner' literally exploded into being.

"That's it! I've _found_ it!"

"Found what?" Butch asked, downing a shot of Jackie-D and pouring another.

"Your new title. After all, _'Lord Butch'_ somehow just doesn't make it, dos it?"

"What then, 'Sir Butch'?" he scoffed.

"No, but how about --- _'Warlord'_?"

Butch downed the shot and poured another. "Why the fuck not?!"

"So it is, so it _shall_ be!" Troy said royally, quoting from some stuffy tome he had once been forced to read. "Gregory, you heard the Commanders new title?"

Gregory, terrified of Butch and his wild bunch ever since four days earlier they had so casually killed six of Troy's people, somehow managed a grin and a bow at the same time. "I did indeed, My Lord. Commander Butch henceforth shall be known by the title of Warlord. I shall spread the word, Sire."

Smiling inwardly at the way Gregory 'sucked up' to him with all his bowing and other medieval bullshit, Troy waved his hand regally and dismissed his 'Chief Advisor'.

Down below, the third group of the afternoon was being put through its hand gun paces by Chief Gunnery Instructor, Dwayne Clarence Isley.

***

" _Squeeze_ the fuckin' trigger, asshole! Yer not jerking off in t' fuckin' outhouse!" Dwayne yelled at a young trainee as he walked behind the pistol firing line. " _Two_ shots, dickhead! Not one. Not five. _Two!_ " he yelled at a second 'newbie'. "No, not in ta goddamned head!" he told a third shooter. "Ta head's too fuckin' small n' moves around. Always in the chest! Once ta fuckers down, _then_ drill him in ta head!"

To the right, Bobby Johansson, the shy farm boy from Kansas who had grown up around guns, was showing his group how to handle and shoot both rifles and shotguns. Though he enjoyed his work, he inwardly questioned the need for such open hostility. He believed guns were _tools_ that could be used to both _prevent and protect_ people. He was not happy with the thought that he was teaching people how to kill other human beings.

To the right of Bobby 'J' and the rifle ranger was Suzy 'R' and her automatic weapons group. Here Suzy blissfully took her students through the loading, aiming, firing, correcting recoil and overall safety and maintenance of any automatic weapon. Lastly she had them speed-load magazines, then field strip and clean their weapon. The first three finished and reassembled properly got a shot of Scotch.

The first one to _cut their target in half_ got a double. Suzy matched the winners shot for shot. It was one of the most _popular_ courses given.

***

Butch had wanted the 'newbies' to have some sort of 'baptism under fire' --- meaning he wanted them to know what it felt like to be shot at.

For that he had just the man; Darrel Isley.

Butch set Darrel up in a swivel chair on the front porch of the Longbranch. With a variety of weapons laid out before him on a wooden table, along with a bottle of Vodka and a number of cigars, Darrel was to blast away at a row of a half dozen park cars and vans while a newbie ran the gauntlet from one end of the street to the other, some hundred yards in all.

"Now Darrel," Butch had said the first day when _'The Gauntlet'_ had been created. "Remember, you're to shoot the fucking _cars_ , _not_ the runners! Shoot either _ahead or behind them_ , but don't fucking hit them!"

"How many be runnin' at once?" Darrel had asked.

" _One at a time_. There in groups of ten, but only _one_ runner at a time. _You holler out_ when you want him to go. When they've all run down, you load up and have them _all_ run back up to where they started --- _then_ you can have a drink & get ready for the next ten. Got it?"

"What if I _clip_ one or two ov 'em?"

"If it's not _too_ serious, its okay. But if you _kill_ anyone, you're cut _off booze and broads_ till _I_ say different. _Clear?_ "

Darrel thrust out his bull neck. "As fuckin' _mud_! Say, Boss, what's _my pay_ for doin' all this shit?"

"What do you want?"

Darrel's little pig eyes glittered. _"Pussy!"_

Butch barked out a laugh. "All you can eat, Jethrow, but _not if you kill_ anyone!"

Darrel reached over and took a bolt action Remington off the table. After working the action he looked up at Butch. "Ya got t' first lot down there ready t' go?"

"Just say the word and one will start running."

Darrel grinned, thinking of a time long ago when his daddy had taken both him and Dwayne to a turkey shoot way out in the back woods of Louisiana. There wasn't any _live_ turkeys, but you could win a frozen one if you hit the little clay plate enough times that came flying out of a wooden tower.

Every shooter paid his dollar, stepped up to a painted stone on the ground, readied his shotgun and yelled ' _Pull!_ ' Then a little clay plate would come flying out and whoever hit the most of 'em won a frozen turkey.

Darrel remembered that he had hit two and Darrel three. Daddy was so drunk he damned near shot hit foot off! The winner was some old fart who hit _nine_ in a row.

Darrel grinned up at Butch and yelled " _Pull!_ "

Down below a two legged clay pigeon burst out of the building.

Baptism under fire had begun!

Pull!

***
**Chapter 29** **: 'The Best Laid Plans'**

Elfago and his old friend Hector Bluejacket sat their horses on a hill just outside the town of Cut Bank. They were watching the strange goings on in the distance.

"Carumba! Dees gringos are _very serious_ 'bout making war!" Elfago said, squinting through the smoke and strong afternoon sun. "For tree days now dey have been marching n' shooting n' acting like federalies! I fear for Mister Sam n' d'others at da Ranch."

Hector was an aging Blackfoot who had ridden down from the Rez to see who was alive in Cut Bank and the nearby ranches. He brought the good news that there were over a hundred healthy survivors up on the Rez. There had been more, but they were _'not right in the head'_. When Hector asked why Elfago feared for 'Young Sam', Elfago told him about the bikers and their threats. The Blackfoot eyed his old friend and continued to smoke for some time. Finally he spoke, waving his hand at the distant scurryings down below. "And you think all this is to prepare for revenge against Young Sam? Just for shooting a loco biker in the foot?"

Elfago ground out the remains of his smoke on his ancient boot. "I tink shootin' da foot was only part of it. Da big, white haired biker, Sergeant Gra'am, dat saved da Widow Horn n' her daughter, he says dat da biker leader is _moucho_ loco. He hates Mister Sam for making him look weak n' foolish in front of his gang."

"And you and Young Sam trust this white haired biker-sergeant?"

Elfago looked down at the small figures far below. The sound of the distant shooting was carried on the wind. "I tink dat da sergeant is a good man that da world has forced to do bad tings. I tink dat his heart would not let his hand hurt dose two womens. I also tink dat he has da love feelings for da widow."

Hector grunted, a rare smile on his weathered face. "Your sergeant is not the only one that have the love feelings for the Widow Horn! For years now, ever since the death of Mr. Horn, Hunter Penny has looked at the widow as _his_ woman. I have also heard it said that she is not unhappy about that."

Elfago frowned. "Yet dey have not married together?"

Hector shrugged. "Perhaps it is because she is like a mountain, solid, strong and always there and he is like the eagle, fierce, restless and always on the wind."

"Your words make me sad, old friend --- but I tink dey are true."

Hector said that he would bring as many braves as he could to Young Sam's aid. However, it would take him at least three days to return, organize and bring them back down to the Goodnight ranch, --- _and_ he was not sure just how many would actually come.

"But be at peace my old friend," Hector said as he turned his mount to go. "I will bring many Blackfeet warriors to help you and Young Sam. Together we will deal with these pale-skinned warriors. I will also send word to Hunter Penny that the Widow Horn and her daughter are at the Circle 'G'. I'm _sure_ he will come quickly."

Elfago gripped his old friend's forearm in the Blackfoot manner. "Tank you my good friend. I weel tell Mr. Sam of your plan. He will be grateful."

Hector returned the grip. "Big Jim was a good man. He treated the Blackfeet fairly. Honourably. Young Sam is of his blood and his ways. We will come."

***

"And Hector said that he would bring them here in _three days_?"

"Si, Mister Sam. Sooner if he can."

"Fifty armed Blackfeet?"

Elfago shrugged. "Maybe less. Maybe more. But dey _will_ come."

Sam, his thoughts already racing, looked away from the old Mexican who still sat his winded horse in front of the big house. Raven, standing on the wide porch behind Sam, spoke to the old Mexican.

"Elfago, get down and come inside. A bowl of hot stew won't hurt you a bit! Billy, please see to Elfago's horse. It looks like it could use a good rub-down and some oats." Sam turned to Jasper. "I want you to head back to that hill outside of Cut Bank. Take some field glasses with you. Stay out of sight and keep an eye on what's going on there. A rough head count would be helpful. And Jasper, be _back here before dark!_ "

"Yes sir!" Jasper replied, turning towards the barn.

"And Jasper," Raven called after him.

"Yes mam?"

"Stop by the kitchen before you leave. Either Jolean or Candice will have a lunch ready for you to take with you. Can't have you _starving to death_ before supper."

Jasper's smile widened. "Yes _mam!"_

"And Jasper."

"Mam?"

"Come back safe, ya hear?"

"I plan to, mam!"

***

"So you think they'll come soon?" Dell asked. Clearly he was worried, and not just for himself. There was his increasingly strange acting daughter, Jolean, to consider. Besides, it had been one thing to plan against an 'attack' by five or six bikers --- it was quite another thing to be invaded by a bloody _army_!

They were sitting in Big Jim's study/gun-room. Out in the kitchen Raven, Prudence and the three girls were preparing supper. In keeping with the times, it had been decided by the women that they would do the cooking and baking while the men would do the cleaning up and washing of the dishes. Raven enjoyed nothing more than sitting at the kitchen table with a hot cup of tea, usually with some of the other women joining her, while all the men, their shirtsleeves rolled up, washed, scrubbed, rinsed and dried the many dishes needed to feed eight people three times a day \--- not including late night snacks!

With Jasper out on 'guard duty', that left Del, Billy, Elfago, Sam, a battered and bruised but smiling Roscoe Banks and the latest member of the Circle 'G', ex gunnery sergeant George _'Pops'_ Graham, to discuss the problems at hand. Sam now turned to the newest member to join their ranks.

"What do you think, sergeant? You know these people better than we do. How they think. How they act. Will this Butch fella just march his hundred toy soldiers off into the sunset, or will he pay us a _little visit_ first?"

Pops looked at the five men around him. Good, honest men. The kind of men he had once tried to be. They called him by his given name, George, or 'sergeant'. The three younger ones even called him Sergeant Graham or Sir!

Shit! It had been a hell of a long time since _that_ had happened!

Bathed, washed, brushed, with his beard and hair trimmed and all clean clothes, including blue jeans and a grey flannel shirt, he felt almost like a new man. _Almost_.

Then he heard her voice in the other room. A ripple of laughter over something the dark haired woman Raven had said. Her laughter warmed him in a place that had been dark, cold and empty for far too long.

He wouldn't lie to these people. All _that_ was in the past. Here he would make a new start. With these good people. He may die here, but that would be alright too. Better here among good people, close to her, than out there alone with those \--- others.

"He'll come. He _has_ to. If he backs down now he'll loose face, maybe they'd even turn on him. He probably won't come _all at once_ though. He'll _probe_ first, a couple of ten man squads on foot. From a couple of sides at once. Probably just before sun-up one morning soon."

"Jesus!" Del said, looking anxiously around. "It sounds like you've done this kind of thing before!"

"A _long_ time ago, yes."

"But it's like riding a horse, eh hombre? You _never_ forget!" Elfago said, his gold tooth gleaming.

Sergeant Graham looked at each face in the room. "No, you don't."

"How do you think we should we prepare for these 'squads'?" Sam asked. He liked this man. Something about him seemed solid, true. Despite his past, Sam trusted him --- and it showed. The others followed Sam's lead, especially Roscoe, who believed that the big sergeant had saved not only his own life but that of Prudence Horn and the woman he loved, her daughter Marcy.

"Much of it you've done already," Sergeant Graham replied. "Various stations in the main house and outbuildings. Each person assigned to their own spot. Extra weapons and amo in each station. Individual fall back positions arranged, with this house as your last resort."

"But...?" Sam asked.

"But there's still lots you _could_ do."

"You mean there's still lots _'we'_ could do, sergeant," Sam smiled. "You're one of _us_ now. Please continue."

Inwardly beaming, the sergeant began to list the various things they could do to 'hamper the enemy'

"Set up road blocks. Destroy any bridges close by. Scatter Spud-Spikes on the road, that's three nails in a potatoes tossed on the road to blow tires. Various other booby-traps. Covered holes or pits. Better gun placement, especially for the two .50's. --- and Molotov cocktails.'

"You mean a bottle of gas with a rag for a fuse?" Billy asked.

"That's it. Dangerous as hell, but they _really_ do the job!"

"Anything else?" Sam asked.

Sergeant Graham shrugged. "Lots more, but we'd need special shit, er, materials. C-4, Blasting caps, Claymore mines, razor-wire, stuff like that."

"Mister Sam," Elfago put in. "Dere's plenty of barbed wire out in da barn, and I see'd a box marked 'blasting powder' dere as well."

"Big Jim liked to blast his tree stumps instead of digging them out," Sam smiled. "I think he just liked the big 'boom'!"

"Well," the sergeant remarked. "We can sure use the wire. As for the _'boom'_ powder, I'll have to take a look. Explosives were never my thing."

Just then Marcy Horn appeared in the doorway. Her eyes automatically sought out Sam, then flashed quickly over Roscoe. "Dinner's ready, gents! Come n' get it while it's still hot!"

As the men stood and filed out into the kitchen, Del reached out and gently touched Sergeant Graham's arm.

"Er, excuse me, sergeant," Del said quietly. "You said that explosives weren't you 'specialty'. Would you mind telling me just what it was?"

The ex biker/convict/drug-pusher/soldier looked at the forty something year old mechanic/father for several long heartbeats. For so long in fact that Dell thought he wasn't going to reply and started to turn away.

" _Killing_ , Dell. _Killing_ was my specialty. Up close and in your face. With hands, gun or a knife. I'm not _proud_ of it, but I was _damned_ good at it. Sadly, I still am."

Dell held the taller man's gaze, looking directly at the glass eye with the small etched skull. He then held out his hand.

" _Thank_ you, sergeant, for sharing that with me. All I can say is I'm just _damned glad_ you're on our side! Now, how about some dinner?"

***

"George...you don't mind if I call you George, do you sergeant?"

"Ah... no, Sam, I don't. It's just been a long time since _anyone_ has."

The two men were alone, standing out on the porch, taking the evening air after a fine meal. McDuff, the little beagle, lay sleeping on an old rug he had claimed as his own.

"Well, George, during supper I heard you mention to a couple of the young lads that there were still some things we could do to even up the odds. Would you mind telling me what they are?"

Sergeant Graham looked up at the sky. The sun was setting. A riot of colors filled the western horizon, while the dark, brooding mountains lay in stark contrast with the glory just behind them. Much like he felt now.

"Look, Sam, all those things I mentioned earlier are good, solid _defensive_ moves. It will _slow_ them down, even hold them back for awhile --- but it _won't stop them_! When we beat back his first probe, he'll just send in _more men_ the next time. He seems to have found _a hell of a lot of them_ all of a sudden!"

"From what I saw the other day, it looks like some sort of RV convoy of college kids came along and he stopped them. I have _no idea_ how he's getting them to act as his own toy soldiers."

"Probably fear," the sergeant said. "Butch is _very_ good at intimidating people. Those college kids will have a leader. Butch probably got to him, or killed him."

"He's _that_ brutal?"

Sergeant Graham barked out a mirthless laugh. "I saw him shoot a young woman in the head just for disagreeing with him. He'll kill us _all_ if he can, at least the men. The women he'll want alive if possible. He'll especially want to get his hands on you n' me, though for different reasons."

Sam knew exactly what the sergeant meant. The women would be used as slaves and sex objects, while he and the sergeant, men who had openly defied him, would most likely be slowly tortured. "So tell me, George, what would _you do_ in my position?"

"Me? I'm just an old soldier shooting off his mouth. Maybe you shouldn't even _listen_ to me!"

"George, I'm _asking_ for your help here. What would _you_ do in my pace?"

The glass eye fixed on the serious young man, the dying rays of the sun turned the etched skull a fiery red. "Something you _won't_ do."

"No? And _what's_ that?"

The answer came swift and sure. " _Kill them all_."

Sam stood looking into the deepening twilight. All that he loved, the ranch, the herds of horses, the hills leading up to the distant mountains, all were fading into the coming darkness, disappearing before his very eyes.

"Will you _help_ me do it, George? Help me _kill them all_?"

The sergeant pondered his answer, but only for a moment. "Yes Sam, I will."

***

"We're going to _what_?!" a wide-eyed Dell demanded.

"Kill them, Dell. _All_ of them." Sam repeated calmly. "Or at least as _many as we need to_ so they'll leave us alone."

"And just _how_ are we going to do _that_?"

"We start off with the _leaders_. If we eliminate _them_ , the rest will probably scatter."

"And what if they pick _new_ leaders," Dell asked "Or just keep coming no matter _what_ we do?!

Sam sucked in a lungful of cool evening air. "Then we just keep on killing them till we win."

"Christ! That's pretty damned _brutal!"_ Dell said.

"Not as brutal as what they'll do to us if we _don't_ fight!" Sam snapped. "All us men dead, the women taken as play-things! Do you want _that_ for your daughter?!"

" _Of course not!"_ Dell fired back, his eyes flashing.

Sam reached out and touched his friend's shoulder. "Then _help_ me do this."

" _Christ!"_ Dell swore again. "How the _hell_ did all this shit happen? First we live through the fucking _end of the world_ , now we have to _kill_ a bunch of high school psychos _before_ they kill us!"

It was Sergeant Graham who spoke next. "Life's a bitch, Dell, and then you die. My old drill sergeant used to say that to us young grunts _every goddamned morning_. He then told us we should ' _kick_ the bitch in the ass, _live_ for the day and let _tomorrow_ take care of _itself_ '. It took me one a _hell_ of a long time to figure out what he was talking about --- but I think I _finally_ got it. How about _you_?"

"What's that, sergeant? More Marine _hoo-raw bullshit_?" Dell snarled, angry at the situation more than the man.

Sergeant Graham smiled. "Not bullshit, Dell, just the _facts_. A very _nasty_ man wants us all dead. We can't _reason_ with him. We can't _appeal_ to his _softer_ side because he doesn't _have_ one. We _can_ fight him, but _eventually_ we will _loose_. The odds are at least ten to one _against_ us."

Billy Raintree suddenly spoke up. "But Elfago said that Hector was bringing _fifty_ or more Blackfeet to help us!"

Sergeant Graham shrugged. "He also said that it would take him _three days_ , maybe more. He left at what, noon today? Even if he gets the word out tomorrow morning, it will still take two or three days to assemble the men, outfit them and ride back here. _You_ do the math."

"Can't we hold this Butch character off till they get here?" Billy asked.

"We can," Sam said, clearly showing his support for the sergeant's aggressive plan: "but _some_ of us will die trying. Maybe _all_ of us. I'd like to leave _that_ option for the end."

Dell stepped forward. "So sergeant, what do you _want_ the half dozen of us do, _attack_ their main camp?"

The sergeant's smile widened. " _Exactly_ , Dell. Just before dawn _tomorrow_."

" _Shit!"_ Dell gasped. "I was only _kidding!"_

Elfago put his arm around the startled mechanic. "Si Dell, _you_ was kidding, but dis sergeant fellow, he was _not_! He is one _moocho_ loco hombre!" The old bandit's gold tooth flashed. "I _like_ dat!"

***
**Chapter 30** **: 'Of Mice and Men'  
**

"Well, I _don't_ like it!" Dell replied, concern as well as anger in his voice. "It's too damned risky! I think at least the women should stay behind!"

Jolean stood up suddenly and leaned across the table towards her father. Her words came out like spit venom. "What you really mean is, _'daddy'_ , that you don't want your precious _little girl_ to go along! Well, like it or not, I'm going!"

Into the stunned silence, Raven spoke quietly. "Jolean is right, Dell. _All_ the women are going. We can stay _well back_ from the buildings and give you _covering fire_ , especially after you start the fires. We _won't_ be in your way, but we _won't_ be left behind either!"

" _Okay_ , then," Sam beamed, " _that's_ settled. Now, who goes where?"

All eyes turned to Sergeant Graham. On a bed sheet tacked to the kitchen wall, a rough map of the town and the main roads had been sketched. The sergeant used a broom handle as a pointer.

"Seven of us go in _here_ at this point, by the gas station at the edge of town. I'll stay there with a scoped rifle and cover the three teams as they move in and out. Here's the _Longbranch_ where we believe Butch and the others stay. It's built of wood so it should burn quickly. The buildings beside it are also mostly wood." The broom handle moved on the sheet.

" _Two teams_ hit the Longbranch at the _same time_ , front and back. One man lights the cocktail, the other throws it. Each man carries a bottle ready to go. _If_ you can use the second one on another spot, fine. If not, just toss it after the first. _Do not_ keep it on you once the fires start! Four men in, four men out. _Everyone_ falls back to me. _Clear?_ Good."

The broom handle swept upwards to a series of rectangles in a row.

" _The third_ two man team hits the parked RV's. Same deal. Two bottles each; one lights, one throws. Start at the _back_ and move toward the front, then haul your asses back to me at the gas station. Clear?

The pointer swept back to the 'gas station'.

"And remember, _everyone turn on your headlamps!_ I repeat, _headlamps on_. The five women _will see your lights_ and _will not shoot_ at you! Anyone _without a headlamp_ is a _target_ , so don't forget --- _turn the buggers on_ **!** "

He looked at the women around the table. "Once the fires start there will be a lot of _light and noise_. People will be running everywhere, including our three teams coming back towards you. Your job is to _shoot at anything not wearing a head lamp_. It doesn't matter if you _hit_ them or not, just _keep firing_!"

The sergeant put down the broom handle and picked up a rifle. It was a lever action Winchester, short and light.

"Each one of you will have a rifle like this. Shoot them empty and then head back to the vehicles. _Do not_ wait to reload. If a gun _jams_ , _drop it_ and use your pistol. Just _keep up_ the cover fire!"

He put the rifle down and smiled. It was a reassuring one.

"If you see _me heading towards you_ , its _way passed time_ for you to _leave_! Again I repeat, if you see me coming _towards you_ , drop everything and haul your ass _back to the vehicles_. Same _one_ you came in, same _number_ of people on board. If someone _doesn't show up_ , tell either Sam or me and then get the hell _back_ to the ranch. Do _not_ wait around! Clear? Any questions?"

Candice hesitantly raised her hand.

"The pretty teacher-lady with the nice smile," Sergeant Graham teased.

Candice blushed, then asked: "What if someone's _hurt_ and _can't move_."

"That's why you're in _teams_ , Candice. Drop everything and _drag him or her out_. Call for help. Just like in the Marines, _no-one gets left behind!_ "

"You said to _drop_ the guns if they jam and use our pistol" Jasper said hesitantly. "I'm kinda _fond_ of my old Winchester. It was my granddaddy's."

Sam leaned over and touched the shy young man on his arm. "I think the sergeant means we shouldn't stand around trying to reload, but if you _want_ to hang on to your grandaddy's Winchester, you go right ahead."

Jasper beamed, relief clearly showing in his young face. "Thanks Mister Sam, I believe I will!"

"Anything else?" the sergeant asked.

"Yes, George," Prudence Horn said softly. "You haven't told us _who goes where_. Aren't you going to?"

Sergeant Graham drank in the very sight of her. "No, Mrs. Horn, I am not. I'd like everyone in teams of two. Who goes with who you sort out for yourselves. I will suggest however, that the _least nimble lady_ stays back and guards the vehicles. I'd also like that person to try and do a _head count_. It would help us all greatly."

Prudence Horn smiled sweetly at the towering, silver haired man. "Why Sergeant Graham, who would have thought you to be so _diplomatic_? What you _really_ mean is that the _oldest and slowest_ old biddy had best _stay the hell back out of the way_ of the younger ones, _correct_?"

Surprisingly, especially to himself, the sergeant actually blushed! "That's _not_ what I meant at all, mam."

"Sergeant," she said with a twinkle in her eye. "That is _exactly_ what you meant and we _both_ know it. Now, Raven and I will work out which one of us old gals _stays the hell out of the way_. We'll let you know our decision _before_ we leave. Is that alright with you?"

"Perfectly all right, mam. Whatever you say is just fine with me."

***

"According to the Framer's Almanac, dawn is at 5:34 AM." Jasper said, showing those interested his well thumbed version of the old standby.

"Thank you, Jasper," Sam smiled. "The sergeant wants us to begin the attack a half hour _before_ sunsrise. Let's make that 5 o'clock _exactly_. It'll take half an hour to drive to town so that means everybody _in the vehicles_ by _4:15_ AM."

Sam checked his watch. "That's a little over six hours from now. Raven says breakfast, for those who want it, will be at 3:30. She'll wake us all up at 3 o'clock with her dinner bell. Now, once you tell me who is on whose team, I think we all should _try_ and get some rest."

The teams for the men were Jasper and Roscoe to hit the rear of the Longbranch, Billy and Dell the front and Sam and Elfago would fire as many RV's as they could.

That last spot was a tough one that nobody really wanted --- burning college kids in their sleep wouldn't be a memory soon forgotten! Sam, however, kept telling himself that those 'sleeping college kids' were preparing to _attack and kill_ everyone at the ranch. As for Elfago, he just considered them all loco gringos.

For the women the two teams were another no- brainer: Candice and Jolean and Marcy and her mother, Prudence. Raven would be staying back by the vehicles.

"She said her old _hip_ is causing her some trouble," Prudence quipped, "but I think she just wants to let Marcy and me stay together."

"That," Raven replied with a grin," and I want to watch you haul your skinny ass back over a dark, wet field and up a rocky road!"

The two women had laughed and hugged, then gone off to check their weapons. 3:00 AM would come round very soon!

***

The tripwire that Butch had ordered strung across the road a half mile outside of town went off with a clatter of empty chili and beer cans in the little camper being used as a guard house. Dart, asleep on the one cot, was too drunk to hear a bloody thing. Phil however, Dart's partner on guard duty, came awake with his heart pounding and a mouth that tasted like a camel had pissed in it.

"Cheap bloody cigars!" Phil muttered to himself, reaching for the remains of his beer. "Taste like _shit_ after a few drags!" He wasn't overly concerned about the tripwire going off. Deer or coyotes often ran into it. _'Still,_ ' he thought to himself _, 'better have a quick look just to be safe. That fucker they call the 'Warlord' would have my balls if a car or somethin' ever got through!'_

Phil, like most the other former U. of C. students, was terrified of Butch and his psycho gang of killers, though outwardly he and most the others tried to put on a tough, 'macho' front. Phil fumbled in the dark for the latch on the small door. The trailer itself had seen better far days. It was a Mickey Mouse size piece of shit someone had parked off the road in a patch of dogwood.

" _Holy shit_!" Phil gasped as he gazed at the pale ribbon of dusty blacktop. Three ghostly silhouettes floated by him, headed for town. No lights on and traveling fairly slow, the three apparitions hardly made any noise at all in the pail moonlight.

Phil looked at his watch. 4:42 AM. " _Holy shit!_ " he repeated. "Where's that fucking walkie-talkie?! _DA! DA!Wake up_ , man! Wake the fuck _up_! Where's that goddamned walkie-talkie?!"

***

Julie Hodge heard the strange beeping. It cut into the pleasant dream she was having about ice-cream and a hot bath. She woke up on a pull-out bed, half in and half out of a smelly sleeping bag. The beeping was louder and a red light was flashing. Danny or Donny or whatever the fuck his name was remained sprawled over the other half of the bed --- mouth open and snoring. _Mmmmm, how romantic!_

" _Alright_ already! I'm coming!" she said to the beeping-flashing two-way radio Danny-Donny was _supposed_ to be monitoring. Fumbling in the predawn light, she pushed several buttons before she heard: "...three cars or trucks or _something_! Headed for town! _Shit, DA! Wake the fuck up!"_

Not knowing what else to do, Julie grabbed Danny-Donny-Whoever's revolver that had been lying there beside the walkie-talkie, stepped outside the RV in the pre-dawn starlight and fired three shots at the distant, uncaring stars.

***

"What was _that?_ " Jasper demanded.

"Shots! Three of 'em!" Roscoe replied.

"What do we do _now_?"

Roscoe looked at his watch. The pale luminous hands showed 4:59. "Time to get ready. _I light, you throw_. The first one at the _back door_ , the second one on the _roof_ , right?

"Right! _Jesus_ , my hands are sweaty!"

"Wipe 'em on your shirt, boy n' hold out that bloody bottle! Here goes _nothin'!_ "

***

"Gunfire! _Close_ by too!" Dell hissed. " _Light_ the goddamned thing!"

Billy flicked his Bic and the four inches of gas-soaked rag flared up, casting their distorted shadows on to the front of the _Longbranch Bar & Café_.

" _Hey_ , what the fuck you _doing_ there?" a strange voice demanded from behind them. As Dell and Billy turned they say the stranger's chest explode outwards, spraying them both with blood, bone and body parts. This was followed by a distant, deeper 'crack' of Sergeant Graham's high powered rifle.

"Throw the fucking thing!" Dell screamed.

Half blinded by the stranger's body fluids, Billy tossed the flaming bottle towards the front of the Longbranch. It made it halfway there before it exploded. A sheet of fire danced across the street and licked at the wooden steps. Then came an explosion and a blinding flash of light from behind the building. Someone started to scream.

Suddenly the front door to the Longbranch opened and two women ran past them into the night. A man was next through the door. He stood there in his underwear looking bleary eyed down at Dell and Billy. He was holding a shotgun.

" _Shit!_ " the man yelled as realization hit him. The long twin barrels of the shotgun began to swing down.

Billy dropped the second bottle of gas and fumbled for his handgun. Too late --- Dell had already beat him to it! Dell's gun jammed after the third shot or he would have emptied the entire clip into the man.

" _Christ_ , Dell!" Bobby yelled. "Let's get out of here!"

Dell was frantically trying to clear his gun when another man appeared in the doorway. Bobby raised his gun and fired twice. Glass shattered and the man vanished.

"Hey, what's all the shootin'?" Jasper yelled as he ran up beside them. Roscoe was right behind him, gun out and covering their back trail. The whole back half of the Longbranch and part of the roof was now aflame. The front however was only scorched.

"Later!" Bobby replied. "Right now _let's move_! Headlights on n' back to the sergeant!"

***

" _Carumba_ , Mister Sam! Dose boys over dere sure make one _hell_ of a lotta noise!"

Sam held the bottle of gas out for the old Mexican to light. In his other hand he held the .45 Scofield. Finger on the trigger, thumb on the hammer, he was ready to either shoot or throw \--- whatever was needed.

As it turned out it was _both!_

The side door of one of the bigger RV's opened and three people burst forth, two men and a woman, all armed. The first one began firing an automatic weapon into the night. No target, just panic.

The other two looked around. The man moved towards the front of the RV, the woman towards the back --- just as Elfago lit the rag wick.

" _Fuck me!_ " the woman yelled, and started to raise her AK-47.

Sam, cocking the Scofield as he brought it up, shot her point blank in the chest. As she staggered backwards he shot her again, then he swung on the first shooter.

Two more shots from the Scofield. The first man spun around, spraying automatic fire into the night, stitching a diagonal line up the back of the second man who had moved up towards the front of the RV.

Sam stepped up to the first man, placed the Scofield against his head and fired once more, then tossed the Molotov cocktail into the open door.

"Let's go, old man!" he growled as memories he'd hopped long berried flashed before him: A poor, mountainside village in a distant land; more goats than people, more guns that goats. Screams and fire filling the night --- and Death's dark shadow everywhere.

Elfago was already two RV's ahead, trying to light the second bottle.

"My _hand!_ She's shakin' like da leaf!" Elfago complained when Sam reached him. "N' dis damn lighter won't _light!_ "

Just then the large RV behind them exploded with such force that it pushed them sideways. Bits of aluminum and wallboard flew into the air, along with a fireball reminiscent of the first H-Bomb test --- fuelled by the twin propane tanks that had caught fire! Bits of burning _everything_ rained down on the line of parked RV's, starting more fires in all directions.

"Just _throw_ the damn thing and let's go!" Sam yelled into the firestorm. A large twisted piece of what was once a roof slammed down beside them. There were shouts and screams and gunfire everywhere.

"Quick, _turn your head lamp on_. We have to get back to the sergeant at the gas station!"

"With all dis fire," Elfago complained, "a gas station is da _last_ place I wanna go!"

Bent over, they moved through the swirling smoke, both men clutching their handguns. Sam flipped the latch on the Scofield and it dropped open from the middle, ejecting the five spent shells and the one remaining good one into the night. Deftly he took six news ones from the loops in his cartridge belt and filled the chambers Snapping the handgun closed he was ready for whatever came along. The whole process had taken less than ten seconds.

Behind him Elfago fired twice into the night. The heavy Walker Conversion Colt barked out like the hand cannon it was.

"Get him?" Sam grunted, still scanning the swirling darkness ahead.

"I _tink_ so. Maybe not."

A figure suddenly almost ran into them.

"Did you _see_ anyone?" the tall stranger demanded. Then the eyes widened as _reality_ struck home. The gun the man was carrying started to rise, but Sam slammed him hard in the teeth with the Scofield. As the body fell, Elfago bent quickly and with one swift movement practiced hundreds of times on animals, slit the man's throat.

"Why waste de bullets, eh?"

Together they slipped away into the hellish night.

***

" _Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!_ " Dart yelled as Phil drove the old Ford, peddle to the mettle, along the dusty blacktop. Cut Bank was just a quarter mile away in the early morning darkness, but the numerous fires had set the eastern skyline aglow with an eerie predawn light.

" _Faster_ , asshole!" Dart screamed, clutching the stock of the M-16 like a lifeline thrown from a sinking ship. _'Butch is going to have my head on a fucking stick for this!'_ Dart thought, already picturing himself standing slack-jawed and shaking before the furious 'Warlord'!

Then he saw the line of parked vehicles. An old jeep and a couple of rusty pickups, pulled off to the side of the road and left all alone!

Hope springs eternal in the breast of the damned!

Left all alone ---except for one figure standing on the crest of a nearby hill.

" _Hit the fucking breaks!"_ Dart yelled, then felt himself lurch forward into the dashboard as Phil slowed down and looked over for instructions.

Suddenly a bullet delivered from Shorty's old Savage 99 Express came right through the center of the windshield. Phil swerved the truck to the right, entered the ditch, struck a large boulder and bounced back onto the roadway. Phil's teeth struck the steering wheel and the front two broke off. Raven worked the lever action on the Remington and sent another long, brass .303 bullet into the well oiled breach.

Her second shot also pierced the windshield, this time a tad to the left. The .303 copper jacketed round pierced Phil's right shoulder and continued on to punch through the back of the cab and clip the edge of the rusting tailgate.

Raven levered a third round into the breach. Her steel site settled on the front of the truck and she gently squeezed the trigger. "Yes mam!" she said to herself. "Right through the friggin' radiator!" The water pump blew and steam issued forth from the front of the overheating engine. Smiling, she worked the lever again.

Yet _another_ one through the windshield, this one slicing through Dart's left cheek and taking off the bottom lobe of his left ear. Blood flew everywhere.

Raven paused long enough to take four more .303 shells from her coat pocket and slide them into the brass receiver on the side of her late husband's old Savage, then, working the leaver, she sought her next target.

***

The shots and screaming woke Butch and he instinctively reached for his Red Hawk. His hand closed on the familiar rubber molded grips and he brought the heavy revolver around seeking a target.

_Nothing ---_ except for the blinding light, raging flames and gut wrenching explosions! Heavy smoke was everywhere. Butch the 'Warlord' scrambled over the unconscious form of a naked woman, pulled on his pants and boots and made for the bedroom door. His hand touched the doorknob and he pulled back. The bronze knob was _aglow_ with heat. As he watched, paint bubbled and pealed off the door and alongside the wall!

Death waited on the far side of the door. Death by fire and seared lungs.

' _The window!'_ Butch reasoned, forcing his mind to stay calm. _'Panic now and it's game over!'_

The window was the old fashioned wooden casement type. The blistering heat and decades of paint upon paint had stuck everything solid. Seizing a chair, he attacked the window, shattering glass, wood and ancient putty.

A ' _woofing'_ sound came as the stifling hot air in the room was quickly sucked outside by the much colder predawn air. He glanced back, saw tongues of hungry flame licking their way through both the door and the inside wall. His eyes went to the bed and he saw the woman slowly getting up and his stubby sawed-off shotgun on the nightstand. Without thinking, he grabbed the shotgun, ignorned the woman and darted back for the open window.

Behind him the flames had devoured the door and, drawn by the draft created from the now open window, roared into the room. The bed sheets caught fire, as did the woman lying on them. Her once long blonde hair turned her into a living torch, though not _'living'_ for long. Without a backward glance, Butch dove through the fire ringed rectangle.

***

The Longbranch had the typical _western_ long front porch and Butch now found himself on its relatively flat roof. Glancing around, the view looked like a scene from one of those 'B' grade action movies where the handsome, granite-jawed hero gets to shoot dozens of 'bad guys' and save the scantily clothed, well endowed 'damsel in distress'.

Except this was no movie and he sure as hell wasn't a hero!

A gigantic explosion went off just across the road where the line of RV's were parked. One was literally blown to pieces, fire, metal and chunks of RV rained down over the entire area. A burning cinder landed on his tattooed left shoulder and blistered the skin. He beat it off, burning his hand in the process, then looked for a way down off the porch roof.

An SUV was parked at the far end. Butch ran, jumped down on the SUV's roof, caving it in slightly as he bounced off and landed hard on the ground below. Little fires from the exploded RV were causing bigger ones to sprout up everywhere. Several nearby buildings were now ablaze, as were two or three more of the parked RV's.

Another camper exploded, its large double propane tanks rupturing and flipping the huge vehicle up and over on its side. More flames found more fuel to consume. The smoke and heat caused mini tornadoes sucking dust, dirt and more smoke up into the dirty predawn sky. It was as though the Devil himself was snarling down from the black sky --- or was it Mr. Nasty?

" _Butch!_ " a familiar voice called out to him. "Help me get Darrel of'n this _fuckin' ruf_!"

Looking up, he saw Dwayne Iseley peering down at him from the same porch roof he had just jumped down from. Darrel's head and shoulders appeared over the edge. The younger Iseley looked half dead from smoke inhalation. Suddenly he spewed the contents of his stomach into the street below.

"Toss the asshole down on that SUV's roof over there!"

Dwayne nodded and dragged his semi-conscious brother over to the far end of the porch roof.

Yet another RV exploded, sending more burning shit up into the swiftly brightening sky. The sun, oblivious to the tiny drama being played out beneath its life-giving rays, slowly peeked its fiery head over the eastern horizon.

_Flop!_ Darrel landed like the three hundred pound sack of shit that he was.

Butch reached up, grabbed Darrel's bandaged foot that Sam had shot and gave it a yank. The screaming sack of shit fell the rest of the way onto the ground. Dwayne followed, landing lightly, one of his silver plated Glocks in his hand.

"What a fukin' mess! Who do ya think did it? T' fuckin' _cowboy?_ "

" _Who the fuck else?!_ " Butch growled.

A heavy piece of flying RV came in for a crash landing just several feet to their left. Sparks and bits of flaming metal flew about. Behind them the rear part of the Longbranch caved inwards, sending up another whirlwind of sparks and flying embers \--- and eerie laughter on the wind.

At their feet Darrel groaned and managed to sit up. "What ta fuck?" He then puked again.

"We gotta get outa here!" Butch yelled, the roaring and crackling of the flames making it hard to hear.

" _What?_ " Dwayne yelled back, hauling his brother to his unsteady feet.

" _Go!_ " Butch pointing towards 'downtown'

Just then the front RV came to life. Rumbling like a just awakened lion, it lurched awkwardly across the littered road and pulled up alongside the burning Longbranch and the three soot covered men.

There was a hydraulic _hiss_ and the double doors folded open. Butch looked up to see the blue-black skin and too white teeth of Troy's pet spear chucker staring back at him.

"Sir," Gregory beamed, showing even more of those oh so pearly whites. "May I offer you and your entourage a lift?"

"Where the fuck is that asshole Troy?!" Butch demanded.

Gregory, gathering his colourful robe around him, drew himself up and looked Butch squarely in the eye. "I fear 'Lord Troy' is _indisposed_ at the moment."

Both men could clearly hear Troy screaming at some poor unfortunate further back in the gigantic bus.

"However, sir, I myself will _always_ be ready to assist you, _regardless_ of what Lord Troy does, or doesn't do, in these troubled and rapidly _changing_ times." Despite the chaos all around him, Butch caught the _'hidden message'_ in Gregory's little speech and filed it away until later --- if there _was_ a fucking 'later'!

A flaming tire came rolling out of the night and bounced off the opposite side of the RV. "We gotta go, sir!" Harold the driver yelled, his voice well over the 'panic' line..

"That way!" Butch ordered, pointing downtown. It would be a tight squeeze getting passed all the stalled cars, but a hell of a lot better than what was _behind_ them.

The big bus began to move out, crunching its way over the debris like some ancient dinosaur.

"Hey!" Harold yelled excitedly. "A couple of the _other_ RV's are following us! _Christ!_ I see two, three, _maybe four_ of them!"

As Gregory turned to pass on the good news to Troy and the others, Dwayne flopped his semi-conscious brother into an overstuffed leather swivel chair and turned to Butch.

"What 'bout Ace? It aint _rat t'_ leave 'im t' burn."

Butch looked sideways at the elder Iseley. "Gettin' _soft_ in your old age, Dwayne?"

"Sheee-it! Soft my _ass!_ Just that Ace wuz always _square_ wi' Darrel n' me."

"He's got a place further in town," Butch grunted. "Him n' Cat Lady are playing house together. That's _where_ we're going now. That OK by you?" Butch added sarcastically.

Dwayne nodded, then asked his second question. "What 'bout ta bitches, Tits n' Charlene?"

Butch shrugged and sat down in another of the plush leather chairs, suddenly feeling very tired. "Off banging college boys somewhere, I guess. _Fuck_ 'em."

Dwayne's thin face creased into a smile, showing that dental work was not very high on his priority list. "That's 'zactly what I wuz hopin' t' do!"

"Ya? Well, maybe _Cat Lady_ will give you a go?"

Dwayne actually shuddered. "I wouldn't go nowheres _near_ that skinny bitch! She'd cut my dick off, balls n' all, first chance she gets! Darrel's _too_!"

Despite himself, Butch grunted out a laugh. "I think she already _got_ Ace's."

Dwayne showed a few more cavities. "Noticed that right off myself. Poor dumb bastard."

The two men continued to chuckle as the Troymobile drove deeper into beautiful downtown Cut Bank. Behind them in the east the fires rivalled the rising of the sun.

***
**Chapter 31** **: 'Often Go Arye'**

Dart was in a _world_ of pain! The last shot Raven had fired had gone through the already shattered windshield, sliced through Dart's left cheek and took off the bottom lobe of his left ear. Blood had flown everywhere.

Phil the driver was in even worse shape --- he was dead.

Dart, his head swimming, looked around him. The truck was leaning sideways in the ditch, steam hissing from its shot-up radiator. He still clutched his M-16 as though it were the Holy Grail, not as a weapon, but as a child might hold a beloved stuffed animal.

"You, inside the truck, _don't move_!"

Dart twisted around and cocked his bleeding head to one side. _'Did I just hear a woman's voice?!'_

Raven's next shot went through the side door and Dart's right calf. It also blew Phil's foot off --- but being already dead, it didn't bother him too much.

"Jesus-fucking- _Christ!_ " Dart swore as the pain washed over him like a tidal wave.

"I told you _not_ to move, young man!" Raven said sternly "Now, toss that rifle out the window. _Butt_ first!"

The M-16 flopped into the dusty ditch.

"Now your _handgun!_ "

"I aint _got_ one!" Dart lied.

Her next shot went through Dart's open window and on out Phil's. The bullet didn't hit a thing, but the _noise_ made his ears ring.

"I wasn't born yesterday, son!" Raven said calmly. "Now toss out your handgun or the _next_ one's through your head!"

Dart fumbled for the Beretta he kept in a shoulder holster. Glancing down he saw Phil's revolver on the seat between them. Smiling slyly to himself, he pulled out the Beretta with his right hand and picked up Phil's gun by the barrel with his left. Shifting ever so slowly, he raised his left hand, at the same time clicking the safety off of the heavy weapon in his right.

"Here ya go, mam. Just _please_ don't shoot me no more!"

***

Jolean, standing further back than the other three women, heard the shot behind her. Turning, she glanced back towards the three parked vehicles. She could just make them out in the early morning light.

Until then she had been in a kind of daze; a dream world where part of her was in the _'here & now'_ and part of her was _'somewhere else'_. She remembered the darkness, walking down the gentle slope with the other three women, seeing the fires begin in the town, hearing the distant shots and screams. She remembered firing her rifle at the darting shadows. She had liked that part --- liked it _a lot!_.

The explosions however had shocked her with their raw violence, yet at the same time they seemed to have opened a hidden door within her and loud, rhythmic drumming had struck her like a hard slap. There was something frightening familiar about it and her heart began to pound faster.

Who Who Who?---Who Who Who?

The driving, demented bongo beat punched at both her chest and her memory. The door swung wider and --- and _Mister Nasty_ stepped through, his voice and demeanor an unflattering parody of Mick and the lads.

Please allow me to, introduce myself,

I'm a man of, wealth and taste.

I've been around for, many a long year,

Stole many a man's, soul and faith.

I rode a tank! Held a general's rank,

When the Blitzkrieg raged, and the bodies stank!

I shouted out, 'Who let the Death Clouds free?'

When after all, it was, you and me!

Pleased to meet you, Lucy!

Hope you guess my name!

Leave me _alone!_ You crazy fuck! I'm _Jolean_ _,_ not this Lucy bitch!!'

Another shot rang out, clearly from back by the cars. But now Jolean saw _four_ vehicles not three. The one at the back was in the ditch --- and Raven, her dead husband's rife in had, was about to open its door.

' _Tell_ me, damn you! What do you _want_?!' Jolean yelled.

' _We've been through all that before, Lucy. You know what I want -- your soul.'_

### 'Nooooooooooooooooooo!'

Suddenly the high pitched sound of a pistol shot snapped her back from _wherever, whenever,_ and _whoever_ she had been. The bongos, the song, Mister Nasty, all of that had vanished, replaced by the bone chilling, crystal clear knowledge that _Death_ waited for Raven if she opened that truck door! Jolean was as _certain_ of that fact as she was that her mother had once loved her --- and that her father still did.

Suddenly, in her mind's eye _another_ door was closing. Not a car door or a house door, but a living, pulsating door that led to some strange _other world_ \--- a dark world that Jolean now wanted no part of! As this massive portal was closing, all manner of swearing, wailing and gnashing of teeth could be heard on the far side. Then the door that was not a door slammed shut with a silent finality that brought a tear of joy to Jolean's eye and gladdened her sweet, young soul.

Then Death's shadow moved on and she shuddered.

Through closed eyes she saw the malignant stain settle over the fourth and last vehicle , the one nose down in the ditch and 'reeking of evil'. ' _Raven! Don't open the door!'_ she cried inwardly, already running back towards the parked vehicles, back to the one in the ditch, back toward those that loved her and back to the Jolean that she had once been long, long ago, when a tall young man named Sam had come and taught her how to ride.

***

Dart used his left hand to slowly raise Phil's revolver by the barrel. At the same time with his right hand he clicked off the safety on his Beretta.

"Here ya go, mam," he said, tossing Phil's gun out the window. "Just please don't shoot me no more."

"All right son, slowly open the door and step out."

Dart sighed deeply. "I ---I can't move, mam. You'll have to... open it for me. _Please_."

Raven felt alarm bells go off somewhere deep in the back of the older, animalistic part of her brain, but the more modern part felt _compassion_ for the young man's plight. The _'motherly'_ part of her made her want to reach out and comfort. _'After all,'_ she reasoned _. 'He is badly wounded and he is unarmed._

***

Jolean had almost reached the truck in the ditch when she saw Raven cradle her rifle in her left arm and each out her right to open the door handle.

" _Nooooooooo!"_ Jolean screamed, at the same time drawing from its leather shoulder holster the small .22 revolver Sam had given her. She then thrust the older woman aside and brought the small handgun up to point at the grinning form sitting in the passenger seat.

What happened next happened quickly.

Jolean fired three times, hitting Dart squarely in the chest each time. A .22 however is a very small calibre, the bullet being about the same size as a frozen pea. Now Dart's .45 was another story _altogether!_ The one shot he got off punched its way right through Jolean's left breast, cutting a major artery and puncturing one of her lungs. The hollow pointed slug continued on its path like a hot knife going through some very soft butter, leaving an exit wound in the girl's back the size of her fist. It also pushed her backwards several feet and spun her almost completely around. She managed to keep her feet, but it was only a matter of time till she went home to her waiting mother.

Now we come to Dart's dilemma.

He would have fired again if he hadn't already lost so much damned blood. It was just _everywhere!_

He could have fired again, but suddenly he was just too gosh-darn tired! A warm, _fuzzy haze_ had settled over our boy Dart and all he felt like doing was curling up in his blanky and going beddy-bys.

He most certainly _should have_ fired again, because just before he dozed off for his little nappy-poo, he happened to glance up --- and what he saw made his pecker shrivel up to the size of that dead worm floating around in a tequila bottle --- for there, instead of sweet little Jolean's baby-blues, where the stone cold killer eyes of Juicy-Lucy, The Cowgirl Slut of the Wild, Wild West.

Ignoring her fatal wound, she that was _Jolean-Lucy_ stepped calmly forward, placed the small, five shot revolver against Dart's upturned head and fired the remaining two shots into his brain.

A moment later she collapsed. Raven caught her in her arms and slowly lowered them both to the ground. Blood from the girl's spurting wound soaked the two of them, staining the dew covered grass a deep wine-red --- and all the while Raven held Jolean's body tightly, whispering sweet nothings to the daughter that she and Shorty never had, as the life-force that had once been Jolean slowly floated skywards.

***
**Chapter 32** **:'It Aint Over Yet!'**

"Dell, I'm _so_ sorry. We _all_ are."

Prudence had taken the man's hand as he sat slumped on a chair in the kitchen. On a sheet stained red with her blood, his daughter's corpse lay stretched out before him. "Jolean was very brave to do what she did, and you can be very proud of her."

Raven came and stood by the two of them. Gently she reached down and took his other hand. "She saved my life, Dell \---and gave her own in doing so. If there's anything braver than that I aint heard of it! Prue is right, Dell, you can be _very_ proud of her! _All_ of us are!"

And so it went, the women commenting and stroking, the men more subdued and far less vocal. Grunts, nods, handshakes and the odd brief hug drove home the point that all shared in Dell's loss and felt at least some of his pain.

They buried Jolean Jane Ross beneath a shade tree in the Goodnight family cemetery. Her resting place was up on a hill overlooking the ranch. It soothed Dell to think that she was not far away and that he could visit her whenever he wanted. Sam had spoken of the smiling little girl he had first met some years ago and of her love for horses. Wild flowerers were placed around the wooden marker Jasper and Elfago had fashioned, a moment of silent prayer was observed and then the quiet, sombre group walked slowly back to the ranch --- most if not all thinking on the brief but true words Prudence had spoken over the grave.

It always hurts to loose one of our own.

The hurt is tenfold when it's a child.

***

"And I tell _you_ , Ace, this _aint_ over! Not by a fucking _long_ shot! That goddamned cowboy _snuck in here_ and nearly burned us _all_! I want his _head on a fucking plate_ and I want it _soon!"_

Butch was standing behind a large mahogany desk. The desk, and three storied granite building that housed it, were both built well over a century ago by the good citizens of Cut Bank Montana. They wanted a city hall that would stand the ravages of flood, fire and time and they apparently got it.

Butch stomped over to the large, round led-trimmed window behind him and looked down on the Town Square. In the center of the grassy, tree lined park, uncut now since The Cleansing, was a now dry circular fountain that served as the base for a rather imposing statue of Lewis and Clark.

Four RV's and several smaller SUV's were parked all around the statue. Most of the vehicles showed scorch marks and dents from the explosions of two nights ago. Some witty surviving domestic had tied a rope from the front of an RV to the hand of one of histories most famous dynamic duos. Drying clothes, mostly boxer shorts and bikini briefs, now flapped in the wind. Obviously someone down there must have remembered every mother's biggest worry and most fervent prayer:

Clean underwear at all costs!

Butch turned and faced the five people in the room. Dwayne Iseley stood leaning like a nasty scarecrow against the far wall while his troll of a brother Darrel sat massaging his wounded foot through his new size fourteen shit-kicker boots. Ace sat in an overstuffed chair opposite Butch and Cat Lady was curled up on a sofa by a window. Off in the shadows waited the fifth musketeer; Gregory, Lord Troy's _chief advisor_.

"It's been two fucking days since the attack, and just _look_ at us! A bunch of ragged assed fucking Hippies! Peace, love and let's all save the fucking world!" He pointed a finger at Ace. "I want to know how many men we have left that can still fight and I want them ready to go tomorrow morning!" Butch's gaze went from Ace to each of the others in the room.

The silence was so profound it hurt the ears.

"Er, perhaps, sir, I may be of some assistance in that matter?"

Gregory, resplendent in his flowing tangerine shirt-dress thingy, his weird little black skull-cap and the ever present dark sunglasses, glided forward from the back of the room like a colorful serpent through the Garden of Eden. As usual he was carrying a number of papers. "I have the figures you wanted right here, my lord --- if you will but allow me?"

Frowning, Butch slowly returned to his seat and nodded.

Gregory cleared his throat. "Mister Ace and I have been compiling a list of a fair number of things since the attack. Perhaps it would be best if I just read out our findings?"

Butch leaned forward, poured himself a shot of 'Jack' and nodded once again.

"Yes, well then, to begin," Gregory said quickly.

Number of dead or missing, 21

Number of seriously injured or burned, 27, including Lord Troy

Number of slightly wounded but functional, 23

Number unscathed save for minor cuts, bruises or burns, 41

Total number of soldiers able to take the field, 64

"That sixty-four, my lord, does not include you or your own personal staff." Gregory took out a second page. "There's more, sir. Shall I continue?"

Yet another nod from Butch, this time a little more 'regal'.

Number of functioning RV's, 4

Number of SUV's and jeeps, 7

Numerous cars and vans also available from the local area.

The new Town Square Camp now has portable latrines and outdoor showers.

The Cook and his staff are functioning well. Two meals a day are regularly served.

Food supplies are not a problem as the two supermarkets were not burnt.

Hunting parties are regularly bringing in fresh meat.

Body details have buried the dead well outside of town.

A bulldozer was used and quicklime spread to kill any disease.

Gregory paused and looked up. "On a happier note, My Lord, the ' _Tavern on the Green'_ that I suggested to you the other day has been set up in a large tent on the far side of the Square. Free drinks for anyone having one of the _'Good Job'_ passes I mentioned to you earlier. My staff have been handing them out for _any exceptional effort_ they see." Here Gregory almost preened like a peacock. "It _seems_ , My Lord, the passes are a real _moral_ booster and that _most_ of the troops _do their very best_ to win one or more!

Good ol' Gregory was obviously very proud of his 'tavern' and his 'passes' --- and just as obvious too was the fact that he had much _bigger and better plans_ in store for the future. With a visible effort he mentally shifted gears and once again became the efficient little ass-kissing suck-up that he pretended to be. He continued to read form his lengthy list.

A 'field hospital' for the seriously burnt and wounded has been set up in the school gymnasium.

The town's veterinarian has been found and _'recruited'_ for the hospital.

(By the way, He's quite insane but _seems_ to know what he's doing.)

Medical supplies are _very_ limited, Sir, as what was left in the drugstore was burnt down.

Mister Ace has organized a team to go from house to house looking for any medicine, pills, ect that may help the suffering individuals.

Butch's eyebrow rose at this last bit of news and a sardonic smile spread across his face. "How very _'humanitarian'_ of you, _'Mister Ace'_. Who would have guessed that he had such a 'gentile' streak in him?"

"Er, My Lord," Gregory gently put in. "If I may be so bold as to make a _suggestion_ about those poor unfortunates who lie there in agony?"

Butch waved a hand magnanimously. "By all means, Chief Advisor. _'Advise'_ me."

Catching the dangerous tone in Butch's words, Gregory pressed on none-the-less. Taking his tiny reading glasses off and striking a thoughtful pose, he looked like an African ambassador to the United Nations.

"There are twenty-seven men and women seriously injured or burned. They are in _great_ pain and very _little_ can actually be done fore them. Despite the efforts of the insane vet and Mister Ace's _valiant_ attempt to locate more medicine for these poor unfortunates, most, if not all, _will die_ a slow, agonizing death. I put it to you, My Lord, that would it not be more kind, more _humane_ even, _to end their suffering swiftly?_

As Butch leaned forward over the mahogany desk you could have heard a pin drop in the large room. " _Kill_ them, you mean?"

Gregory drew himself up to his most dignified pose. "Yes, sir. Kill them _all_."

More utter and complete silence. Butch kept his eyes on the 'Chief Advisor', at the same time collecting his own thoughts and weighing the pros and cons of Gregory's suggestion. Then it came to him!

"Gregory, isn't _Lord Troy_ one of those, how did you put it? _'Poor unfortunates'_?"

Gregory managed to suppress the smile that threatened to crack his serious demeanour.

" _Yes_ , My Lord, I believe he _is_."

Butch held the black man's gaze, probing for a weakness. Finding none, he finally he sat back, drew a deep breath and allowed a genuine smile to crease his weathered face. "Hmmm. What a pity. See to it _immediately_."

***

Frankie had just used one of the portable toilets located on the far side of the Town Square. That was his third trip in as many hours! They had been brought in by a special truck with a hydraulic hoist. When full they were simply trucked away and dumped someplace and new ones brought in.

Waste Management in the Brave New World!

But Frankie wasn't thinking about Johnny-On-The-Spots or proper use of the environment, though in a twisted sort of way, he was. Running over and over again in his mind was the shocking event that had taken place at the hospital. In fact, it had been playing on his mind so much that he had given himself a full blown case of the shits!

He and a dozen others had been picked by that cold hearted bitch, Cat Lady, to 'volunteer' as an _execution squad_. She had taken them to the school parkinglot outside the make-shift 'hospital' and carefully explained what each of them was to do. As he looked back on it, even her voice had sounded cold and unemotional.

"You will march into the gymnasium and down the long line of cots.

You will draw you sidearm, ready it and wait for my word.

When I give it, you will each shoot two men in the head.

First the even numbered man on your right and then the odd one on your left.

One shot for each target. Then holster your weapon, step back and wait.

I will tell you to march out when I am _satisfied_ that all twenty-six are dead."

Frankie had been third from the front. Just behind him had been a special area partitioned off with curtains. Lord Troy could clearly be heard just on the other side, alternating between swearing, screaming and begging for drugs.

After the deed was done and they were marching out, he saw Cat Lady draw her own weapon and step being the curtain. There was a slight pause and then two distinct shots. Frankie immediately faced front and kept marching. Cat Lady had caught up to them by the time they left the building. At the door one of Gregory's smiling 'assistants' was handing out not one but three 'Good Job' passes to each man.

But Frankie didn't feel like it was a 'good job'. In fact, he thought just the opposite, but he wasn't about to say fuck all. He's seen what happened to anyone he went against orders from above. But he still felt bad --- he'd known a couple of those guys on the cots and one had been a good friend!

Just then his bowels rumbled again and he turned back towards the shitter.

***

The third morning after the raid, Sam took Dell and Sergeant George _'Pops'_ Graham for a little ride. Dell was a mechanic, not a cowboy or a horseman, and though he could ride fairly well, he much preferred transportation with four wheel's rather than four legs. For Sergeant Graham, however, though he had ridden motorcycles all his life, he had never before been on a horse.

"George," Sam called back as the three of them wound their way up into the foothills behind the ranch. "A little advice. Loosen up a bit on the reins. That mare knows what she's doin' even if we don't."

"All I'm doing, Sam is trying not to fall on my ass!"

Twenty minutes later they had reached the grassy plateau that overlooked the valley. The view was breathtaking and even Dell, still deep in his grief over the loss of his daughter, found some solace in such quiet splendour.

After loosening the cinches on the saddles and hobbling the horses so they could graze but not wander off, Sam pulled out a large thermos from his saddlebag, along with three battered tin cups.

"Coffee, gents?"

The two men gratefully took a cup of the steaming brew and settled down on the grass --- all except the sergeant, who preferred to stand.

Eventually Sam asked the question they all knew was coming.

The sergeant nodded and said he expected Butch to try something any day now.

"Will he come at night, like we did, George, or straight at us in the daytime?"

Sergeant Graham shrugged. "It's hard to say, but I think he'll come during the day. He lost a lot of face when we attacked his base like we did. He'll want hit us and hit us hard."

"Will he come in waves or all at once?"

"Again, Sam, I'm guessing, but I think he'll do both. Hit us from two or three sides and just keep coming."

"He must have lost a good number of his troops the other night," Sam said.

"Yes he did, but he'll still outnumber us four or five to one.

Sam attempted a smile. "It used to be ten to one!"

The sergeant smiled back. "Hey, let's throw a party n' celebrate!"

As the two men chuckled at the dark humor, Dell spoke up for the first time.

"Let's stop all this screwin' around here guys, alright? They're _coming_ for us, we all know that! So let's find a way to kill them _first!"_

"We already tried that, Dell," Sam relied gently.

Dell's voice was high and brittle. "Well, let's do it _again!_ Hit them _before_ they get reorganized! They'll never expect _another_ attack! That way we can _kill every last one of the bastards!"_

***

Roscoe smiled that devil-may-care smile of his, the lantern light in the barn showing gleaming white teeth. The bandage he wore under his battered, sweat-stained Stetson and half grown beard gave him a certain 'piratical' look. "What ya so worked up about, Jasper? We're just going for a little ride in the moonlight."

"What am I worked up about?" Jasper asked as he tightened the cinch on his horse and rechecked his gear for the third time. Two Molotov Cocktails were nestled in his saddlebags, carefully wrapped in old towels. "They'll have guards up the _wazoo_ waiting for us is what!"

"That's why we're takin' the horses n' ridin' cross country to get behind 'em, Roscoe calmly replied. "They'll never expect us to hit them two nights in a row and not from the far side of town!"

"Ya, well, Mister Sam knows what he's doin' I guess. It just seems a bit _risky_ to me, them bein' in the Town Square n' all."

Roscoe's smile flashed again. "Like I heard once on an old movie: _'Live fast, die young, leave a good lookin' corpse'!_

Jasper looked at his friend and shook his head. "That's just a crock o' shit! But I'm ready, so let's _go_ if we're goin'!"

Sam, Elfago, Billy and Dell were waiting for them just outside the barn. All were mounted on the best horses the Circle 'G' bred. Like Roscoe, they were eager and raring to go.

"You sure Dell that you don't want to stay back?" Sam asked quietly. "The sergeant and the women could use a hand if those bastards decide to come while we're away."

"The sergeant's got all the firepower he needs to hold them off till we get back," Dell replied, a new edge to his voice. "Besides, I'm finished _'protecting'_ anyone! I tried with my wife n' son n' they're both dead. I tried with my daughter \--- and look how good _that_ turned out! Now I just want to kill the sonovabitches that killed Jolean!"

Everyone either shuffled or snorted or scratched, but no-one had anything to say to counter, add to or refute Dell's rather hard-line comment. Besides, they all agreed with him. _Kill them before they kill you._ It doesn't get any more rock bottom than that. Silently the six men rode out into the night, each deep in their own thoughts, each one determined not to let the others down.

***

They stayed clear of the roads, for they might be watched. Cutting straight across the rolling land, as the crow flies the town was only six or seven miles away.

Elfago, being the most experienced horseman, led them. He and his appaloosa mare picked the smoothest rout through an unsmooth terrain. A little over an hour after they left the Circle 'G', they were resting their mounts on a level rise overlooking the town from the north-east.

"You have a plan, Mister Sam," Elfago asked, "or do we just ride in wid our guns blazin'?!"

"That's about it, El, except that I'd like you, Jasper and Roscoe to stay on the left, while Billy, Dell and I take the right. We know their main camp is in the Town Square. They might have guards out and they might not. If you go down 3rd Street and we go down 1st, we should meet at the Square, toss our cocktails, empty our guns and get the hell out before they know what hit them! We meet back here and then all head for to the ranch."

"Sounds real simple, Mister Sam!" Roscoe grinned. "We'll get 'er done!"

"If anyone is hit, or his horse goes down," Sam told them, "drop everything n' get the man out of there! Like the sergeant said, _no-one gets left behind_."

In another time, or place or group, there would have been a collective _'Hoo Raw!'_ Now there was just a determined nodding of heads and a setting of the jaw.

***

"Not _again!_ " Ace growled, seeing the fire suddenly blossom like a brilliant orchid in the night.

Unable to sleep, Ace had gotten up and brewed himself a cup of coffee. The small kitchen off the main board room of the old City Hall where Butch now held court had been equipped with the latest propane stoves and portable water filters the _High Peaks Unlimited_ hiking store could provide. There was even a propane refrigerator, stocked with bottles of beer and the odd bit of food.

Ace was just sitting down in one of the plush leather chairs, sipping his coffee, nibbling a piece of cheese and anticipating the approaching sunrise through the wide windows when the first distant fire erupted.

"Jesus fucking Christ, they're _back!_ "

More fire orchids bloomed, turning the predawn darkness into a flickering kaleidoscope of flame.

Chaos once again reigned in Cut Bank!

First the light, then the sound hit them. Explosions. Screams. Sporadic firing. More explosions.

Butch emerged from a side room. His long hair dishevelled, his clothing askew. "What the fuck _now?!_ "

Ace almost smiled. "They're back."

Butch's jaw clenched and the vein in his neck pulsed.

If he had been a wolf he would have howled. Instead he gritted his teeth, then yelled: "Get down there _now!_ Take the Iseley's with you. I want that cowboy _dead_ and killing's the _only_ fucking thing those two inbreds are good at!"

Ace nodded and headed for the stairs. Cat Lady, fully dressed and armed, suddenly appeared and followed him. Butch swore loud and long and then went for his boots and weapons; as he did, one searing thought was burning its way into his brain. _'That goddamned Cowboy has fucked us again!'_

***
**Chapter 33** **:'The Calm Before The Storm'**

Marcy saw them first. She was up in the barn's hayloft watching the eastern horizon. The sun had been up now for almost an hour.

"I see them!" she called down, still peering through the binoculars. "Elfago's out front _. 'No-one rides like that old bandit!'_ she thought _. "_ I see some more! Oh Christ, two are riding double! Someone looks hurt!"

There was a long pause, then, almost to herself: "I don't see Sam."

"What's that, child?" Raven called up from the yard below. Candice and Prudence had joined the long haired woman in the yard.

Sergeant Graham watched silently from his 'station' at the round attic window of the main house. Mounted on a makeshift tripod in front of him was one of the fifty calibre machine guns.

" _Sam!_ I don't see _Sam!_ " Marcy yelled back, fear, stress and concern fighting for primary emotion within her. Then she was running for the ladder. Hardly bothering with the rungs, she was down from the hayloft in a moment and up on her already saddled and waiting horse. Digging in her heels, the mount left the barn at a gallop.

As it had for most of the fiery young woman's life, her mother's call of _"Marcy, wait!"_ went unheeded. She tore over the rolling ground and came to a skidding halt beside Elfago.

"Where is he?" she demanded of the old Mexican. Misunderstanding, Elfago thought she was asking about Roscoe, who had had his horse shot out from under him back in Cut Bank and had taken a hard fall on the even harder concrete. Roscoe's left arm now hung useless at his side as he rode double with Jasper on the same tired, lathered horse.

"Oh, he's hokay, miss. Just broke a wing is all. Jasper went back for him. A brave hombre dat boy! Both of dem!"

" _Sam!_ " Marcy half shouted, half hissed, ignoring Jasper and Roscoe that just rode up. "Where the hell's _Sam?!_ "

Elfago's eyes widened, then he flashed his gold tooth at her while hooking his thumb over his shoulder. "Mister Sam is back d'ere a ways, miss. He make _damned sure_ d'ose moucho loco hombres not follow us."

"But he's fine, Elfago? He's _not_ hurt?!"

"Hurt? No, seniorita, Mister Sam no hurt."

Relief flooded through Marcy --- just as a hurtful sadness flooded through Roscoe. He had been about to reach out and take her hand, when he heard the worry in her voice about Sam. As he realized the truth, a wave of anger and bitterness washed over him.

' _I was a good enough 'substitute' when she was alone, frightened and thought her 'real love' was dead!_ ' a seldom heard voice growled in Roscoe's head. _'But now that Sam is back, she doesn't need me at all!'_

Then, as suddenly as it came, the angry 'wave' receded, taking most of the bitterness and pain with it, leaving a sad bitter-sweet honesty in its place.

' _Ah, shit! Maybe I aint the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I damn sure aint the dullest neither!'_ the calmer side of him reasoned. _'I can't rightly blame her none. She_ did _think he was dead --- n' besides, she couldn't do no better than Mister Sam!'_ Admitting that however only deepened his sadness.

Then she was there, sitting her horse right in front of him and gazing at him with tear filled eyes. "You alright?"

"Gotta busted wing, but it'll heal. N' you?"

Her blue eyes stole a quick glance at their backtrail, then came back to him. "Roscoe, there's something I have to --- "

Roscoe raised his good hand to his lips. "Hushhhhh now. There's no need to 'splain nothin' to a good friend --- n' that's what we are, aint we Marcy? _Good friends?_ "

She reached out and touched his hand. "Yes, Roscoe, _very_ good friends. I hope we always will be --- and _thank_ you."

"No need for that neither. I'm just glad that I could help you a little when you needed it --- but now I think its time for us _both_ to move on."

She sat there holding his hand for several more heartbeats. Then, as pretty girls have been doing to poor, love struck fools since the dawn of time, she gave him a quick kiss on his forehead, asked him that inevitable question --- the one that always breaks the guy's heart.

"So we're still _friends_? No matter what?"

Somehow he managed a smile. "No matter what."

With a squeeze of the hand and a dazzling smile, she tore off back the way they had just come --- back to where a lone cowboy protected their backtrail. Roscoe watched her race away from him, know now that she had never really been his to loose.

"What the hell was all _that_ 'bout?" Jasper asked from his place behind Roscoe. He'd been sitting silently on the bony rump of the mare while Roscoe and Miss Marcy spoke kinda funny to each other.

"Nothin' much. Just sayin' goodbye is all." There was a sadness in Roscoe's voice that confused Jasper even more.

"Hell, far as I know, she aint _goin'_ nowheres."

Roscoe turned to his friend. "Jasper, she's already gone."

***

Sam saw her coming through the early morning light and thought, not for the first time, just how beautiful she really was. He'd know her for over half his life, and though he was a number of years older, he couldn't help but notice what a fine looking young woman she had grown into.

He eased his Winchester back into its saddle scabbard and sat watching her ride up. Every movement of the horse was matched by her long, lean body as she and the animal moved as one. Her yellow hair flowing out behind her was turned to gold in the rays of the rising sun. Marcy Horn was truly a wondrous sight to behold, on or off a horse.

Sam touched the brim of his hat as she brought her beast to a sliding halt. "Marcy," he said, nodding slightly.

To his utter surprise she leaned across, grabbed him by both shoulders and, pulling him to her, gave him the longest, strongest, wettest kiss he had ever experienced in his life!

After several life-altering moments, she allowed him to come up for air, though she still held him close.

"Well Marcy, I'm mighty glad to see _you_ too!" he managed to gasp. "Quite the greeting you got there, Miss Horn."

She lifted her chin and fixed him with her sky-blue eyes. "You _liked_ that, did you Sam? There's plenty _more_ where that came from." The blue eyes flashed unspoken messages.

Sam's grin matched her own, his own hand reluctant to let go her arm. "I liked it just fine. As for there being more, I might hold you to that."

"I intend to see that you do!"

Sam's grin widened. "Marcy, I always thought that you were somethin' special. I just didn't know _how_ special until now."

"I've been wanting to be special to you, Sam, for quite some time. When I saw the others riding in and you weren't with them, I just kinda lost my head."

He leaned in and they kissed again. "Well, I'm _sure_ glad you did. I don't think I'd ever of had the nerve myself."

She smiled at him and gathered her reigns. "Oh, sooner or later you would have --- I'd have seen to that."

He reached over and stroked her cheek. "What about you and Roscoe? I've heard that..."

She cut him off with a finger on his lips. "What little there was is over. You were always the one, Sam. Always will be."

He shook his head, unable to believe his luck. "You are _somthin_ ', Marcy. You surely are!"

She leaned over, kissed him quickly again, then whirled her horse around. "Tell me that forty years form now, when we're both old and gray. For now though, I'll race you back to the ranch! Mother and Raven will be worried sick!"

"Not once they see that smile on your face," he teased her.

She laughed and took off ahead of him. Smiling himself, he raced after her.

***

Will Penny arrived later that day. Billy had been showing Candice how to groom and saddle 'her' horse when suddenly the silhouette of a man on a horse filled the doorway. ,the setting sun streaming in behind him. Both Candice and Billy jumped. Candice let out a half-chocked squeak and Billy went for his handgun.

"Whoa there partner! No need for gunplay!" a gruff voice said. The dark form stepped into the sun as it streamed in a large side window. "You Charlie Raintree's boy?"

"Yes, sir, Mister Penny, I surly am!" Billy said, instantly recognizing the Montana legend that was Will Penny. He quickly holstered his gun and held out his hand. "I'm Billy, Charlie's second youngest. We all thought you were dead, sir!"

The tall man smiled and a surprising warmth spread across his weathered face --- what little of it could be seen through the largest mustache Billy had ever seen.

"Not yet, son, though a lot of folks round here are. I talked with John Silverhand up on the Rez. Sorry to hear about your family, Billy. Your paw was a good man. Excellent with horses as I recall." He glanced around the barn, taking in the well cared for animals, the clean stalls and organized gear. "Looks like he taught you well."

"Thank you, sir. That means a lot comin' from you!"

The rugged yet warm smile flashed again. "Call me Will."

Billy nodded. "Yes, sir!"

The smile slipped away as his grey eyes took in Billy's two Colt's and the shotgun leaning up against the stall. "Strange times we live in, Billy."

"You can say _that_ again, Mister Penny!" Billy said excitedly. "Why, there's a bunch of crazy-assed bikers been trying to _kill_ us! Two of 'em rode up here last week, but Sam shot one bugger in the foot n' chased 'em both off."

"The _foot_ you say?" Will asked. "And just what did this scallywag _do_ to deserve such a drastic rebuff?"

Though Billy had been in his fourth year of Forestry and Animal Management at Billings University before The Cleansing occurred, the word _'rebuff'_ hadn't come up in his studies.

Candice jumped in to help her baffled beau.

"One of the bikers, Mister Penny, made some rather _indecent demands_ regarding the ladies on the ranch."

"And Sam shot him in the foot?"

"The left one, yes, Sir."

"Hmmmmmm."

"You _disagree_ with Sam's actions?!" she asked, surprising both Billy and herself with her rather harsh tone.

Will looked startled for a moment. "Not with his _actions_ , mam, just his aim. I would have shot the ruffian a might higher. Where are these desperadoes now?"

Billy was back on track. "They're camped out in the town square in Cut Bank, Mister Penny. We burnt the bastards out _twice_ already, but Sam figures the sonsabitches will be back!"

Will frowned, not doubting Billy's story, just his choice of language.

"I don't much care for cussing, Billy, and I doubt this pretty lady here does either. Aren't you going to introduce us, son?"

Red faced, Billy did his best to make amends, surprising Candice with the amount of details he remembered. "Er, Mister Penny, sir, I'm pleased to present Miss Candice Winifred Brown from Chicago. Candice was working as a High School English teacher in Billings Montana just before the shi --- before the whole world went crazy."

Will tipped his battered Stetson and made a slight bow from the saddle. "How do you do, Miss Brown? I'm William Randolph Penny, but it would please me greatly if you would call me Will."

Candice looked up and blushed, making her fiery red hair and deep green eyes all the more striking. "Why, thank you, Mr. Penny, I mean _'Will'_. You, in turn, sir, must call me Candice."

"I'd be honoured, Candice."

Her blush deepened. "I've heard Billy and Marcy Horn talk of you, Will, but I must admit, you are not exactly what I expected."

The tall man tilted back his head and laughed deeply. "Let me guess. You were 'expecting' either a fancy western dude in a snap button shirt and a rhinestone jacket or a wild eyed 'mountain man' dressed in greasy, deerskins with Indian beeds and scalp-locks blowing in the wind. Correct?"

Candice's blush deepened further. "Something like that, Mister --- I mean, Will."

The lanky older cowboy smiled again. "Well, Candice, I do spend a lot of my time up in the mountains, often guiding rich fools from the city to fish or hunt up in the High n' Lonesome. Come spring however, I usually hire on over at the Horn ranch to help them with their round-up and branding. Speaking of which, how is Prudence Horn and her daughter faring these days? I heard up on the Rez that she and Marcy had moved over here."

"Oh, they're doing just fine, Mister Penny, er, Will," Candice put in. "Marcy and I have become great friends!"

"I can see why," he replied. "Marcy's fiery drive and your calmer, gentler ways complement each other perfectly."

Candice, taken back by Will's flattery, discerning eye and his frank assessment of her own inner qualities, somehow managed a deeper blush than any yet conceived.

Billy, still blissfully baffled by the polite language but well content to bask in the light that was Will Penny and the woman that he loved, grinned from ear to ear like a village half-wit.

Will smiled at the two of them . "Well, it's been a pleasure to meet you both --- especially you, Candice --- but if you don't mind, right now I'd like to pay my respects to the Widow Horn."

***
**Chapter 34** **:'We Who Are About To Die'**

"You're lookin' fine as usual, Prue." Will Penny said from atop a horse that looked almost as played out as he did.

"Can't say the same for you, William," Prudence Horn said, smiling up at the tall, tired looking man as he rode slowly towards her. "You look like you haven't slept in a week or bathed in a month!"

That surprisingly warm smile lit up his rugged, heavily bearded features. "I imagine I am a might ripe," he replied. "Once I woke up and saw what was left of my two clients, I decided to head back down to get some news, but a spring snowstorm held me up for a spell."

"You were high up?" she asked, already knowing the answer but enjoying just hearing his gravelly voice.

"Almost at treeline up on the Wind River Range. Those city boys pay top dollar for rams and mountain steelhead, but you have to go high. I checked out some other spreads on the way back here. Not many people still alive, Prue --- mighty glad you're one of 'em."

Though they obviously cared for each other, with William Randolph Penny there was never any excess of emotions. Such a thing as an exuberant hug or a casual kiss was as far beyond him as the distant stars. The two of them were on the porch just before the evening meal. From inside came the soft, reassuring clatter of dishes, plates and warm conversation. The setting sun was going down in glorious shades and hues behind the brooding mountains.

She reached out tentatively and took his hand. "I'm glad you're still alive, William. I lost my boy and my baby girl." Her voice quavered ever so slightly and tears threatened to fall. She willed them not to. "I was afraid that I'd lost you as well."

In a rare show of emotion he held her awkwardly in his arms. She smelt like a field of wildflowers. "There, there old gal. You know I always turn up in the spring." He gently pulled away from her, though still holding her hands, he repeated the old joke they had shared now for over twelve years.

" Bad pennies _always_ do,' you know that. "

"Yes, yes they do!" she half laughed, half cried.

With a calloused finger he gently whisked away a tear from her cheek. "Better look to yourself, old gal, there's company coming up the road."

By the time the three riders reached the yard, she had herself back under control, though the very nearness of him gave her joy.

"Will Penny!" Sam said, stepping down from his mount even before it had stopped, his hand held out before him. "You _are_ a sight for sore eyes!"

Will came down from the porch and took the younger man's offered hand. "Good to see you too, Sam. Sorry to hear about Shorty."

"We've all lost _far_ too many," Sam replied, glancing over at Prudence and Raven standing on the porch. "Some more than most."

"Hell of a thing, Sam! Hell of a thing!" Will rumbled. "Death clouds. Nuclear war. Over half the population turned to dust. Hell of a thing!"

"More like eighty to ninety percent gone," Marcy said from the doorway. "And about half the ones left are as crazy as rabid dogs!"

"Miss Marcy," Will beamed, "you get prettier every time I see you."

"Will," she replied with a smile, 'you're gone so often I'm surprised you even _remember_ what I look like."

"You look like your mother, darlin', so how could I _ever_ forget you?"

Marcy came down off the porch and hugged him tightly. "We thought you were gone, Will. At least _I_ did. Momma _said_ you be back and I'm damn glad she was right!"

"Will Penny!" Raven said from the top of the porch. "You stop huggin' all these young women n' get up here n' give an old lady a turn!"

After yet another awkward embrace, Will took hold of both Raven's work worn hands. "Shorty was a good man, Raven. None better! As I recall he could work all day n' dance all night."

Raven's eyes lit up as the memories flooded back. "He was a fool for dancin' n' that's a fact! Oh Will, I _miss_ him so!"

"Well, they say 'the better the man the more ya miss 'em' n' both Shorty n' Big Jim will be _sorely_ missed indeed." He looked over at Prudence, aching to hold her, to ease her pain --- yet all he could do was try to be strong --- something he'd been doing all his long, lonely life. "Now," he said, easing the hurt with humour; "are we gunna eat supper, or do I have to catch n' pluck the dang chicken all by himself?"

"Chicken my foot!" Raven exclaimed, once again beaming from ear to ear. "I got a loin of _venison_ young Jasper over there shot just this morning. How does deer streak n' _blueberry cobbler_ sound to ya, cowhand?"

Will took off his battered hat and placed it theatrically over his heart. "Like I've died n' gone to heaven."

Raven's smile suddenly faded. "Well, I'd rather you just wipe your muddy boots off n' come in the house. There's been far too much _dyin'_ goin' on around here lately!"

Will, cursing himself for a thoughtless fool, offered an arm to both Raven and Prudence. The Widow Thorn took it graciously, while Raven just stomped in muttering to herself.

"I didn't mean to upset her, Prue," he whispered as they entered the large kitchen.

She patted his hand. "I know that and so does she. We're all a might touchy is all. Just ask for seconds of _everything_ and she'll be fine."

***

"If Hector Bluejacket said he'd bring some braves down to help Sam, then he'll do it. I've known the man thirty years n' his word's always been good."

"But Mister Penny, sir," Jasper said, pausing just long enough from his third helping of blueberry cobbler to state a salient point that it seemed his elders had missed.

"Please excuse me for buttin' in, but Elfago told us all that this Hector fella said he'd be here in three or four days. Hells-bells, sir, --- pardon my French, --- but its been _five_ already!"

Will's eyes crinkled and he smiled at Jasper. "Maybe, son, he's gathered so many Blackfoot braves that they haven't enough horses for them all."

"And maybe he's _dead or drunk or gone insane_ ," a serious looking Sergeant Graham said from the far side of the table. There was a hard edge to his voice that he'd not used since coming to the ranch. The sergeant had taken an instant dislike to the tall, weathered cowboy the moment he saw Will holding the Widow Horn in his arms.

"The point is," the sergeant continued curtly; "he's not here and neither are these 'braves', but you can be damned sure that _Butch and his college boy soldiers_ are coming!" With that he stood and strode from the room, almost, but not quite slamming the door.

"George," Prudence had called after him, but he was already gone. She looked at the faces around the table, starting and ending with Will. "He's usually not so edgy."

"He's got a lot on his mind,' Dell said quietly. "We've dumped a lot on his shoulders. Besides Sam, he's the only other _'military'_ man we got."

" _Everyone_ pulls their weight here, Dell," Sam put in. "We ask the sergeant for advice, but then we _all_ decide together."

"Oh, I know that, Sam, it's just that George wants so badly to start a new life from the one he's led." Dell looked around the room and saw that most people were agreeing with him, though Will Penny wasn't one of them.

"I also think he's worried that the bridge won't blow," Dell continued. "I was down there today lending him a hand. He's got it rigged with a few pounds of black powder, some wire and a car battery. Damndest thing I ever seen!"

Will was watching Prudence while Dell spoke. Clearly she was disturbed by the sergeant's rather rude behaviour. Before Will had even met the man, both mother and daughter had sung his praises, describing in detail how the one-eyed sergeant had forsaken his biker buddies and, at considerable risk to himself, had saved them both. Obviously the ex-biker had made quite an impression on the two of them. _Just_ as obvious was the fact that Prudence had made an impression on the sergeant. Will had seen the way his eyes followed her all during dinner.

' _Well,_ ' he thought to himself, stepping out on the porch for a smoke, _'there's nothing more natural than two bucks locking horns over a pretty female. And Prudence is_ a fine looking woman. _Also, this sergeant fella saved the two women that I care most about in the world, so I_ owe him big time _for that.'_ Will finished rolling his cigarette and struck a wooden match with his thumbnail. _'Soooo, just as long as Sergeant George Graham doesn't_ overstep himself _, him and me will get along just fine.'_

***

Marcy saw them first.

She was sitting with Candice up in the hayloft of the main barn, sharing 'girl talk' about the men in their lives. Candice had just hesitantly admitted that she _'thought'_ she _'might be'_ in love with Billy, while Marcy had openly declared to the world that Sam was her chosen mate. Another 'hot topic' between the two of them was Marcy's mother's long-term _'relationship'_ with the legendary Will Penny and Prudence's obvious attraction to Sergeant Graham. The two young women were busy chattering away about the many attributes and shortcomings of their chosen swains when Marcy noticed the dust cloud on the horizon.

"They're _here!_ " she said, all the 'girlishness' gone from her voice, replaced by the sound of a grown woman ready to protect her loved ones at all costs.

"Should I go down and tell the others?" Candice asked.

Marcy shook her head. "No need, Candy," she said, shifting over and snuggling the laminated butt of the fifty calibre into her shoulder. "They're about half a mile away. Let's see how this baby _really_ works!"

She flipped up the back site, elevated the heavy weapon a two hundred yard/thirty degree angle and, like a quarterback preparing for the Hail Mary pass, she said a silent prayer and let go three triple bursts.

Nine, 50. calibre, full metal jacketed rounds flew through the early morning air. Three fell short, four overshot, but _two_ hit home with a vengeance! One round slammed into the radiator of the second RV, blowing the water pump and creating a fountain of scalding steam. The second punched trough the tinted windshield of the third RV, passed through the open mouth of the driver and the left ear of a green haired woman sitting directly behind him. The second RV came to a hissing halt while the third careened off the road and into the ditch.

"Well done, Marcy!" Candice beamed, clapping her hands in girlish delight at the havoc her friend had just created.

***

Butch, out front in the lead SUV, (except for the two smaller scout vehicles he had sent on ahead), was unaware of the devastation Marcy's two very lucky shots had created until a screeching voice came over the walkie-talkie.

"Everyone stop, _now!_ " he shouted into the small, black plastic device. "Advance scouts one and two, _keep going!_ Cross that fucking bridge and check the road ahead!"

In his mind he tried to work out what was going to happen next. _'They've got a goddamned sniper out there!'_ His eyes scanned the area, taking in the small corpse of trees about seventy-five yards beyond the bridge. _'He could be there, but then he could be fucking anywhere!'_

He keyed the mike several times. "Ace! Pick up! Ace!"

_Crackle. Squawk._ "Ya Butch?"

"Ace, have Suzy get the heavy gunners to _blast_ those trees on the far side of the bridge!"

_Crackle. Squawk._ "You --- Suzy to--- _Crackle. Squawk_ \--- fuckin' _trees?"_

"Just do it, mutherfucker! _Now!_ "

"Okay," _Crackle. Squawk_. "---- fuckin' boss. I'll --- Suzy" --- _Squawk._

***

Susannah Rotchcroft, the only daughter of the millionaire Chicago industrialist Gustoph Rotchcroft, was far better known, both before and after The Cleansing, as 'Suzy Rottencrotch'.

Before the world had gone into the crapper she had been your typical bored, brilliant, rich-bitch, enrolled in a doctorate program at Chicago University, casually fucking her way through students and staff alike.

After the world disposed of over eighty percent of the two-legged parasites that had been poisoning it for the last thousand years, Suzy had somehow _metamorphosized_ into the weapons expert, personal bodyguard and sometime sperm receptacle for the less than deeply lamented late, but oh so very far from great, Lord Troy.

Suzy was a true 'bitch' in _every_ sense of the word!

Spoilt, pampered and protected since birth, when she hit her teens she took off with contraceptives in one hand and daddy's credit cards in the other. Sex, drugs and rock & roll were only the beginning! Being brilliant didn't really help, for though she learned everything quickly, she got bored even faster.

Men, martial arts, men, guns, more men, more guns, motorcycles, even more men, even more guns, --- _get the picture?_ All of this was mixed in with a very volatile love-hate relationship with Daddy Dearest and every kind of drug known to mankind. Two things and two things only held her brilliant but rather limited attention span: _one_ was reading, studying and later _participating in_ all kinds of bizarre criminal behaviour --- and _the other_ was pulling the trigger on a very powerful firearm.

After Cat Lady had helped the severely burnt Lord Troy to shuffle off his mortal coil, she made Suzy an offer that she couldn't refuse --- well she could have refused, but since Suzy showed no great desire to follow her onetime lover into the 'Great Beyond', Suzy willingly switched sides and joined _'Lord Butch & The Warlords'_ faster than she changed her underwear --- not that she wore any to begin with. The newly crowned Lord Butch gave her the same position she held under Lord Troy; bodyguard, jizum jar --- and something brand new --- control of _two_ of his three heavy machineguns.

So now Suzy rode out in front with _'her guns'_ in two open jeeps, each one with a driver, a radio man and a _'tail gunner'_. She sat up front in the lead jeep with her beloved AK-47 by her side and another at her feet. The third machinegun was mounted in the back of the Iseley's humongous Ford 250 4 by 4.

Minutes after Butch called for them, Suzy had her two heavy guns open fire on the small woods just over the bridge. The air was filled with the heavy pulsing of the automatic weapons as the bullets sought out their target. With every fifth one being a tracer round, it looked like something out of Star Wars. The little woods absorbed the strafing as bullets slammed into trees and dirt, tore off bark and branches and ricocheted off boulders.

It was behind a large collection of these same trees and boulders in that Sergeant Graham and a very nervous Dell Ross now knelt. Once Marcy had 'sounded the alarm' by cutting loose with the .50, everyone had put _'Plan A'_ into action. For Dell and Sergeant Graham that meant grabbing their rifles and riding the ranch's ancient four wheel straight down to this little clump of woods just up from the bridge. The four wheeler was now parked on the back side, ready to 'whisk our boys to safety' right after they had blown the bridge as the troops were crossing.

The fickle finger of Fate however, had decreed otherwise.

One tracer round imbedded itself in a tall pine twenty feet above Dell's head. The phosphorus shell continued to burn into the tree trunk, making _snap, crackle and popping_ sounds as it melted the tree's 'life blood' and dropped flaming stars of hot resin all about them. Similar fires were slowly taking hold all around the two crouching men.

"Jesus Christ!" Dell hissed at the sergeant, at the same time beating out one of the pine's burning teardrops. "If we're not shot to death, we'll be _burnt alive!_ "

"Stay down n' shut the fuck up!" the sergeant replied, sounding a whole lot more like _Pops the ex Renegade Biker_ than George Graham the ex Marine. "You wanted to _kill_ those bastards, Dell? You want those fuckers _dead_? Well, this is how you do it, man! Up close and very fucking _personal!_ "

Dell was surprised to see that the big silver haired man with the glass eye and missing fingers was actually grinning at him. Dell was even _more_ surprised when he found himself grinning back!

***

On the far side of the bridge Butch was still mulling things over in his head. _'Pops could have the fucking bridge rigged! Maybe a trip-wire, maybe the fucker is out there watching! If he does, he'll blow the bastard when the biggest RV tries to cross!'_

He keyed the handset again. " _Lead scout_ , come in! _Lenny,_ you there?"

_Crackle. Squawk_. "Ya Boss?"

"Cross the bridge and check out that little woods!"

_Crackle. Squawk_. "Got ya Boss! _Squawk_ \--- do!"

' _This way'_ Butch reasoned, _'if the bridge_ is set to blow _, I only loose a_ couple _of men. It's a good thing the Iseley boys are ready with their fucking_ hill-billy bridge! _We might just need it!'_

That led to where the idea for the 'portable bridge' came from in the first place --- the late Lord Troy's 'advisor', Gregory!

' _That sonovabitch may walk, talk and act like a faggot, but he does come up with some kick-ass ideas!'_ Butch reminded himself for not the first time. _'But I still need to keep my eye on that ass-kissing black bastard! Him and that blue-eyed psycho, Corporal Blake Hudson!'_

The morning after the attack on the Town Square, the 'ass-kissing black bastard' in question, had come to his new boss, 'Lord Butch', with a detailed map of the local area and a very cunning plan.

"I've marked off all the local bridges and the roads up to the Goodnight ranch, My Lord. As you well know, I'm certainly _not_ a fighter, but I _have studied history_. Taking out bridges has always been a very effective way of immobilizing ones enemy."

Butch had frowned and Gregory had rushed on, pointing a long, delicate finger at a spot on the map circled in red. "Perhaps, My Lord, if your enemy somehow destroys this small bridge leading up to their ranch, or any other ones for that matter, is there not some other way to get across these fairly shallow streams? I'm not very good with the 'physical' side of things, sir, but perhaps some of your men might have an idea or two?"

' _All my 'men' put together don't have_ half the smarts _you do, you chocolate coloured smiling puke! You'd sell me out just like you did that poor-liitle-rich-boy! The only difference being_ I'd _cut your balls off and feed them to you if you ever tried!'_

Butch obviously didn't like or trust Gregory, but he was smart enough to know that he needed him --- at least for now.

' _Then there was that other idea of Gregory's --- when he brought that_ Captain America _psycho to me!'_ Butch recalled. _'Now there's a nut-case that makes even the Iseley brothers look like choir boys!'_

Blake Hudson had been one of Lord Troy's 'Weapon Specialists', along with the quiet farmboy, Bobby Johansson. Bobby had been somewhat reluctant to take the new position, but blue-eyed Blake had been more than eager when offered the job.

Gregory had explained that 'Corporal' Hudson had been in a special 'Ranger Sniper Squad' that he had seen action in several of those 'Middle Eastern' countries. Hudson himself had gone on to explain that he had already been training a 'squad of eager young shooters' and that they'd all be _'proud as punch'_ to join Butch's 'elite team'.

'My boys will get the job done, Boss!', Corporal Hudson had said. 'Just give us a chance and we'll kill this mutherfuckin' cowboy for you and his whole goddamned _family!_ ' Blake had then smiled and continued. 'Just like we used to do with the fuckin' towel heads over in _'The Rak'!_ Make 'em watch while we killed their animals, fucked their women, n' shot their children!'

Butch didn't like the twitchy little bastard, but with Pop's desertion and that little shit Dart getting himself blown away by a teenage girl, Butch's _'elite team'_ was shrinking fast! The Iseley brothers were both fucking loose cannons, Ace seemed to be turning into a pussy and Butch never had trusted Cat Lady. The _new_ bitch, Suzy Rottencrotch was working out just fine, but this cowboy fucker was proving to be a tougher nut to crack than he had first thought! At this point Butch could use all the help he could get!

So Gregory's ideas of a _portable bridge_ and a special _sniper team_ led by the newly promoted _'Captain' Blake Hudson_ had been accepted.

After Gregory's idea of having some kind of 'portable bridge' made, Butch had called an immediate 'war conference' to get some ideas. Surprisingly it had been Dwayne Iseley that had come up with the best solution.

"Back home we'd get six or eight real thick planks from ta local mill, drill a hole in each end n' tie 'em together. Load 'em in the pick-up n' yer good ta go! Dump those suckers in ta crick, make two tracks across it n' that's all she wrote! Fastest, easiest portable bridge thar is!"

"And that shit really works?" Ace had queried.

Dwayne had shown his nearly toothless grin. "If'n ta water aint too deep, n' ya get 'er anchored good at each end, it's guaran-fuckin-teed! Our daddy n' his daddy afore 'im used a _'board bridge'_ many a time when they was runnin' moonshine!" He had reached over and punched his brother on the shoulder. "Me n' Darrel have used 'er a time or two ourselves, aint we Darrel?"

Butch had cut short the 'good-times walk down Iseley Lane', but had told the 'Brother's Grimm' to get their 'board bridge' ready --- just in case.

Now he was fucking glad he had because of course good ol' Sergeant Graham had worked out a way to blow the one leading up to the ranch. Using the limited amount of old dynamite Big Jim had stored away, the sergeant had rigged the bridge to blow in the center. Nothing fancy, mind you! Not like the shit he'd done in Iraq! This was all done with a half dead car battery, a roll of wire, duct tape and a prayer!

But it worked!

The lead jeep was almost across and the one following was near the middle when the sergeant pressed the two wires together. He was sitting with a still grinning Dell Ross behind some chipped and scorched boulders in the remains of a half burnt clump of pines some seventy-five yards away. The two men both saw and heard the small bridge blossom upwards in the middle and fall downwards at both ends --- taking the two scout jeeps with it.

Butch, watching the bridge collapse from his vehicle some hundred yards back, bared his teeth. _'That silver haired old bastard actually did it!'_ he said inwardly, promising himself again to have Pop's head on a pole.

"Ace!" Butch yelled into the walkie-talkie. "Ace! Pick up for Christ sake!"

_Crackle. Squawk_. "Ya Butch?"

"Ace! Get everyone outside now! Full battle gear!"

"What? Can't --- _crackle/squawk_ " --- you!"

"Get them out _now!_ Full kit and _ready!"_

_Crackle/squawk_ " --- out now!"

"And tell Dwayne to move his ass! We need that fucking _bridge!_ "

_Crackle. Squawk._ "Okay Butch --- _on_ it!"

Butch tossed the mike aside, grabbed his AK-47 and stepped out onto the battlefield.

***

Sergeant Graham, once he saw the bridge blow, didn't wait around for details. Instead, he and Dell hauled their asses out the far side of the little woods where they had parked the small four wheeler. What was left of it however was a smoking ruin riddled with bullets. A tracer round must have hit the gas tank.

"Shit!" Dell swore. " _Now_ what?"

The sergeant looked at him, that devilish grin still on his lined face. "Now we work off breakfast. Start joggin' brother!"

"Shit!" Dell swore again, and started up the hill towards the ranch.

The sergeant followed along behind, his M-16 set for triple bursts, his one good eye watching the group across the river. Suddenly he saw a big Ram pick-up break free of the dirt road and head for the shallow creek. It bounced down the Daisy strewn bank, over a couple of water rounded boulders and, amidst splash and spray, forged its way into the middle of the watery road.

"Hold up, Dell!" the sergeant yelled.

Dell, already breathing hard, turned and thankfully sat in the dappled shade of a small hawthorn tree. Beside him, the sergeant looked through the scope of his modified M-16.

(Not for the first time did he mentally thank young Billy for loading up on all the _hardware_ _& ammo_ he could when he 'borrowed' that abandoned Army hummer!)

Sergeant Graham aimed his weapon at the Dodge Ram and fiddled with the adjustments of the scope. Suddenly a very clear image of Darrel Iseley behind the wheel swam into view. A slight shift to the right brought Brother Dwayne into the picture, heaving what looked like long wooden planks out of the rear of the pick-up. Looking closer he saw that Dwayne, now standing ankle deep in the water, was laying down a double row of the heavy planks in the shallow stream and tying them off at each end. Here and there he would add a flat stone to keep the current from washing the planks away!

"Well I'll be a son of a bitch!" the sergeant breathed. "The inbred bastard is actually making a bridge!" His 'respect' for the elder Iseley went up a notch or two --- not that it was ever overly high to begin with!

Flipping the switch on the side of his weapon from triple to single shot, he searched for a brother to put in the cross-hairs.

***
**Chapter 35** **:'The Game's Afoot!'**

"Floor ta bitch, Darrel!" the senior brother yelled, urging his sibling to manoeuvre the Dodge Ram up and out of the streambed.

"Ta cunt's stuck!" Darrel growled as the rear left tire spit up water, dirt and stones.

"Hold on, Dip-Shit!" Dwayne yelled. "Let me get a fuckin' plank under ya!"

Just as he bent to move the thick board under the wheel, a bullet streaked over his head and punched a walnut size whole through the side of the pick-up. As Dwayne's drug and sour-mash soaked brain began to register what was happening, he started to spin away. It was that movement that saved him yet a second time, as another bullet slammed into the Dodge, taking a piece of his right ear with it. At that point Dwayne decided to try a little deep-sea diving in six inches of water, while Darryl put the peddle to the metal one more time, revving the big eight cylinders all the way into the red.

Suddenly the back right wheel bit into the streambed and the truck lurched forward.

"Wait, you stupid bastard!" Dwayne bellowed, his mouth half filled with churned up muddy water. Flinging an arm over the trailer hitch, he was literally dragged out of the water and up the grassy bank.

Darrel saw his bedraggled brother boots in the rear-view mirror. "Get yer sorry arse up on that gun, Dwayne! I _see_ ta bastards over on that hill!"

Dwayne looked like a half drowned scarecrow. Favouring his right arm, which felt like it had been pulled from its socket, he slowly managed to climb into the back of the cab.

The heavy .50 calibre machine gun was waiting there like a sleeping raptor, its long belt of bullets like so many silver claws anxious to rend and tear.

'Ta bitch kicks like a fuckin' mule!' the elder Iseley reasoned. 'N' with this busted up wing I'll have ta shoot left handed. Never _was_ no good shootin' left! Ah _fuck_ it hurts!'

His head swimming, he managed to climb into the makeshift seat, somehow readied the heavy gun and with his good hand banged on the top of the cab. His right shoulder hurt like the fires of Hell. "Let's get 'er done, brother!" he yelled through gritted teeth. The pain in his shoulder was so great that he nearly passed out. Only killing something would help. Better than sex and drugs, killing had _always_ made him feel just fine.

***

"Jesus Christ!" Dell said. "They're _across_ the bloody creek!"

"And heading right for us," Sergeant Graham replied, scanning around for some place to take cover. Their only choice was where they had just come from.

"Back to the woods, Dell! Hurry!"

"What?" Dell yelled. "It's fucking _burning!"_

"Not _all_ of it. Besides, there's nothing else. Out here in the _open_ that truck will run us down easy!"

"But they've got a bloody _machine gun!_ "

The sergeant's wide grin was back. "Guess we better _charge_ 'em then! _Fire_ as you go, Dell and make the bastards keep they heads down! I'll be right behind you. _Now go!_ "

Dell swore, fired his rifle at the distant truck, cranked in a new shell, swore again and then began running back down the hill. With that Sergeant Graham took deliberate aim at the large truck just starting to move up the hill. The range was fairly long for a M-16, but back in the day the Sergeant had won his share of marksmanship medals, as the Iseleys were already finding out.

' _He's a fucking madman!'_ Dell yelled silently, all the while moving back towards the smouldering little forest, firing his Winchester every now and then in the direction of the still distant truck. Thick greyish-white smoke drifted uphill, obscuring the mud spattered Dodge and helping to hide him as well. He had no fucking idea _where_ the sergeant was, but he kept moving downhill and firing just the same.

Dell paused long enough in the thick smoke to reload. He fumbled in several 30/30 shells, worked the well oiled lever and raised the Winchester to his shoulder. By then the truck was a hell of a lot closer!

'Move it, Dell!' the sergeant's voice yelled from somewhere just behind him _'Only fifty feet to the woods!'_

'Thirty feet now!' Dell reasoned, feeling that he might actually make it there alive! Scattered fires were still burning in the tiny forest, mostly in the front. Then the black Dodge came swirling through the thick greyish fog, tongues of orange-red flame stabbing out, spraying death dealing bits of led the size of acorns.

***

Dwayne was in agony. The numbness in his dislocated shoulder had turned to a searing pain that shot up and down his right arm like a Gaelic clog dancer and threatened to blast the top of his skull off! Semi-blinded by his own sweat and semi-paralyzed by the non-stop, dancing pain, he gave up _aiming_ altogether! He couldn't even see the bastards! And even if he could, his arm was too fucked up to let him hold the gun on target! To make matters worse, his idiot brother was swerving the pick-up around like he was in a goddamned demolition derby!

Another long burst that tore up grass and earth and went nowhere near either Dell or the sergeant; both now crouched behind a large fallen log at the rear of the little forest. The smoke was thinning now and the Dodge could be seen more clearly, zigzagging its way uphill. Grass, mud, dirt and rock spewed out from under its oversized tires while in the back Dwayne was bounced around like a rag doll. Still, Dwayne managed another long burst \--- this time harmlessly up into the early morning air --- then the .50 ran dry.

Dwayne, in too much pain to do anything more than weakly hold onto the empty gun for support, was nearly thrown from the truck when Darrel suddenly slammed on the brakes. The mechanical beast came to an abrupt stop, where it stood like a panting bull getting ready for the final charge.

"What ta fuck ya doin' up thar, Dwayne? Get that sucker loaded!"

"Caint," came back the weak reply.

"Caint?" Darrel repeated. "Why ta fuck caint ya?"

"Hurt."

"Hit?" the youngest Iseley asked. "Ya bin hit? Whar?!"

"No, asshole. I'm _hurt!"_

Darrel was about to get out and see what the fuck was wrong with his dipshit big brother when a small hole suddenly appeared in the windshield. A spiderweb of jagged cracks radiated out from the whole. Said whole, by the way, was just a few inches shy of turning brother Darrel into the Three Eyed Man.

"Sheeee-itttt!" he exclaimed with just the right amount of southern drawl. An errant wind chose that moment to whisk away the remaining few strands of smoke, allowing the younger Iseley to see his eight fingered, one eyed, silver haired enemy a mere hundred yards away.

" _Pops!"_ Darrel exclaimed, almost salivating at the sight. "I'm gunna get that fucker good!"

With that, he stomped his right foot down on the gas peddle, causing the waiting beast to leap forward. At eighty yards he shoved a stubby, black machine pistol out the side window and began to empty the fifty round clip in the general direction of his silver haired target.

Darrel's twisted brain could already see the etched skull on Pop's glass eye explode into a million pieces as .9 mm bullets stitched their way up that solid body and once and for all wiped that sarcastic smirk off his grinning face.

Of course, none of this _actually happened_ and all of Darrel's fifty rounds went nowhere near their intended target. What _did_ happen however, was that Darrel was sixty yards away and still pulling the trigger of a now empty weapon when Sergeant George Graham calmly stood up. With smooth efficiency he ejected his half used regular clip and put in a full thirty round one, wrapped the sling around his left elbow for added stability, flicked the lever on the M-16 to full auto and aimed at the heart of the charging beast, now forty yards away and closing fast.

The good sergeant put _almost_ the entire clip directly into the front of the engine. Radiator, hoses, fan belt, alternator, battery, air filter --- if it was in there it was probably hit. Not to mention the two front tires.

Consequently, like a charging rhino, the big Dodge staggered, coughed, wavered and slid to its final stop not twenty feet in front of Dell and a grinning Sergeant Graham. The 'beast' was dead. Though the fluids still flowed, air still hissed and the current still flickered, it was only a matter of moments before all went silent.

Please note however, that the good sergeant did not place _all_ his bullets into the engine. The final burst he had sent directly through the already shattered windshield. Darrel took the majority off them in his massive chest. He, like the beast he was driving, was dead before the fluids had stopped flowing.

In the back, Dwayne had only taken a single hit. Ironically it was in his dislocated shoulder. Blood and shattered bone now added to the last remaining Iseley brother's already considerable amount of pain. Dwayne lay sprawled in the back of the pick-up looking like a dirty old set of work clothes someone had tossed in the corner after a busy day in the slaughter house. He was trying to pull one of his chrome plated Berettas out of its shoulder holster when the grinning sergeant walked up and casually swatted it away.

" _Bastard!_ " Dwayne hissed, blood dribbling over his lips and down his chin.

"No argument there, Dwayne," the sergeant said calmly. "I've been called worse by better men than you."

" _Fuckin', cock-suckin' faggot!_ "

The silver haired man sighed. "Can't go along with you there, Dwayne. Maybe you mean your 'little' brother?"

For a moment hatred overpowered the pain and the elder Iseley tried for the other Berretta, which was just as easily swatted away as the first. The effort caused Dwayne to pass out. The sergeant then reached in and picked up one of the fallen pistols. He offered it butt first to Dell.

"Here you go, Dell. You said that you wanted to kill them all. Might as well start with _this_ piece of shit."

Dell looked at the silver gun as though it was a poisonous snake. Involuntarily he took a step back. Sergeant Graham extended his arm further.

"Go on, Dell. Take it. All you have to do is cock it. Dwayne always kept a round in the chamber. He fancied himself a _'fast draw'_. Doesn't look so fast now though, does he?"

"I --- I don't want it."

"You _sure_?"

Dell took another step back.

"He'd kill _you_ , Dell. They _all_ would. They _will_ if we give them half a chance!"

"But --- it would be murder!"

The sergeant shrugged. "Some might call it that. Especially before the world went into the crapper. But now? Man's got a right to protect himself, Dell. Always has, always will."

" _Pussies! Ta pair o' ya!_ " Dwayne suddenly hissed, spraying blood as well as hate. 'Don't have ta fuckin' _balls_ ta finish me off! Just a pair o' ---'

With the silver Berretta, the sergeant smacked Dwayne hard on his bleeding ear and then held the gun out again towards Dell. Dwayne meanwhile, had slumped down again, out cold.

"One last time, Del. Butch and his boys will be across that plank bridge anytime now. You _sure_ you don't want this?"

Dell's shock and fear suddenly turned to anger. "What's it to _you_ , anyway!? Why do _you_ want me to shoot him?! If you want the bastard dead so bad, why don't _you_ do it?!"

The answer the sergeant gave came swift and sure, causing Dell to stiffen and his eyes go wide. _It also made him suddenly grab the gun, shove it against Dwayne's forehead and pull the trigger._ Already unconscious when Dell fired, Dwayne Iseley died in much the same manor as he had lived: uncouth, uncaring, and totally unrepentant.

***

The bullet from the Berretta made a neat, round 9mm whole going in and at least a 90 mm jagged one coming out. Blood, brains and bone fragments created a grotesque rainbow in the hot Montana air.

Though his motive for doing so was different, over the years Dwayne had often shot people in the head in much the same manner as Dell just had. And each and every time he did it, for some twisted reason, Dwayne recalled a story an old Louisiana cop had once told him when he was just a cocky little foul mouthed kid arrested for stealing.

Back then Dwayne didn't know if the old cop had told him the story in the futile hope of turning his disastrous young life around or if the old bugger just liked to fuck with young kids heads. Back then Dwayne hadn't given a shit why the cop had bothered and he still didn't, but every time he blew someone's brains out he'd recall that long ago incident.

It had something to do with the size of the bullet hole. 'Small going in. Big coming out'

The story went something like this.

'Son, I got a little tale to tell ya'll 'bout _prison_ life', the old cop would slowly drawl. 'Now I tell this story to just about every young smart-assed little bastard like you that gets brought in here. N' most of 'em, just like you, are full o' piss n' vinegar n' think they're tougher than a twice burnt steak.

But they aint, n' you aint neither, so listen up.'

At that point the old cop would probably hitch up his pants or wipe the sweat off his brow with an old handkerchief before continuing.

'Now, it's a _true_ story n' I fervently hope you take it to heart --- though sadly, I also fervently believe that you most likely won't.'

The old cop then reaches into his pants pocket and puts two coins on the desk in front of the cocky young offender, who naturally sneers up at the older man.

'Ya see, son, it aint so much a story as a _'demonstration'_. What it does is graphically show what your life is soon going to be all about _if_ you continue on this self-destructive path that you're presently on.'

About this time most of the young boys, especially young Dwayne, tell the old cop something like: _'Fuck you, old man!'_ or ' _Go fuck yourself!_ ' Dwayne seemed to recall that he said both of those things and then some!

The old cop then usually smiles and leans towards the table where the coins have been placed. Slowly he taps the smaller _dime_ and then the much larger _silver dollar_.

'Note the _size_ , son. Size you see, is the _key factor_ in this here little demonstration.'

Once again there are usually various impolite comments from the young offenders, after which the old cop smiles his grandfather smile and continues to tap the coins until finally the boy asks: 'Okay! Okay! What the fuck do the different _sizes_ mean?!'

"Well, son, in prison --- the place you're headin' for sure as God made little green apples --- they don't have no _women_ prisoners. Nary a one.' The finger keeps gently tapping the coins. Fist the dime and then the much larger silver dollar.

'A man gets mighty lonesome locked up day n' night, night n' day, never seein' no womenfolk. Mighty lonesome indeed!'

'So what, old man?! I aint scar'd o' no prison faggot!'

The grandfather smile broadens.

'Well, son, you _should_ be. You most certainly _should_ be. Ya see, most the fellas in there are as straight as an arrer on the outside --- but once they been in the slammer for a few months they'll see fresh young meat like you and think you look better than one o' them pin-up gals all buck necket n' bent over a barrel! Them boys'll be lining up to take their turn on you --- with a goodly number coming round for 'seconds!'

Into the stunned silence the smiling old cop would then once again taps the coins. "You see, son, this dime here represents the size of your asshole when you go _into_ prison.'

The finger then moves over to the much larger silver dollar.

'N' _this one_ represents your asshole when you _come out_.'

At this point various things often happened, sometimes one thing, sometimes another. Swearing, snivelling, puking, crying for 'mommy' --- the whole gamut of emotional reactions. A few, a _very_ few, even laugh. Dwayne always recalls doing a lot of laughing.

For those 'special' cases like Dwayne, there was yet a further chapter to the ' _Coin Story'_ ; a sort of _'epilogue'_ if you will. It involved the kindly old cop dragging the little fucker down to the basement to the somewhat less than sanitary cells where the white cops put all the 'colored' offenders. The smart mouthed little bastard was then locked in for the night with a big black buck called Bubba or Clarence or Tyree.

Regardless of the name, by the morning the _'laughter'_ was long gone --- and so was his 'dime' sized asshole!

***

But Dwayne wasn't recalling any stories from his long ago childhood, _fondly remembered or otherwise_ \--- because Dell had just blown the back of his head off.

_And just_ why _had he done that you ask,_ when only moments before Dell had so adamantly _refused_ to do the same dastardly deed?

Well, 'Gentle Reader', you might recall _there had been a question?_

Dell had asked/demanded _why_ Sergeant Graham/'Pops' had seemed to think it so important that Dell shoot Dwayne.

_There had also been an answer_ \--- the content of which had immediately caused Dell to reverse his position on 'murder' and promptly shoot Dwayne in the head.

And just _what_ , pray tell, was that _answer_?

_Let us hit the_ 'rewind button' _for a moment, shall we?_

"One last time, Dell," the sergeant had said, holding out the Berretta. "You _sure_ you don't want this?"

Dell's shock and fear had suddenly turned to anger. "What's it to _you_ , anyway!? Why do you want _me_ to shoot him?! If you want him dead so bad, why don't _you_ do it?!"

The answer was short and simple, but far from sweet.

' _Because these bastards didn't kill my daughter, they killed yours._

I just thought you might like to do something about it.'

Dell's angry eyes had widened, he had uttered a heart wrenching groan and he had grabbed the gun. A moment later Dwayne Iseley was no more.

***
**Chapter 36** **: 'Cry Havoc!'**

Butch saw the bridge collapse and the two scout jeeps follow the bridge into the stream. He then saw the Iseley brothers and their black Dodge race out and quickly construct their 'hill-billy' bridge and then just as quickly disappear into the growing smoke from the burning woods. Now however, he couldn't see fuck all!

" _Ace!_ " Butch yelled into the walkie-talkie. "Pick _up_ for Christ sake!"

_Crackle. Squawk._ "Ya Butch?"

"Ace! Get everyone _out_ of the RV's _now!_ "

"What? Can't --- _crackle/squawk_ " --- _you!_ "

"Get them out _now!_ In full kit and _ready to move!_ "

Crackle/squawk " --- out now!"

Butch keyed the mike again. " _All SUV's_ cross that fucking bridge _now!_ Tell Suzy to _bring up the heavy guns!_ "

_Crackle. Squawk._ "Okay Butch --- _on_ it!"

Butch tossed the mike aside, stabbed a finger at the plank bridge glistening wetly in the nearby creek and growled at his driver to 'get me the fuck over there!' The jeep bounced and slid its way over the rough planks, churned a muddy path up the flower strewn bank and onto the grassy hill leading up to the distant ranch. Off to the left a hundred yards or so several trees still smouldered in the remains of the little glade. Grabbing his rifle, Lord Butch stepped out onto the battlefield to wait for his troops. It wasn't a very long wait.

***

"We can't wait , Sam!" Prudence said. "We have to go _now!_ "

All eyes turned to Sam, who in turn, looked at Will Penny.

"It's _your_ call, Sam. I'm just along for the ride."

Sam drew in a deep breath and nodded.

Instantly the two Horn women, mother and daughter, set spurs to their animal's flanks and set off down the hill at a fast gallop. Jasper and Roscoe, their rifles out and ready, did their best to keep up. The Widow Horn had won more than a few rodeo completions in her day, and Marcy was Cut Bank's woman champion three years running, so the boys had to push it some to keep up with the ladies.

The plan was simple, once they heard the bridge go, the four of them would ride down to give any _'support'_ needed to the intrepid 'bridge-blowers'. At the same time Sam and Billy, Elfago and Will would ride off to both sides of the long, sloping little valley where they could give cover fire as the others all retreated back to the ranch.

That meant a total of _eight people on horseback_. Dell and the sergeant were supposed two ride back in the ancient four-by-four that Dell had somehow managed to get running. That left Raven and Candice to hold the fort back at the ranch.

Sam thought it was stretching things a bit too much to leave only two women alone at the ranch but all the females had ganged up on him and he had quickly _'rethought'_ his position.

***

At the same time as Dell Ross pulled the trigger that sent Dwayne Iseley hopefully to his _'just reward'_ , 'Lord Butch' crossed the hill-billy bridge and set his shit-kicker boots on the grassy slope that would either see him victorious or see him dead. As Butch watched one after another of his four remaining SUV's cross the plank bridge, the fifty-five 'foot soldiers' piled out of the three larger trucks and, weapons at port, splashed across the knee deep creek and scramble up its grassy bank.

" _Form up_ in your proper squads!" yelled 'Captain' Blake Hudson, the late Lord Troy's 'Weapons Master' and now Lord Butch's _'Overall Infantry Commander'_. "Lieutenant Johansson! Get those goddamned troops in line _now!_ "

'Lieutenant' Bobby Johansson had been Hudson's second-in-command under Lord Troy. The two men despised each other, but Johansson, a tall, Scandinavian looking young man who had been studying to be a vet was the only other student that had any military training.

" _Lieutenant!_ " Captain Hudson, his clean-cut, _'Captain America'_ features distorted by rage, screamed at the towering Iowa farm boy. "You call that a fucking _line_?! Have the men _dress right_ , soldier and do it _smartly!_ "

' _Godless heathen!'_ Johansson thought, at the same time snapping off a smart salute. _'You're a soulless baby-killing psycho that deservers to burn in Hell!'_ The Mid-West, especially Iowa, breeds a goodly number of revival tent Fundamentalists, of which the Johansson family had all been proud fourth generation members.

"Right away, Sir!" Johansson said. Turning to the ragged looking group of young men and women, the Lieutenant then yelled: "Dress _right_! Squad leaders, sound _off!_ "

Each of the five leaders stepped one pace forward of their ten man squad and bellowed out:

'Squad One, all present sir!'

'Squad Two, all present, sir!'

And so forth on down the line.

Butch, only half listening, was keeping his eye on the upward slope.

Suddenly he saw a horse and rider!

And then _another one!_

Then _another! And another!_

' _Holy shit!'_ he thought _. 'It's the fucking cavalry!'_

What it was, of course, was the Widow Horn and her _'gang'_ come to rescue Dell Ross and her 'silver haired sergeant'.

***

Roscoe kept his eyes on Marcy. Though she rode like the wind, one fluid movement of horse and human, he worried about her just the same. What if ---?

Her horse stepped in a whole?

Or it lost a shoe?

Or some bastard shot her through her creamy white breast?

' _No, you idiot! It's over!'_ he raged at himself. _'She's with Sam now! Always has been! What you had was only a dream. Forget it, man! Suck it up n' cowboy on!'_

But of course, he couldn't.

Those deep, sky blue eyes. That golden, sun-kissed hair. _'Stop it, asshole! She's NOT yours! She never was!'_

Then he heard the shooting!

Dirt and grass flew through the air! Bullets whizzed by like angry hornets!

Rosco cranked his Winchester and searched for a target.

' _There! Crossing the stream!'_ He aimed at the dark mass of churning bodies and fired --- and kept on firing till the gun was empty.

***

Will Penny, sitting astride his mare on the north side of the hill, gazed down at the scene unfolding before him. On his extreme left was the stream that the enemy had just crossed. Moving to the right he saw the plank bridge, the gathered troops, several SUV's --- and one lone bastard out front of all the rest.

' _You'd be Butch, I reckon. Pleased to meet you \--- you sonovabitch!'_

Will used his binoculars to get a better look at his prey --- for that is what Butch had become; the chosen _'animal'_ that 'Hunter Penny' would now study, stalk and finally kill.

' _I don't collect trophies like those city boys, but, for trying to harm my Prudence and her daughter, your life I will most certainly take.'_

Though Will often came across as a warm country wit with his slow drawl, his homespun humor and his lived-in cowboy clothes, there was a side of him that was a determined, even savage, predator.

Most of his adult life Will had spent hunting, trapping and guiding in the high and lonely regions of the Rocky Mountains. Except for the two or three months each spring he would spend at the Horn ranch, he lived a silent, solitary life where his greatest pleasure was pitting his wilderness skills against those of the wild animals of the High Country.

Going alone into the wilderness was always a dangerous endeavour. Even a two day fishing trip could easily _'go bad'_ in a dozen or so ways. The weather, an accident, a mistake in judgment or a problem with an animal could all prove fatal --- the last one most of all. More than a few times while hunting bears and mountain lions, Will had come close to leaving his well chewed bones in the wilderness that he loved.

Now, studying Butch through his binoculars, Will compared him to be a mature brown bear. Wise in the ways of the savage world in which he lived, solitary, self-centered and primeval, capable of sudden, thoughtless violence, Butch should prove to be a worthy adversary.

When all the shooting suddenly started down the hill, he put the glasses away and slid his well used Winchester from its scabbard. Working the lever, he brought his mount from a standstill to a gallop in less than a heartbeat.

Elfago, sitting his horse beside Will's, drew his ancient revolver and followed close behind, a smile creasing his weathered face, his gold tooth flashing in the sun.

***

On the high ground on the opposite side of the little valley, Sam watched as first Will, then Elfago, raced their mounts down the hill.

" _Shit!_ Let's go Billy!" Sam growled.

Billy Raintree, grinning from ear to ear, pulled his rifle free of its scabbard and urged his animal after Sam's.

Now there were eight riders racing towards Butch and his small army; the four that had gone to rescue Dell and Sergeant Graham and the four who were to have originally waited at the top of the long slope and give them cover fire.

Butch stood there wide-eyed beside his jeep as the three separate groups of riders got closer and closer. The front group of four, only a few hundred yards away, had almost reached the far side of the little burning woods. Everyone seemed to be firing at them but they just kept coming! Butch raise his own weapon. Sighting down the barrel and saw two men running on foot upslope towards the first group.

And one of them had _white_ hair.

" _Pops!_ " Butch said out loud. "You fucking _sonovabitch!_ "

He then proceed to empty the thirty round mag of his less than accurate AK-47.

***

"Here, George!" Prudence yelled. "Take my hand!"

The sergeant did as he was bid, awkwardly scrambling up behind the Widow Horn. Her horse snorted at the extra weight, but she masterfully curbed the mare and headed her back up the hill.

"Thanks for the lift!" the sergeant said in her ear, revelling at the closeness of her, drinking in her smell.

"Hold on tight, you old fool! I thought you were dead!"

"Would that have bothered you?" he asked, encircling her slim waist with one hand and holding his rifle with the other.

"A _little_. Now shut up n' hold on!"

Behind her Marcy had scooped up Dell and was following close behind her mother, while Roscoe and a grinning Jasper held back some, firing their riffles as they went.

" _Roscoe!_ " Jasper yelled.

"Ya?"

"How 'bout we take turns?"

"At what?"

" _Firin'_ at these bastards!'

"That's what we _are_ doing!" Roscoe replied.

"I mean _stop_ n' fire! I can't hit _shit_ from a _runnin'_ horse!"

Roscoe smiled. "You can't hit shit _anyway!_ "

Jasper suddenly pulled up, skidded his mount to a halt, turned in the saddle and fired four quick shots at the clusters of soldiers coming up the hill. At least two of them went down.

" _There!_ Now it's _your_ turn! We can leap-frog our way back up the hill!"

Roscoe leaned in and smiled. "Ya know, you're _not_ as dumb as you look!"

A bullet whizzed by Jasper's horses head, causing the animal to jump sideways and his answer was lost as the frightened animal headed back up the slope. Roscoe turned, fired four times and flowed.

Two more of 'Lord Butch's' soldiers went down.

***
**Chapter 37** **: 'The Dogs of War!'  
**  
 ** **

"Suzy, _shoot_ the bastards!" Butch screamed into his walkie-talkie.

_Crackle. Squawk_. (pause) _Crackle. Squawk._

Butch almost threw the thing away, swore, then motioned for his driver to pick him up.

"Where to, Boss?"

" _Up that fucking hill!_ "

***

Prudence saw Will racing towards her. _'Damn the man!'_ she thought. _'Always rushing in like a bear with cubs!'_ She glared at him as he fired several shots back down the hill, then turned his mount alongside hers.

"You alright, Prue?" he demanded.

"Just _dandy_ , thank you very much."

"I came when the shooting started."

"You _always_ do."

Will caught her stiff tone. "You _mad_ at me?"

"Nope."

"Sound it."

She didn't reply.

Will shifted his gaze to the silver haired man right behind her.

" _You_ alright?

"Fine, thanks."

"Dell?"

"Fine as well I _believe._ We were lucky."

Will snorted, stopped his mount, turned, fired several times, wheeled around and caught up quickly. With the double weight, both the Widow Horn's horse and that of her daughter were tiring quickly.

"Best let me take the Marine."

" _Why?_ "

"Your horse it about done in."

"She'll be fine."

"She'll be _dead_ n' so will _you!_ Pull up n' _I'll_ take him!"

"Nope."

"Why the hell not?"

Prudence pointed ahead with her chin. "Almost there. You'd do better to help Jasper and Roscoe."

Will glanced back down the slope. The two cowboys were leapfrogging there way up, alternating their fire every two hundred feet or so.

"They seem to be doing just fine with out me."

"So am I! Now, _damn it_ , Will, _go help those boys!_ "

He'd heard that tone before and knew better than to cross her. He touched his hand to his hat, glared at the sergeant and then managed a smile. "Yes, Mam!"

***

"Come _on_ you lazy bastards! They're getting away!" Butch was standing by his idling jeep half way up the hill. Behind him over four dozen 'foot soldiers' attempted to keep up, driven on by Captain Hudson's screams and Lieutenant Johansson's calm encouragement. Others were crowded into the three SUV's still running. The fourth was a burning heap of metal at the base of the hill.

"Where the _fuck_ is Suzy with the heavy guns?" Butch muttered to himself?

"What's that, Boss?" he driver asked.

" _There!_ " Butch pointed. "Take me over there to Captain Hudson!"

"Happy Hudson it is, sir!" the driver said, calling the ever screaming captain by one of his less insulting nic-names.

" _Hudson!_ " Butch yelled as the jeep slid to a stop. "What the fuck's the hold up?!"

"Assholes up the fucking _wazoo_ , sir!" Hudson replied.

"Say again?"

"It's a goddamned _cluster-fuck_ , sir!" Hudson said disgustedly. "We bust our asses trying to _train_ these limp-dicked college boys to be soldiers and all we get are fucking _weekend-warriors_ who _shit their pants_ soon as someone fires back at them!" He then drew back the slide on his M-16 and flicked the switch to full auto. "Say the word, sir, and I'll waist some of the motherfuckers _right now!_ "

Even Butch, who was the past-master at temper tantrums, saw right away that Captain Blake 'Crazy-As-A-Fucking-Loon' Hudson was _waaaaay_ around the bend and closing in on the next one! As much as he might like the idea of 'impressing' on his reluctant little army the need to _'be all you can be'_ , Butch restrained both himself and the rather over zealous Captain Hudson.

"Stand down, captain! _Now!_ "

Hudson visibly struggled with bringing himself back from the brink. Rapid breathing, sweating palms, racing heart. _'Killing was oh so sweeeeet!'_

"I gave you an _order_ , soldier!"

" _Sir_ , yes _sir!_ " Hudson brought his weapon to port and took several deep breaths, the need to kill an ache deep in his balls.'

"If you _really_ want to kill someone," Butch growled; "get this group _up that fucking hill!_ "

Hudson blinked, like a man suddenly awakened from a dream. " _Hill_ , sir? What hill?"

" _That_ bloody hill, you dimwitted bastard!"

Hudson blinked again, then smiled coldly. "The _Cowboy_ , sir. He's up there _waiting_ , isn't he?"

Butch snorted and moved closer. He'd handled psychos before. Biker clubs seemed to attract them like flies on shit. "You're bloody _right_ he is! Waiting and _laughing_ \--- at _us!_ Can you _hear_ him, Hudson? Sitting up there on his front porch just laughing his fucking head off! At me. At you. Most _especially at you!_ "

" _Me_ , sir? Why me --- sir?!"

Butch shrugged. "You're my ' _Overall Infantry Commander'_ aren't you? I put my trust in _you_ to get things done --- to ' _be the man'_ I can count on. And just look around you. You said it yourself. It's a real _cluster fuck!"_

"I can _fix it_ , sir! Just _gimme a chance_ and I can _fix it!_ I'll hand you that Cowboy's _head_ on a fucking _plate!_ "

Butch sucked in a deep lung full of air and pretended to ponder Hudson's request --- ( _like he had a fucking choice!_ ) Then, after a long, drawn out pause: "Alright, captain \--- but just this _one more time_. If you _screw up again_ , if these candy-assed pussies _don't_ move when I say move, if they hunker down the next time some hayseed fires a fucking BB gun at them, it's _your ass_ on the line, mister, and I hand the whole operation over to _Lieutenant Johansson!_ "

The name struck Hudson like a physical blow. _Johansson_ may know his shit and be able to 'motivate' the men, but Hudson knew that deep down Johansson was a _pussie_ \--- a left wing, do-gooder, tree-hugging _faggot_ that didn't have the _balls_ to go the extra mile! Johansson, for all his 'military experience', was a limp-dicked liberal-communist rag-head-loving homosexual who would rather _suck a cock_ than pull a fucking trigger!

"Yes, _sir!_ " Hudson barked out, snapping off a smart salute. "I'll _not_ let you down!"

Butch leaned in and held the younger man's gaze. "Make damned sure that you don't."

***

Candice saw them first. From her station in the hayloft of the big barn the view looked like something from a fairy tale. The grassy slope with its long driveway that wound past quaint, little woods down to the cute, little bridge --- a tale complete with kind fairy godmothers; handsome, dashing princes and nasty, blood-thirsty ogres! Only now the bridge had been blown up, the woods were on fire and the handsome princes were being chased back up the hill by the nasty ogres!

"Candice!" Raven called from the top window of the big house. " _Get ready!_ "

'Get ready?!' Candice repeated to herself. ' _Ohmygod!_ ' Her first instinct was to rush downstairs and greet them --- greet Billy. But she knew she couldn't do that! Not now, anyway. Now she had to work the _'Big Gun'!_

"It's easy!" Marcy had said the other day. "See, the belt of bullets goes in here, push this down to lock it, pull this back and aim!"

"Does it _kick?_ " Candice had asked.

"Not much. The trick is to snuggle it tight into your shoulder and hold it there. When you fire work the barrel across your target like you would a watering hose."

And she had done just that. Marcy had demonstrated on an old tool shed on the far side of the garden, riddling the ancient wood and causing the door to hang crooked. When Candice had tried she had slaughtered a fair number of cabbages and was working her way through the tomatoes before she got the hang of it, but after she did there wasn't much left of the garden shed to write home about!

"I _told_ you it was easy!" Marcy had beamed. "Now, let's see you put in a fresh amo belt." Candice pulled and shoved and snapped.

"That's _it!_ " Marcy had ginned. "You're a _natural!_ "

Ya? Well, right now she didn't 'feel' like a natural! And here she was all alone with the Nasty Ogres comiclosing in on her Billy! " _The bastards!_ " Candice swore, settling herself behind the big gun, willing her hands not to shake as she pushed down on this and pulled back on that. "Just like watering a garden!" Marcy had said. 'Okay then, let's _do_ this!'

Riders were strung out in a ragged line, all coming up the hill as fast as their mounts could run. Candice saw Marcy and her mother out front, each one carrying someone behind them. She saw the sergeant's silver hair behind the Widow.

' _Where's Billy?!_ ' she silently screamed.

Then she saw him! Way down the hill with Sam and the others. They were retreating and firing at the same time. Taking turns like some deadly game of leap-frog! "Idiots!" she said out loud, her heart going out to all of them --- but especially to one.

Behind them three, no four jeeps or trucks or _something_ were speeding after them. Behind _that_ was a ragged wave of what looked like GI Joe's jogging up the hill.

But it was the _jeeps_ that drew her attention. People were either standing up in them or leaning out windows, all firing at the retreating riders.

A shot sounded from the direction of the big house. Looking over she saw Raven at the top window, firing her rifle.

"My turn!" she muttered, snuggling the .50's heavy stock into her shoulder. Her finger sought the trigger at the same time as her eye sought a target. The black jeep just slightly in front of the other three.

She fired a burst and a line tore up the grass just off to the left of her target. She eased the _'garden hose'_ a little to the right and squeezed and the dirty white RV to the far right, its front tire blown, suddenly swerved and banged into the grey one beside it.

She swung the 'hose' a little to the left and a little closer in.

A phosphorous line left by the tracer rounds left its fast fading trail diagonally across the field. The green RV on the extreme right drove right into it. There was a flat sounding _'WOMPH!'_ and then the green RV erupted in a ball of light, smoke and fire.

A mini-mushroom cloud filled the sky, evoking shades of 'B' Action movies she always hated! "Shit!" Candice said out loud. "Did I _do_ that?!"

***

" _Shit!_ " Billy said, looking down at his smoking Winchester. "Did I _do_ that?!"

"Not _likely_ , son," Will Penny grunted as he reloaded his own rifle. "I'd say one of those fancy tracer rounds hit the gas tank."

"From the .50?"

"I reckon."

Billy glanced back up at the distant Big House, then back down at the burning remains of the green RV. "That's gotta be two or three hundred yards!"

"Closer to five." Will said.

"But Raven's never fired the .50!"

Will worked the lever on his own massive rifle and sent a finger length 45-70 round into the chamber. It was a Winchester 1886 Deluxe that his great granddaddy had used when hunting buffalo for the railway workers and the only thing dearer to his heart was Prudence Horn.

"Raven hasn't, but your lady friend Miss Brown has," Will said matter-of-factly. "Marcy showed her how the other day."

"Candice?!"

"Ah-hun."

Billy looked back up at the Big House. He could clearly see the barn off to one side and just make out the darker squares where the windows were, but it was too far away to see anyone.

"Candice?" he repeated, this time little more than an awed whisper.

Will grinned, recalling his own long ago 'fires of youth'. "You best go to her now, son. Once it sinks in just what she's done it'll hit her hard. She'll need you to be there."

Billy nodded and started up the hill, but turned when Will didn't follow. "Aint you comin', Mr. Penny? That black jeep's still headed this way!"

To prove his point, a line of automatic fire tore up the grass not twenty feet from where they sat their horses. Will held his heavy rifle in one hand and the reigns in the other. "Not right away, Billy. I've got a little unfinished business to take care of first. You go on now, I'll be along directly."

Another line of led stitched its way up the hill, closer this time.

"You plan to take out the black jeep?" Billy asked, already knowing the answer.

"I do."

"And you think that big cannon you're totin' will do it?"

Will hefted the powerful rifle he'd carried for years, then slid it back into its saddle scabbard.

"No, son. This needs to be done up close n' personal. "I believe I'll use my old Remington pistol for that."

"Then I'm comin' with ya!" the younger man said with more bravado than he felt.

Will turned to Billy and frowned. " _No_ you are _not!_ Miss Brown _needs you_ , son n' I don't. Now go!" Without waiting for a response, Will urged his horse into a sudden gallop down the grassy noel.

***

Butch was so angry he could hardly breathe. He was hanging out the side window of the black jeep firing non stop, though the grassy hill was far from smooth and all his shots went wild. As he bounced along he could see the riders getting away. Half of them were already close to the big ranch house. Several others were hanging back, stopping every now and then to fire. The two closest to him, less than two hundred yards, seemed to be just sitting there _talking!_

Butch growled and emptied a second clip at them. When his AK-47 ran dry he swore and fumbled around for a third. While he was rummaging in his knapsack, the driver suddenly swore.

"Oh _fuck!_ Look at _this!_ "

" _What?!_ " Butch demanded, but a glance up the hill was all the explanation needed. One of the two talkers was now actually _charging_ right at them!

Butch couldn't believe his eyes! Fumbling around in his bag he brought up two empty clips. " _Fuck!_ " Tossing both the bag and the empty machine gun aside, he drew his massive revolver. He had always preferred a revolver over an automatic. They never jammed and never misfired. This was a .357 long barrelled Rugger ' _Red Hawk_ ' that weighed almost five pounds and had considerable 'heft'. That it was limited to six shots had never bothered him in the past. Now, however, their blossomed a glimmer of doubt in the back of his mind that with 'this _particular_ fucker', _sixty-six_ shots might not be enough! _'Haven't I already fired ten times that at him with the bloody AK?!'_

A hole big enough to shove your finger through suddenly appeared in the windshield between Butch and his driver.

" _Christ!"_ the driver yelled!

Butch leaned out the window and attempted to put the silver sight of the Red Hawk on the cowboy that was flowing over the grass towards them like fast moving fog!

The .357 spoke three booming times with great authority but little accuracy. Butch swore and fired three more shots which also had no visible effect --- and Will kept coming.

" _Jesusfuckingchrist!_ _Do something, man!_ " the driver swore.

"Shut the fuck up and _drive!_ Butch growled as he frantically ejected the spent shells and pulled a speed loader off his belt. The plastic device held six fresh .357 rounds for the hungry Red Hawk. Butch was fumbling then in when, _Crack_ – thud! _Gurgle - gurgle – gurgle!_ Will's second shot had hit the driver in his throat and blood was now gushing out like a new blown oil well. Slowly the driver slumped sideways and fell across Butch's knees. The heavy truck continued on for several heartbeats ( _not the driver's, Butch's_ ) and then started to drift to the right.

" _Fuck!_ " our fearless leader swore again and, snapping the finally loaded cylinder back into the waiting Red Hawk with one hand, Butch managed to wrench the wheel back with his other.

_Crack – ping!_ Will's third bullet dug a deep groove in Butch's right bicep, missing the bone and major artery by a hair, but ripping the shit out of the flesh. Blood began to flow, dripping off his elbow.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" Butch articulated, thrusting the now very heavy Red Hawk out the bouncing window. That five pounds of ' _comfortable heft_ ' suddenly felt like fifty pounds of _'uncomfortable heavy'!_

The gun's site wavered over the grassy field. The jeep continued to race forward like a ship in a rough sea. The charging cowboy swam in and out of his line of fire.

Butch tried three well spaced attempts to kill 'True Grit' when he rode into view, but managed only three more misses.

Will, close now and fully into the rhythm of his galloping horse, fired his fourth shot into the truck's radiator. His fifth one would be into the open window as he passed and so stamp ' _paid in full_ ' on the bastard that had foolishly sought to harm his Prudence and her child!

Horse and jeep raced closer and closer. Butch attempted to both steer with his left hand while aiming the Red Hawk with his rapidly numbing right. Blood soaked his shirt and pooled beneath him on the seat. The bowls of his dead driver, still slumped across his knees, finally let go, filling the cab with the stench of death. Butch fired blindly.

Suddenly Will felt something hammer into his right side. A moment later liquid fire erupted along his ribs. The Remington wavered in his hand, then steadied as it neared the racing jeep.

Butch, seeing his death fast approaching, yanked hard on the steering wheel, hoping to send the heavy vehicle smashing into both the man and animal now bearing down on him.

If Will hadn't spent over half of his life in a saddle, and half his wayward youth riding wild broncos on the rodeo circuit, Butch's cunning little plan probably would have worked. As it was, when the black jeep swerved into the path of the galloping horse, instinct and years of experience took over. There was no ' _thinking_ ', just ' _doing'_!

When the jeep struck his three year old mare dead on, Will was _already in the air_. He had released the reigns, kicked his feet clear of the stirrups and was sailing up, up and away from the sure death of ' _horse meets big machine at a fair clip_ '.

The large jeep struck the legs of the galloping horse and continued on and struck the animal's massive chest. The equally massive head came right through the windshield, followed closely by the entire front part of the poor beast. On the way in the jagged windshield half severed the horse's head. Glass, blood and horse filled the inside of the cab. The saddle horn caught the top of the windshield frame and held as Will flew over the hood, bounced off the top and landed hard on the grassy slope. Something in Will's left arm 'snapped'. Fire blossomed inside his brain as bone protruded from the sleeve of his shirt.

Butch fared little better. Half out of the side window, he was slammed forward into the doorframe, both his side and his head hitting the metal. Two or three ribs on his left side 'cracked'. Nearly blacking out, Butch screamed himself back to full consciousness and frantically tried to open the door, only to find himself pinned by a dead driver across his knees and a horse's head against his chest.

Thetruck, the dead driver's foot still firmly on the gas, continued chugging on up the hill like the _'Little Train That Could'_ , gouging out a deep furrow in the grass as it pushed the broken hind legs of the horse ahead of it like some weird Mad Maxian plough. The strange concoction of dead horse and live machine finally came to rest when it pushed up against a large boulder, its back wheels spinning on the blood slick grass.

***

Slowly Will Penny got to his feet. Blood was leaking down his right side and into his boot. His left arm hung like a broken wing, white bone sticking out a tear in his shirt. He pulled it in tightly to his chest, sucked up the pain and limped towards the idling vehicle. The Remington lost somewhere in the long grass, his right hand now held his great granddaddy's skinning knife.

The story goes that a very young Zachariah Penny had traded an iron pot and a jug of whiskey for it at a Rendezvous back in the 1840's, the early days of the Rocky Mountain fur trade. It, along with the Winchester, was one of Will's most treasured possessions --- and one of his most useful.

Over the rump of the mangled horse Butch saw Will coming. Frantically he tried to get out from under the dead weight of the man and beast that pinned him to his seat. All the blood and guts helped as it made him _slippery_. So, like some slimy reptile, Butch managed to slither out the half open door onto the ground. Amazingly the Red Hawk was _still_ in his hand.

His head spinning, he lay there panting, trying desperately to clear some of the blood out of his eyes. Suddenly an old Clint Eastwood movie started playing in his head, mixing fact with fiction, up with down, reality with fantasy --- all shaken but not stirred.

In his confused mind it wasn't Will shuffling towards him, it was Clint --- sort of. Unlike in the movie however, Clint wasn't holding the famous 'Dirty Harry' revolver, but a long bladed knife. In the true cinematic melodrama, the ' _sunlight danced along the shimmering blue-white blade.'_

Butch felt his testicles try to retract up inside his body as Clint/Will continue to shuffle ever closer.

Fifty feet away.

Forty-five .

Forty.

Biker/Butch cocked the Dirty Harry/Red Hawk and aimed it at Will/Clint.

' _Make my fucking day, punk!_ ' someone growled but Butch had no idea who.

The Biker groaned; Butch aimed; Clint grinned and Will just kept on coming!

' _The problem is, punk,_ ' Butch began silently.

'Did I fire five shots or six?' the Biker finished the question for him.

' _In all this excitement,'_ Will and Clint both said together.

' _We kinda lost count ourselves_!' Butchmerrily chimed in.

In the theatre inside Butch's head, all four actors now spoke in unison.

' _The question ya gotta ask yerself, punk, is --- do ya feel lucky?'_

It was Butch however, that finished the famous line.

' _Well, punk --- do ya?!'_

The Red Hawk went off.

Butch's hand jumped.

Twenty feet away Will staggered and almost fell --- _almost_. Seconds later, his great granddaddy's skinning knife still in his hand, Will continued to shuffle forward. Limping badly now, but, just like that old Timex watch commercial used to say: 'It takes a lickin' but keeps on tickin'!'.

Click! Click! Click!

The Red Hawk's hammer fell on spent cartridges. His gun was empty --- and for once in his long, violent life, Butch felt empty as well.

Empty and tired.

So very _fucking_ tired.

Then --- once again the golden sun glinted on that well worn blade and fiery fear pumped adrenalin into Butch's tired veins, --- and the oldest message in existence raced through Butch's brain. Survive, _asshole!_ \--- _Survive at all costs!_

Reaching into his pocket, Butch fumbled out a small butterfly knife. Not much of a match against a blade that had skinned beaver, buffalo and a fair number of Blackfeet --- but it was all he had.

The blood covered cowboy was closer now. Ten feet away and still coming; slow dragging his left leg, but still coming. 'Like the fucking _Eveready Bunny!_ ' an almost giddy Butch remarked inwardly. _'This fucker is gunna kill us!'_ the Biker inside him replied from the shadows.

" _Get down, Butch!_ " a new voice yelled. " _Gimme a clear shot!_ "

"Shut the _fuck up!_ \--- _All_ of you!" Butch growled at the voices as he forced himself up on one knee. If he was going to fucking die, he'd damn well do it _standing!_

" _Get the fuck down, asswhipe!_ "

Eighty yards further down the hill Captain Blake Hudson, his right temple gushing blood from a stray bullet, brought his M-16 up and tried to get a bead on the cowboy shuffling towards Butch. Blood from his own head wound kept running into his right eye, making aiming a real bitch! If Hudson fired now, he'd more than likely either miss altogether or kill them both!

Behind him, at the base of the hill, Lieutenant Bobby Johansson was attempting to gather what remained of the 'troops'. Only about two dozen were left. Some had been shot, more had simply just ran away, wanting no part of a well armed, determined enemy that actually shot back. More and more were drifting away every minute and Johansson seemed powerless to stop them. He didn't even seem to try. Instead, he lead a dozen or more of the ones that had elected to stay and fight, up the hill towards Hudson and the distant figure by the black jeep.

" _Butch! Get the fuck down!"_ Hudson yelled again as he flipped the switch to single shot and slowly squeezed one off.

Then another.

Then another.

Neither man was hit and blood once again filled his right eye.

" _Fuck!_ "

He started running then. Not forward, but angled to the side, seeking a clearer shot. Further up the hill the shuffling cowboy had nearly reached Butch.

***

Billy hadn't done what he was told. He hadn't, as he saw it, ' _turned tail and run back to his girl.'_ (Is Candice _really_ my girl?!) Instead he had watched and he had waited, his Winchester ready.

He had seen Will charge the black truck, seen it slam into the galloping horse, seen Will fly up and over and land hard --- only to rise a moment later and continue walking slowly down the hill.

He had also seen the man crawl out of the wrecked vehicle and lay panting on the ground.

_Then_ he had seen the _other one_ half way up the hill. A soldier, obviously coming to the aid of the man on the ground. At the base of the hill there looked like a dozen or more of them just starting out. The soldier half way between Will and the others stopped, fired three shots, then scuttled off to the side.

' _The bastard's going for a better position!_ ' Billy growled to himself. ' _He wants a clear shot at Will!'_

That was when Billy put spurs to his mount and began tearing down the hill, firing as he went.

***

Five men facing death. Two very close, two very far, one, leading a dozen others, further away still --- all converging on a single spot. Like spokes of a wheel --- riding, running, shuffling towards the hub.

Billy leaned forward and urged his mount to greater speed. Captain ' _Hardass_ ' Hudson, half blind now and weak from loss of blood, continued to dogtrot off to his right, angling outwards for the kill shot. Down below Lieutenant Johansson led his squad up the hill at the double-quick. Back by the jeep, Butch had managed to regain his feet, though the pain from his wounds and broken ribs made him dizzy. And Will Penny, less than ten feet away now, leaking blood and showing bone, still shuffled toward his prey.

"Butch!" Hudson screamed, stopped, scrubbed at his blood filled eye and then raised his rifle.

"Will!" Billy yelled, trying to hold the distant soldier in his bobbing sites.

Hudson's M-16 spit out a metallic _'cough'_.

Billy's Winchester _'cracked'_ high and loud.

Both men missed, but not by much.

Led sizzled by Will's ear.

Grass and earth flew up from beside Hudson's muddy combat boot.

Billy was closer now, his big stallion eating up the distance as it raced down the slope. Hudson, despite all his bullshit bravado, had never faced a _charging horse_ before, especially not when the rider was firing at him. He attempted to raise his rifle, but the pounding of the approaching hooves turned his blood to ice. Instinctively he went down on one knee and again raised the M-16. And again blood had filled his eye and ruined his aim.

All three shots missed --- but again, not by much! Hudson swore and scrubbed at his eye

Johansson's squad had made it halfway to where Hudson knelt, still too far away to fire at the two cowboys without the danger of hitting Butch. Billy meanwhile, had almost reached Will's bloody figure still shuffling slowly downhill.

" _Will!_ ' he yelled. " _Will Penny!_ Look behind you!"

Slowly, as though in a dream, Will turned, his knife raised as Billy swept by. The curved blade caught the sunlight but not Billy's raised arm as the younger man continued on down the hill to ram his mount into the swaying biker.

Butch was knocked backwards into the tall grass. As it was, all the air whooshed out of his body, but the spark of life was still there. Billy rode his wild-eyed mount in a tight circle and came back to Will, his arm outstretched.

" _Will! Take my hand!_ "

Will seemed not to hear.

" _Goddamnit, Will! Take my fucking hand!"_

Will blinked, shook himself and looked up. "Watch your mouth, son."

" _Christ_ ," Billy muttered.

With Butch now out of the way, Johansson's bunch opened fire. Led whizzed and zinged all around Billy and Will. The younger man physically hauled the older one up behind him and kicked his frightened mount into a gallop back up the hill.

Still half blinded, Blake Hudson ran forward screaming, his M-16 coughing out a continuous but ineffectual spray of led. Johansson's group, winded from their sprint uphill, faired just as poorly, while Lieutenant Bobby Johansson himself, _still at heart a good natured farm boy from Iowa,_ stood by smiling as the fast receding horse carried its two riders quickly out of range.

***
**Chapter 38** **:'We Few, We Precious Few'**

"How's Will?" Sam asked Raven as she stepped out of the twilight onto the front porch. The lamp's glow turned the blood on her hands and dress a blue-black color.

"Still sleeping. Prudence gave him a shot of something that put him out like a horse."

Sam attempted a smile. All the ranches around Cut Bank had often turned to Prudence Horn for help with their animals. She was one of the best unlicensed vets in Montana. Over the years she had also sewn up and set the bones of many a cowboy as well.

"He looked pretty bad when Billy brought him in."

Raven sighed and whipped her hands on an already bloody towel. "He's been shot twice, has three or four broken ribs, a badly broken arm and lost God only knows how much blood!"

" _Christ!_ " Sam swore.

Raven's dark eyes flashed. "Prudence got the bullet out of his leg and his ribs, though broken, were just creased. The bone in his right arm is set and in a splint. He's damned lucky he aint dead, but Prudence says with rest and a little luck he should be fine." She walked up and stood by the man that for ears she had thought of as her son. "Will Penny's one tough old bastard. Prudence tells me in the past he's been mauled by a grizzly and chewed on by a pack of wolves! She showed me the scars to prove it! He'll pull through if anyone can."

"What about Billy? He was bleeding as well."

Raven waved her hand in dismissal. "He'll be fine. Just a little scratch on his left shoulder. Hardly broke the skin. Candy's in with him now, fussing over the boy like he was gut shot n' gunna die in the morning."

Sam attempted another smile, then looked at the darkening sky. Low, heavy clouds had pushed in and it felt like rain. _'Good,'_ he thought. ' _A long, downpour should keep things quiet. Make them wet and cold while we rest up for whatever the morning brings._ '

Just then a shot rang out. It sounded like it came from where young Jasper was on guard duty. Sam reached for the Winchester he had leaned against the railing.

" _Halt!_ Who _goes_ there?" Jasper's high pitched voice drifted back to them. The yard and the grassy hill beyond were all in deep shadow. The trees there moved in the growing wind, their own shadows lengthening in the darkening twilight.

"Who ' _goes there_ ' is Hector Bluejacket! I've come to see Young Sam!" Though still quite distant, the voice was clearly angry. "Put that rifle up, son, before someone gets _hurt!_ "

"Advance n' be recognized!" the unseen Jasper challenged.

" _Shove it up your ass, boy!_ Where's _Young Sam_?"

" _Here_ , Hector!" Sam yelled. "Up by the _house!_ Come on in!"

Still unseen, Hector's voice came back to them. "I will soon as this _damned fool_ gets his gun outa my face!"

"Jasper!" Sam bellowed. "Let him pass!"

"There's a bunch ov'em, Mr. Sam!" Jasper hollered back.

"That's fine, Jasper! Bring 'em all in!"

***

"And you say there's _more_ coming?" Sam asked again.

Hector pushed his empty stew bowl away and reached for his cup of coffee. "My cousin, Red Wing, is trying his best to get more to come, but I gotta tell ya, Young Sam, I aint sure just _how_ many he'll get. There's some _strange shit_ going on back on the Rez!"

"Like what?" Dell asked while pouring himself another coffee.

"Signs. Dreams. _Visions!_ Charlie Two-Biscuits says he's been _chosen_."

" ' _Chosen_ '?" Sam repeated. "Chosen for _what?_ "

Hector sipped his coffee, then slowly put it down. "To _'lead my people into the new age'_ is how Charlie puts it. Two-Biscuits never was the sharpest knife in the drawer."

"People on the Rez _listenin'_ to that shit?" Dell asked over the rim of his steaming cup.

Hector shrugged. "Some are. _Not all_ , but some. Mostly the _young_ men. That's why I could only rustle up a dozen to come with me. The _rest_ are all back there with Charlie, singin' n' dancin' the old songs long into the night. Started painting their faces and wearing the old _clothes_ too \--- the stuff we only drag out for ceremonies and pow-wows."

Dell barked out a laugh. "You mean _feathers n' buckskins?_ "

"That's right. _War-paint_ too! Even some of the young bucks that _came with me_ are wearing it." Hector leaned back and sipped his coffee. "Can't say that I blame 'em, either, 'specially the way the world's gone lately." Hector then turned and spoke to his oldest friend. "Hey, Elfago. You're even _older_ than me! You remember when we were kids? The stories our grandfathers used to tell us about the 'good old days'? Before all this _modern_ shit? Before the cars and the computers and the goddamned cell phones? Life was good then, eh amigo. A man could be _'free'_!" Hector took another sip of coffee. "Looks like those times are _comin'round again_."

"I remember, old friend," Elfago said. "I also remember dat does 'good ol' times' were not _always so goddamned good!_ I remember stories 'bout babies dyin' 'n old folks not makin' it through da winter. Hungry times. Dangerous times. Not _all_ good, amigo."

Hector shrugged. "Not all _bad_ , either."

Sam raised his head and looked long at Hector. "Sounds like you've been listening to Charlie Two-Biscuits quite a bit _yourself_ , Hector."

Another shrug. "I listen. Some of it makes sense. Some of it doesn't. I _do like_ the part about going back to the _old ways_. The rest is a bucket of shit! Charlie Two-Biscuits couldn't lead himself to the _outhouse_ without help!"

Sam smiled. "Speakin' of help, I want to thank you again for comin' to ours! With you and your dozen braves, we'll make these bikers back off!"

Sergeant Graham, who had been listening quietly off in the shadows, stepped forward into the glowing lamplight. "A dozen more men _won't make Butch back down_. Hell, after Mr. Penny's little 'chat' with him today, a _hundred more_ wouldn't be enough!"

Sam frowned. "George, I never _really_ thought he would. A _reasonable man_ probably would back off, but we both know that this Butch fella _isn't_ the reasonable sort."

"Ya got that right, Sam," the sergeant agreed.

Billy spoke up for the first time. " _Maybe_ this Butch asshole is already dead! If he's the one I ran into this afternoon, he's either dead or busted up _real_ bad. My horse hit him at _full clip!_ "

"Deed your horse _step_ on heem, Beely?" Elfago asked. "Deed it rear up n' _stomp_ dis bastardo?"

"Well, no, not exactly," Billy stammered. "but he _went flyin'_ through the air!"

"And landed on a grassy hill?" Dell put in.

Billy took a deep breath. "It was sort of in some bushes."

" _Shit!_ " Dell growled. "The fucker's probably just a little _bruised!_ "

"Dell Ross, you mind your tongue in my kitchen!" Raven scolded, though there was more worry than anger in her voice.

"Sorry Mam," Dell said. "It's just that..."

"I _know_ Dell," Raven cut in, seeing the anguish in the man's eyes and instinctively knowing the cause. "But your Jolean's in a better place now, and you can be sure that my Shorty is there lookin' after her."

***

The rain started just after nightfall. The wind continued to pick up and drove the falling drops sideways. Trees bent and shutters rattled. Soon lightning flashed and thunder roared out of the mountains. Roads and paths turned to rivers and the rivers filled and threatened to overflow their banks.

At the Circle 'G' everything was battened down. All save the two on guard duty. Dell and Roscoe had drawn the first four hour shift and were tucked away after a piece of Raven's blueberry pie and either a cup of hot tea or a shot of Big Jim's twelve year old Scotch. Most had opted for the Scotch. Upstairs in one of the bedrooms Will Penny, having developed a high fever, was sleeping soundly thanks to a large dose of medicine Prudence used to knock out horses.

Hector and his dozen braves had taken over the large barn and so spent a comfortable night well fed, warm and dry. Some of them quietly chanted the old songs taught to them by their grandparents while a number of them sat in stony meditation. There were no electronic gadgets for music or games. No chatting on cell phones or texting messages. All that had seemingly sloughed away as something now both useless and trivial --- something to be forgotten. A few, a very few, slept wrapped in their blankets in the sweet, warm hay. All however, asleep or awake, kept their weapons close.

***

At Butch's 'camp' however, it was a different story altogether!

With more than half their vehicles disabled, there was no way in Hell they could all get back to Cut Bank, and if only Butch and his 'chosen few' left, they were _absolutely certain_ that most if not all would be long gone when they returned in the morning.

The wounded were piled into the three remaining Campers --- but the rest had been forced to fend for themselves outside in the wilds. In a Montana thunderstorm with no tent, no food and no blankets, that turned out to be one very cold, wet and _uncomfortable experience_.

Earlier that day a fair number of Butch's troops had already 'drifted away' rather than fight such an obviously determined 'foe'. They had struck out either on their own or in small groups. During the night apparently quite a few others had done the very same thing. Come morning, Lieutenant Johansson's roll call showed a grand total of only _twenty-seven_ grunts left in camp, and several of those were wounded.

"Jesus-fucking-Christ!" Butch swore when Captain Hudson told him the final numbers. The effort made his ribs burn like fire and his head ache more than ever! Sitting in one of the plush chairs in the biggest remaining camper, Butch looked like he'd been run over by a truck --- which wasn't _too far_ from the truth. He was black and blue all over, including his face. His dark, swollen eyes made him look like the Lone Fucking Ranger --- either that or a very large, very pissed off racoon. There was a jagged hole in his cheek, (now bandaged), caused by a sharp branch in the bushes where Billy's horse had knocked him.

After hearing of the increased desertions, Butch turned on the captain. "I _told_ you to make goddamned sure this _didn't_ happen!"

Blake Hudson, held up his hands. "I know. I know! But I did all I fucking could! I _doubled_ the guard and had _my own men_ walking the perimeter!"

"And?" Butch growled.

"Some of _them fucked off_ with the others." Hudson replied quietly, looking like a deflated Captain America doll.

After a prolonged silence, Butch rumbled: "But _you_ didn't fuck off. Why the hell not?"

Hudson looked genuinely shocked. "Why didn't _I_ leave? Why --- because you're my C.O.! _You_ made me a captain when those _other faggots_ wouldn't even keep me on as a fucking _corporal!_ Here I'm your _main man!_ Or, at least, _one_ of them!" His blue eyes lifted to the rolling hills and distant mountains. "Out _there_ I'd be ---"

"Just another crazy fuck with a gun," Butch finished for him.

Captain America shrugged sheepishly; then suddenly 'the wolf' inside him was back. "But we can _still take this bastard_ , sir! Counting your staff, we've got well over thirty _shooters!_ Give Gregory here and his faggot followers guns and we'll have over _forty!_ The fucking Cowboy has what _, eight_ , maybe _nine at the most_ , and at least _three_ of them are fucking women!"

Suzy Rottencrotch uncurled herself from the other plush chair in the camper. Her 'beloved' AK-47 was still on a sling around her lean body, her small hard hand on the worn pistol grip, her ringed finger on the trigger. "And just what the fuck's _wrong_ with _women_ shooters, you jarhead _asswhipe?_ I could clean your clock any fucking day of the _week!_ "

Gregory, in an attempt to lighten the tension in the room with a little humour, leaned forward and placed a well manicured hand on Suzy's shoulder. "Suzy dear, I'm _sure_ the handsome captain here would agree that there is absolutely _nothing_ wrong with 'fucking women shooters' as he so quaintly put it" Gregory paused dramatically and licked his protruding lower limp "Though I much prefer 'fucking _men_ shooters' myself!" Gregory's dark, limped eyes slid back to Hudson and he smiled invitingly.

It took a moment for the veiled insult to sink in, but when it did Hudson flushed red and he started to grab Gregory. What stopped him was the Suzy's smile --- and the stubby barrel of her AK under his throat.

" _Enough!_ " Butch roared. "No more bullshit! From _any_ of you!"

Like angry dogs called to task by their master, the men in the room froze, suspended on the invisible tethers that all lead back to Butch. Hudson and Gregory stood only inches from each other, the one glaring, the other still smiling. Ace, sitting across the crowded isle, slowly lowered his handgun. Only the two women, Cat Lady and Suzy, seemed unconcerned. The former curled up in a relaxed feline position on a small couch and the latter grinning with the anticipation of the pending kill.

"Suzy, I said that's _enough!_ " Butch growled deeply. "Put it down _'now'!_ "

For a moment it looked like she hadn't heard him, being so wrapped up in the heady adrenalin rush of pulling the trigger. Then, almost as though a switch had been flipped, she lowered the AK, smiled sweetly at Butch and went and sat beside Cat Lady. "Sure thing, Babe. _Not_ a problem." She looked up and the smile widened. "Captain America and I can finish this _later._ "

Hudson's smile matched her own. " _Anytime_ , bitch!"

Butch's left hook caught him just below the ear and 'The Captain' was down for the count.

' _Christ that felt good!'_ Butch thought to himself. _'Now, for the fucking Cowboy!'_

***

The rain stopped sometime just after midnight. Strong winds from the mountains had blown all the dark clouds away, leaving a great swath of inky blackness, studded with the blue-white pinpricks of the distant stars. Butch crawled out from under the makeshift 'tent' he had shared with Suzy in the woods several hundred yards behind the Cowboy's ranch. He and the others had silently made there way there soon after the rain had stopped. The attack would begin just after dawn.

Butch stretched carefully, mindful of his wounded leg and ribs, and looked up at the pre-dawn sky. In the east the blackness was fading to a purple bruise, with just a rosy hint of fire to come. It seemed to Butch to be a good open --- not that he gave a flying fuck about such things! Behind him Suzy still slept beneath the crude shelter, curled up in a damp sleeping bag. What could have been either a smile or a grimace of pain appeared on his hard face.

' _Now it can begin!_ ' he said to himself. ' _The fucking final push!!_ '

The thought of seeing the hated 'Cowboy' grovelling at his feet thrilled him. Part of him knew that his hatred had become an obsession; that long ago he should have cut his losses and moved on; but another part of him, the down deep _gut grabbing_ side of him made him stay.

'It's _you, not me_ that will be face down in the fucking grass, asshole!' he inwardly raged. 'I'll put you there myself and _piss_ on your bullet ridden corpse!'

Suddenly Captain Hudson was beside him, saluting, his left ear still red from where Butch had clocked him the night before. "All the troops are in position, sir, just awaiting your orders."

Hudson, if he harboured any animosity towards Bush for decking him, kept it well hidden. Butch turned from the gung-ho psycho and nudged Suzy gently with the toe of his boot.

"Rise n' shine, Hot Cakes. It's a _great day in ta mow-nun!_ "

"Ya? N' what the fuck are you so _'chipper'_ about?" a voice from deep inside the sleeping bag demanded.

"Well, for one thing, you get to play with the big guns today. For another, I get to _kill_ that fucking Cowboy!"

Suzy's head appeared, tousled but still fetching. "Ya? Well, you've tried _that_ before, Bossman, and look what happened."

Butch refused to be baited. Despite all the aches and pains, he felt too good to let her sarcasm get to him. "Better have a quick piss, darlin' --- we're moving out in ten minutes."

***

"In the woods out behind the big barn you say?" a bleary eyed Sam had asked when Hector had woken him in the middle of the night.

Hector had nodded. "My cousin sleeps poorly these days. Bad kidneys. He needs to take a piss three, four times a night. He saw at least a dozen sneaking up the back hill and into the trees."

"What about _out front_?" Sam had asked, worried that the sentry out front might have been silently killed.

Hector Bluejacket shrugged. "He didn't piss out front."

Sam was dressed and armed half a minute later. He was angry with himself because he had organized their defences all to face the front, thinking that, as a 'biker', Butch would naturally come up the long narrow valley from the road as he had before. _'Christ!'_ Sam swore inwardly. _'If they've taken to the hills and woods, they could come at us from all sides!'_

But with a little quiet scrambling however, things were soon 'adjusted'. Jasper had been on guard duty out front and he hadn't seen or heard a thing --- but that didn't mean there weren't some of them out there just the same. Now, just as dawn was about to break in the east, everyone was at their 'station'. The four women were in the main house. Raven and Prudence were upstairs and Candice and Marcy downstairs. Two watched front while the other two watched the back. Will Penny, now delirious, slept fitfully in the back bedroom where Prudence stood guard.

Dell and Billy were in the large summer kitchen set off to one side just behind the main house. This building was closer to the woods that Butch's men had been seen sneaking into. Both Dell and Billy were to fall back to the main house if there proved to be too many for them to keep pinned down.

"You want me to _what?!_ " Dell had demanded earlier when Sam was revising their defensive positions.

" _If and when_ you are forced back to the main house," Sam had explained again to the startled listeners, "I want you to _set fire to the summer kitchen_ so that they can't use it as cover."

Dell scrubbed his head in frustration. "But what if it catches fire to the _main house_? It's damned close to it!"

"But not _that_ close," Sam put in calmly. "Besides, if we just leave it to them they will use it for cover _against_ us."

"Shit!" Dell had complained. "I _hate_ fire!"

The only change needed by the five men stationed in the big barn fifty yards west was that Sergeant Graham had carried his fifty calibre from the front to the back. The upper story of the barn had a large opening front and back from which hay bails could easily be hauled up and stored. Roscoe and Jasper were also in the hay loft with the sergeant, who had stationed them at the various windows. Sam and Elfago would be waiting down below, their horses saddled and ready so that they could to _'take the fight to the enemy'_ when the opportunity arose.

As for _Hector Bluejacket and his dozen Blackfoot braves_ , they had left their mounts in the barn and were now hidden in a thick grove of trees just off to the east of the main house. So as not to confuse them with any of Butch's troops, they had all earlier agreed to wear war paint and fight _shirtless_. All now sat quietly, each wrapped in a blanket, their weapons close at hand, their bodies and faces adorned with various colours and designs.

Everyone waited nervously at their assigned place. Everything was ready: several guns each, extra ammunition, water, bandages. Raven had baked a double batch of her famous oatmeal cookies and provided everyone with a small bag full.

All there was to do now was _wait_. Slowly the sun began to lighten in the east. Darkness slowly gave way to the dawning day, going from black to grey to bark blue, shot through with all the colours of the rainbow.

When the sun finally crested the horizon, it illuminated the distant high peaks first, leaving the lower slopes and the foothills in ever changing shadows. The golden rays worked their way down the ranch's roof, reflecting off the many upstairs windows in the thick walled log house.

It was at these reflecting windows that Suzy Rottencrotch now had her gunners fire. The big guns were still mounted in the back of their respective jeeps. So as not to be heard, Suzy had gotten Butch to order a ten man squad _to push_ the two vehicles slowly the last hundred yards up the muddy driveway. They now sat astride the long, winding entrance to the ranch, spitting out death and destruction at the heavenly glass.

***
**Chapter 39** **: 'A Tangled Web'**  
 ** **

Luckily Raven had drank three cups of tea with breakfast, so she was in the upstairs bathroom when the .50 cal slugs came ripping through the window that she had just left. Also luckily for Prudence and her fever ridden patient, Will Penny, was the fact that Suzy and her crew were shooting _uphill_ , which meant that the .50's slugs that passed through Raven's empty window at a 45 degree upward angle and did _not_ pass through either Prudence, Will or the back window that Prudence had been looking out. Instead they zipped in the front, tore trough the upper part of the inner wall, continued climbing on across the hall into the back bedroom where Prudence waited and buried themselves in the thick, heavy logs just below the ceiling.

With every fifth one being a tracer round, yellow-white lines of phosphorous streaked into the night and into the wooden building. Due to the heavy rain that had fallen, the outside logs were only scorched by the hot but fast burning chemical. Inside however, the plaster and splintered wood began to smoulder in several places.

Over a hundred yards away, Suzy stood in the deep shadows watching while her gunners stitched their way along the line of the second story windows. A look of something close to rapture showed on her face as the muzzle flashes of the big guns stabbed their fiery tongues into the fast fading darkness and the tracer bullets drew searing lines from gun barrel to target.

Then one gun ran dry, soon followed by the second.

" _Reload!_ " Suzy ordered, her voice husky and aroused. Guns in the dark had always made her horny. "But wait till the sun hits the lower windows. Then let them have it. After that we'll move closer!"

"Ammo's goin' down fast at this rate, Sooze," Teddy, her number one gunner yelled. "Only got two belts left. Dutch. How many you got?"

"One and the one I'm putting in now," Dutch replied from the back of the second jeep.

"Fuck!" Suzy cursed. "I thought we had more than that!"

" _Did have_ ," Dutch said. "Till those crazy _Iseley brothers_ come along. Those bastards took most of the extra cans for themselves. Left us _dick-all!_ "

Teddy barked out a laugh. "Ya! N' just look what it got 'em! Shot full of holes n' then burnt to _Crispy Critters_ when their fuckin' truck caught fire!"

Suzy smiled. In the semi-darkness it looked more like a snarl. "No great loss _there_ , except for the _guns and ammo_. Switch from full auto to _triple_ burst. And make it fucking _last!_ "

***

Raven lay on the bathroom floor, face down, hands over the back of her head waiting for the shooting to stop. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, it did.

Slowly she rolled over, her eyes seeing the holes high in the wooden door and the chipped plaster of the bathroom wall above the toilet. _'Good thing I was sitting down,'_ she thought.

" _Mother!_ Mother, where _are_ you?!" a voice yelled.

' _That's Marcy. Worried about Prue',_ Raven thought.

Footsteps on the stairs.

"Mother! _Answer me!_ "

"I'm _fine_ , Marcy," Prudence replied "Will is too. Check on Raven."

More footsteps, closer now. Still in a daze, Raven got to her feet, straightened the long skirt she wore and stepped out of the bathroom.

Suddenly a gun was in her face, then just a quickly lowered. Candice blushed and mumbled an apology.

"Don't be _silly_ , girl," Raven smiled. "You did the right thing, but now hand me that fire extinguisher over there. Those _bastards_ are trying to burn my house down!"

Candice handed the heavy red cylinder to Raven, who, quite expertly sprayed the several small fires the tracers had caused. "Just like puttin' out a grease fire in the kitchen. Lord knows, with all the _bacon_ I've fried up over the years, I've had my share of them! Lets you and I go check the others."

Mother and daughter met them in the hall. "Everyone alright?" Raven asked. Prudence nodded, indicating the bullet holes high in the hallway walls. Raven's fire extinguisher was needed again.

"How's Will?" Marcy asked, her green eyes going towards the semi-delirious man in the bed.

"He's still out of his head whenever he 'wakes' up, but at least he wasn't hit again!"

Just then the .50's opened up on the downstairs windows. Wood splintered, glass shattered and the sound hurt their ears All four women rushed into the back bedroom Prudence had just left.

"Keep down till it stops!" Marcy yelled. "When they're _reloading_ we can rush to the front windows and empty our guns into them!"

Lifting her head up, Prudence looked lovingly at her golden haired daughter. 'That's _my_ girl alright! Give 'em _hell_ , honey!'

Her gaze then turned back to the feverish man on the bed.

***

Billy, looking anxiously out the front door of the summer kitchen, turned and spoke to Dell Ross guarding one of the back windows. "They're shooting the _shit_ out of the big house! We've got to go help the _women!_ "

Dell glared at him from the shadows by the open window. "We _stay_ right here, just like Sam _told_ us to."

"But the _women?_ Candice...?"

"Are either _fine_ or _not_ fine, Dell said coldly. "Us rushing in there only gives them _more targets_. Now get the fuck _back_ here!"

Reluctantly Billy returned to the second rear window. He flinched every time he heard a slug from one of the .50's hit the log walls of the big house, his mind's eye seeing it tare Candy's soft, slender body to bloody ribbons.

" _There!_ " Dell hissed. "On the far right. By the _edge_ of the woods!"

Billy peered into the gloom. Though the sun had been over the horizon for some time now, the east side of the woods was still in deep shadow. It was through this shadow that darker forms now moved. Like mutant bees, they flitted form tree to rock to bush, their metal stingers held out before them.

He squeezed his own weapon tightly. It was the only automatic rifle they had, apart from the big .50 the sergeant now manned up in the barn. It had been in the back of the military jeep he and Candice had taken when Butch and his gang had chased them out of Cut Bank. _'Was it really only a week or so ago?'_ his mind questioned. _'It seems like forever!'_

He looked down at the weapon. Some kind of modified M-16. An _M-4_ he thought the sergeant had called it. There was a night scope and a tube underneath the main barrel for launching grenades. The sergeant had showed him how to use both.

"Make sure this switch is down when you use the grenade launcher" the big, silver haired man had said. "It'll go out like a tennis ball and just about as far. This six-pack has four explosives, marked with red and two flares marked with yellow. All six will kick ass!"

Right now, with Butches minions trying hard to kill everyone, including 'his' Candice, Billy _really_ wanted to kick some ass! He flicked the switch down and loaded a Red, turned on the night scope and carefully rested the stubby barrel on the window sill. Several pair of legs and lower bodies suddenly appeared in the fuzzy green scope. Slowly he sucked in a breath and squeezed the trigger.

***

Sergeant George 'Pops' Graham had watched from the dark maw of the barn's hayloft as the two big 50's had lit up the night. He'd heard their raking fire tear up the front of the big log house and blow out the windows. He noted how the tracers fizzled against the thick, wet logs. The sergeant had also marked the gun's positions.

' _Down the grassy slope, a little over two hundred yards away,'_ he calculated. No great distance for a marksman with his experience, but three things held him back from returning fire: He was low on ammo and wanted to conserve what he had for 'sure kills', he didn't want to give up the element of surprise --- and a large oak tree was in the motherfucking _way!_

' _But they'll move closer,_ ' he reasoned _. 'They always move closer. Then they're mine!'_

***

"Move up another hundred yards!" Suzy ordered the two drivers, while in the back of the jeeps Teddy and Dutch fed their last ammo belts into the hungry, hot .50's.

Teddy snapped the receiver down and shrugged. "That's all she wrote, Sooze. We both gotta belt left. Seventy-five rounds a piece n' then its up close n' fuckin' _personal_!"

Teddy ran his eyes hungrily over her lush, hard body. He had wanted her since he had first seen her two years ago when she came to Chicago University, but he believed her _way_ out of his league. His style was either coked up college girls or paid for pros. She however, was something else _altogether!_ Always with the Number One guy. Back in U. of C. it had been the football jock, the basketball jock, the rich kid with the fastest car or the smiling fuck who could put weekend ski trips to Aspin on daddy's MasterCard. After the world went into the fucking crapper she had hooked up with various hard cases and finally that asshole Lord Troy. When that blonde surfer-dude that couldn't fucking surf _finally_ got his ticket punched, she had just naturally moved on to Butch; a move that not only once again that put her out of his league, but out of his fucking _orbit!_

Then, last night, during the thunderstorm, when everyone was scrambling around trying to find someplace dry, she was suddenly _there_. It was only a half assed lean-to type shelter he'd made from pine boughs over a fallen log, some shit he half remembered from Boy Scouts a zillion fucking years ago --- but it had been enough. She had crawled in beside him and wordlessly, snuggled close. The rest, as they say, was history.

Now, after doing the bump n' grind all night long, the bitch acted like _nothing_ had ever happened! He was _still_ just a big bozo that worked the big gun and she was still the Ice Cunt form the Land of Fuck You Jack!

' _Well, we'll just_ see _who's the Big Guy after all_ this _shit's over!'_ Teddy inwardly schemed. _"Who knows? Just_ maybe _'Lord Fucking Butch' will take a round in the back of his head_ \--- then _we'll see who she runs to!'_

As the two jeeps came to a stop less than a hundred yards from the big log ranch house, they suddenly came under fire themselves. Bullets whizzed by, cut swaths in the ground and either pinged off or dug into the jeep's metal bodies. Teddy dragged his eyes off her and looked at the big building. " _Rifle_ fire!" he yelled. 'Coming from the _top_ windows! _Waist the fuckers!_ "

Suzy grabbed her AK-47, jumped down and quickly moved off to the right so as to get clear of whoever was firing from the house. Ahead of her in the shadows loomed a large barn. She checked her weapon and began to jog towards the tall building.

***

As the two .50's began to return fire, all four women quickly retreated to the back room, where, as before, because of the up-hill angle, they were below the incoming led. Chips of wood, wall and plaster filled the back room, but the bullets passed well above the four crouched around the still unconscious Will Penny's bed. Prudence, her body more than half covering the man, brushed bits of plaster and ash from his weathered face. In a few places the tracer rounds had left a smouldering flicker of flame, however Raven and her trusty red cylinder soon made short work of them.

Back in the summer kitchen, Billy gently squeezed the trigger on the _modified M-16._ There was a hollow _'boop'_ sound and the grenade arced out into the greyish dawn. A second latter the shadows in front of the woods lit up as a fireball exploded amidst the darker moving shadows. Through his scope Billy saw the flash, was momentarily blinded himself, then, when his vision returned, he saw mangled legs, arms and bodies strewn about like so many broken toy soldiers.

" _Jeeee-zus!_ " Billy breathed, sucking in air as though he'd just run a race. At the other back window, Dell was firing into the greying light. Shadows flitted away. Some made it, some didn't. Dell kept firing till his gun emptied.

Up in the hayloft Sergeant Graham saw the fuzzy shape of the two jeeps come to a stop about seventy-five yards away from his position. Every second the gray light became brighter, defining shapes and allowing some colour to bleed through. The sergeant clearly heard a male voice shout: ' _Waist the fuckers!_ ' just before the two .50's opened up again.

Twin tongues of flame chased back the gloom around the two jeeps, turning them into a pool of light in an outer ring of darkness. To Sergeant Graham looking down from the blackness of the hayloft, it looked like a glowing bullseye --- which, of course, was _exactly_ what the pair of jeeps had turned into.

Smiling, the sergeant set about his gruesome work. Hunkering down, he snuggled the stock of the big gun into his shoulder, pressed his cheek lovingly against the smooth wood, flipped the switch to full auto and gently caressed the trigger.

The heavy, fifty caliber slugs streaked down like Zeus's lightning bolts from on high, ripping their way back and forth between the two vehicles. On the first pass a front tire went, the hood rippled, the windshield shattered, both the driver and his seat were riddled and Dutch, frantically yanking at the lever that would get his own .50 working, had his left foot shot off and his kneecap pulverized.

Sergeant Graham now concentrated on the second jeep. Still depressing the trigger, he walked the perforated barrel to his left. Tires blew, metal twisted, glass shattered and men died \--- _but not Teddy_ , for he had seen Suzy jump free moments before and once he realized that his _particular_ 'Elvis had left the building', like any dedicated fan, he decided to follow. He was a dozen yards away from the second jeep when a tracer round hit the ten gallon reserve gas tank and both vehicles exploded in a fireball that, for a brief moment, rivalled the brightness of the rising sun.

Teddy was bowled over by the blast and sent sprawling; Suzy, much closer to the barn, felt a sudden shove from behind by an invisible hand and Sergeant Graham, up above in his 'doorway of death', was momentarily blinded by the fiery blast.

When a slightly daze Teddy looked up, he saw that Suzy the Ice Queen was headed into the very heart of the heart of the beast --- directly towards the barn where the heavy firing had come from. Like all the other foolish _Lancelots_ before him, he forced himself to his feet and frantically scrambled after his cold hearted _Gwenevere_.

***

Off to his right Butch saw the rising sun briefly eclipsed by the fireball. Then the blast force rocked the jeep he was in. Twisted bits of metal flew through the air like angry hornets. With a _'thump'_ , part of a severed leg landed on the hood.

" _Move it!_ " he yelled at his driver.

The kid, no more than eighteen, nineteen at the most, looked all of twelve. "Www---where to, Sss—sir?"

Butch turned on him all his pent up wrath. He shoved his trusty sawed off 12 gage side-by-side in the kids face. "Where the fuck do you _think_ , asshole! _Up the fucking hill!"_

With both a grinding of gears and a loosening of bowels, the jeep slewed its way up towards the sun washed ranch house.

***

Captain Blake Hudson flinched when he saw the fireball, then turned his attention back to the walkie-talkie he had been screaming into.

"Johansson! Where the fuck _are_ you?! Johansson! Come _in_ you gutless fuck!"

Spittle flew from his contorted mouth. His eyes were wild and protruding, yet from the device in his clenched fist there came --- Nothing. Nawda! Zipp!

Johansson was either dead or had deserted --- and Hudson's money was on the _latter!_ The once-demoted-corporal-now-captain just _knew_ in his heart that Johansson, like so many other of the candy-assed little fagots, had decided to head for the fucking hills!

'Goddamsomovabitch cowardly bastards --- every goddamned _one_ of the mutherfuckers!' he raged.

Captain Blake Hudson was most definitely _not_ having a good day. Things had been fucked up from the very start and since then had gotten a hellova lot worse! As a military man, he knew the old saying that _'no plan survives the battlefield'_ , but this was just _ridiculous!_ Everywhere he turned it seemed like just _one giant fuck-up after another!_ No communication, no organization, no initiative and _no fucking balls!_

"I _told_ Butch not to trust that asswipe Johanson with the back-door play, but _oohhhh no!_ No-one ever listens to _me!_ " Hudson saw nothing strange with the fact that he was talking to himself. It was a trait he had done all his life, especially when under stress --- though the habit _had_ increased quite a bit lately.

Then, off to the left he saw Butch's jeep head up the hill. " _That's it, troops!_ " he screamed, waving his arms at the scattered young men and women all around him. " _Sergeants! Form up your squads! Up the fucking hill at the double quick! Move! Move! Move!"_

_Hudson's sniper squad_ of 'chosen men' were quick to respond. Taking their lead from their exalted leader, they bullied and screamed at the remaining troops who reluctantly, sluggishly began to shuffle up the hill.

***
**Chapter 40** **: 'Things Heat Up!'  
**  
 ** **

Not being trained for it, Sam's horse had balked at all the gunfire, and when the hot brass shells from the .50 had rained down on them, he was hard pressed to control the beast.

Beside him, Elfago was having a much easier time. When Sam frowned at him the old Mexican just shrugged. Though he couldn't see it in the darkness of the barn, Sam knew a gold tooth would be showing.

Then the explosion had gone off and Sam had nearly been thrown from the saddle. " _Woooh_ there girl! _Steady_ now!" His mare tried to run but he held her in check. Her large eyes were wild with fright. Gently he patted her neck and lifted his head towards the hayloft.

"George, what the _hell's_ happening?"

"Tracer round hit the gastank. Both their big guns are _gone!_ "

Sam's mare tried to kick Elfago's gelding. Sam reined her in then called up again. "What about the _troops?_ "

"Looks like they're moving up the hill. A jeep is out in front. Could be Butch in it. Still too dark to see."

"Can you take it out?"

A chuckle floated down from above. "Does a bear shit in the woods?"

***

"Not in the _open_ , asshole!" Butch shouted at his driver. "Use the _trees_ for cover!"

The jeep zigged and zagged its way up the grassy slope, keeping trees, rocks, fences, bushes, anything they could between them and the now fully illuminated barn.

" _Ya! That's it_ , kid! Now, _smash_ through that fence!"

"But if full of horses over there!"

"That's the fucking _idea_ , kid. The Cowboy won't shoot his precious horses! Now _get in there_ anfnd _follow_ the ones that run _up hill!_ "

As the fenceboards flew Sergeant Graham finally opened up on them. He hadn't anticipated Butch using the land for cover and so the jeep was over half way to the house before he got a clear shot. _Now_ the bastard was in among the horses!

"Sonovabitch!" the sergeant swore, while at the same time part of him could appreciate Butch's tactics. "The bugger's smarter than I thought!" he muttered to himself.

There was another smashing of fenceboards and the jeep was out of the main coral and disappeared around the far end of the barn.

Sergeant Graham turned to the two young men behind him. Both Jasper and Roscoe had been firing out the back, trying their best to keep the troops attacking from the rear to make it to the back of the main house. Billy and Dell had been doing the same from the back and side of the summer kitchen. Many dead and wounded lay strewn in the tall grass, but several had made it to the house.

" _Roscoe! Jasper!_ " the sergeant yelled. "A _jeep_ just went round the far side. Check it out!"

The two young men were both reluctant to quite their post, knowing full well that to do so would allow even more of the enemy to reach the back of the main house. They eyed each other silently.

"I'll go," Roscoe said. "You're _already_ wounded."

"Like _hell_ you say! This here's only a scratch." Jasper reddened. "You sayin' I'm a pussy?!"

Roscoe's smile widened. "No Jass, I aint. What I _am_ sayin' is you're stayin' put!

And with that he was gone.

" _Shit!_ " Jasper swore, and then returned to firing out the back window.

***

Hector Bluejacket was having trouble keeping his dozen painted braves from launching themselves down the hill. It had been easier in the darkness, but now that the sun had lit up not just the house, but the valley as well, the young men could clearly see the enemy advancing from two directions at once; through the forest behind the main building and up the long, grassy hill out in front.

When the fireball from the blown jeep went off, it had been impossible to hold them. Like something out of an old 1950's western, over a dozen horses erupted from the woods on the far side of the ranch house. Hector led half the riders around the front while his cousin, Harry Red Wing took the other half around back. Shouts and war cries that hadn't been heard in nearly two centuries once again filled the bright, cool Montana morning.

"Dat does it, Mr. Sam!" Elfago, mounted and ready, watched through a high window in the front of the barn. "Hector n' hees boys are _out n' runnin'!_ "

Sam tugged his hat down, tightened his left hand grip on the reins and pulled one of Wild Bill's Navy Colt's from its holster he'd tied to the front of his saddle. The twin .38 hung on the other side. High on his right hip was the Scofield and in its cross draw rig on his belt was a .45 Army Colt. Sam figured using a rifle on a running horse would be too _awkward_ and having four handguns would give him _twenty-four shots_ before he had to reload.

'Christ!' he had reasoned earlier, 'I'll probably be _dead_ before that happens!' Just in case though, he had his old Winchester behind him in a saddle scabbard on one side and an eight gage _coach gun_ on the other. Big Jim had always told him that it was 'better to have _more_ gun than not enough. Pea-shooters don't stop _grizzlies!_ '

Now that his horse was free of the noisy confines of the barn, she quickly got into her stride. Elfago was stirrup to stirrup beside him as the two horsemen raced down the grassy hill. Bullets whizzed by like angry hornets, but the men expertly guided their mounts over the rolling terrain, firing their pistols as they flashed by the startled clumps of soldiers.

One Navy was already empty! Sam holstered it and drew its twin and fired.

A shoulder hit.

Another.

A leg wound.

A third shot.

Right between the eyes.

Sam was trying his best to wound rather than to kill, but firing a handgun from a galloping horse does not make for accurate marksmanship. Sam was just glad if he _hit_ something.

Suddenly he was at the base of the hill with no-one left to fight. He had ridden right through the scattered marchers! His heart pounding, he checked both himself and his mount for wounds.

He found several, but none of them serious.

His horse had a long graze along its left flank that bled freely but wasn't deep. One ear now had a two inch notch in it.

As for himself, the left sleeve of his shirt was red with blood but the arm still worked fine. The same could be said of the right leg of his jeans. He could feel blood gathering in his boot, but so far no pain.

' _I guess that'll come soon enough!'_ he reasoned.

"Mister Sam! Mister _Sam!_ "

Sam looked up and saw Elfago some thirty yards away, calmly sitting his horse reloading his ancient revolver. Even at that distance Sam caught sight of a glint of a gold tooth.

' _Tough old bastard!'_ Sam though to himself. _'May as well load up while the horses take a breather,'_ he reasoned. Not knowing exactly _how_ many shots he had fired, Sam dumped all six shells from the Navy and put in new ones. By the time he had done the same with the second one, Elfago was at his side.

" _Oooooweee!_ Dat was _some_ ride!" Elfago exclaimed.

Sam grinned at the old man. He seemed unscathed, except that the high crown of his battered sombraro now sported a large air hole font and back. His gelding seemed to have been as lucky as its rider.

Suddenly a high, piercing war cry sounded and the two men looked up. Hector Bluejacket and a half dozen riders were weaving in and out of the scattered troops, firing as they went.

Sam thought he saw one young brave, his naked torso covered with paint, brandishing a tomahawk!

"Ready to go again, Mr. Sam?"

For an answer Sam dug in his heels and his mare leapt forward.

***

"They just keep coming!" Candice cried, putting down her empty Winchester and reaching for her spare.

Marcy, busy tying a makeshift bandage around her wounded left arm, grinned back at her new best friend. "Just more targets for us, Candy! Keep shooting!"

The two girls were firing out the back at the troops coming out of the woods. They were in the large living room that took up over half of the downstairs. As a precaution against just such an attack, most the downstairs windows, including the wide picture window in the front, had been boarded up over a week ago. Prudence and Raven were firing from upstairs, one out the front, the other out the back

"Hell!" Candice swore. "I missed two of them and now their up against the bloody wall!"

"Are they at the far end or between us?" Marcy demanded, the smile gone from her pretty face.

"Between us!" came the answer.

"Good!" The smile was back, but a cold light danced in her green eyes as she put down her Winchester and drew her revolver. "Sick your rifle way out the window and leave it there."

"Why?"

Just do it, now!"

Candice did as she was told.

After three seconds, Marcy suddenly thrust her upper body outside her window and faced in Candice's direction.

Six shots in rapid succession and she was back in and breathing hard. The smile was gone but the cold light still glittered in her eyes.

"Did you get them?!"

Marcy nodded, then began to quickly reload.

" _Both?_ "

"There was three of them" --- then: "One of them was a woman."

Candice blinked, swallowed, then searched for another target.

There weren't any.

***

Captain Blake Hudson had seen Butch's jeep swing round the far end of the big barn. He'd also seen the riders streak down the hill, scattering his troops like a sudden gust of wind scatters fallen leaves!

' _Painted like fucking Indians!_ ' his mind screamed. ' _One of the bastards nearly brained me with a goddamned tomahawk!_ '

Hudson had been urging his troops to stand and fight the attacking riders that wove in and out all around them. Hudson was surprised to see that a number of them were dressed like Indians from old 'westerns' --- though one or two seemed to have weirdly painted clown faces!

Then he'd heard hooves drumming the earth behind him. Turning he saw a wild eyed horse bearing down on him, it's rider, shirtless and smeared with either blood or paint, was leaning out towards him. Sunlight glinted off the curved blade of the small axe he was swinging.

Thwack!

The axehead struck the space age plastic stock of Hudson's M-16. The rifle saved his life but had been knocked out of his hands. Within several heartbeats the painted brave had somehow spun his mount around on its hind legs and was hurtling back towards the startled captain. Once again the curved blade caught the sun's rays as the wide eyed mount and rider came back for the killing stroke.

Heart pounding, knees shaking, Hudson had found himself holding his service pistol in a two-handed grip. The horse and rider appeared over the iron sight, growing larger every second. The brave's mouth was open but all Hudson could hear was the pounding of his own heart mingled with the horses hooves. Oddly enough they sounded like bongos and the ghost of an old Rolling Stones song flitted across his adrenalin charged brain.

' _Who, Who, Who! --- Pleased to meet you._

Hope you, guess my name.'

The .45 automatic bucked like a bastard in his hand!

Two for the rider.

Two for his horse.

Then Hudson dove off to the side as the dead rider and the dying animal crashed to the ground and slid several feet on the dew-slick grass.

Two more for the horse --- just because, way down deep, Blake Hudson was a 'nice guy'.

The thrashing and snorting had stopped.

The bongos however, hadn't.

Blakie-Boy turned to the fallen rider lying close by on his back --- his sightless eyes already staring up into eternity. Just for the hell of it, 'Nice Guy' Blakie-Boy tapped the dead body twice more!

Suddenly panic began to grab hold of Captain Hudson like an old junkyard dog. It sank its icy teeth deep into his spine and sent _fear_ , not pain, coursing through his body.

Feeling fear was a _new_ sensation for him --- and _that_ frightened him all the more!

'What _is_ this shit!?' a part of his brain demanded. 'Why do I feel like crawling in a fucking _hole_ and hiding my face?! Just because some fucker dressed like a _Indian/Clown_ came at me with a fucking axe? That's _bullshit_ , man! I've been in knife fights before! I've even had fucking ragheads come at me with fucking _machetes!_ So why the fuck _now?_ "

' _Because now, Blakie-boy, you've finally got something to loose!'_

Each word rang inside his head like a bronze bell! It was the voice of a stranger, powerful, _almost_ frightening \--- yet strangely _familiar_.

'What the fuck does _that_ mean? And what the fuck do you _want_ anyway?!" Hudson's inner self demanded.

Silence however was the only answer.

A long, stretched out silence. So deep and so profound that it blocked out everything else. The men and women fighting and dying all around him; the battle; the army; his troops \--- _all_ of it mattered not a bit. All that _did_ matter was 'The Stranger's' voice.

When it came again it was in the tone of a kindly grandfather that Hudson had never known but always secretly yearned for.

' _Blakie, you are frightened now because you are terrified of loosing your newfound purpose for living._

Hudson scrubbed at his close-cropped head in frustration. 'Ya, well I still don't know what the fuck you are talking about!'

(Chuckle chuckle)

As usual, Blakie, you go directly to the point.

I've always liked that about you! So therefore I shall do the same. The reason you are alive, quite simply put, is to kill other human beings. That skill alone dwarfs all your other meager talents and shines forth like a beacon of light!

The words shocked Hudson with their raw, honest power, yet at the same time they opened a long locked door deep within him. Then --- like a hard slap --- loud, rhythmic drumming struck him! There was something frightening familiar about it as well and his heart began to pound all the faster.

Who Who Who? Who Who Who?

The driving, demented bongo beat punched at both his chest and his memory. The door deep in his brain swung wider and \--- _The Dark Stranger_ stepped out singing.

The song raced through Blake's head, images blurring with memories, pleasure blurring with pain, until after the last line was delivered:

Pleased to meet you, Blakie! Hope you guess my name!

For once you've guessed it, Blakie ---

Your life will never be the same!

Then, back on that bloodstained hillside, Blake Hudson had had enough of being jerked around. He told both the old fart as well as Mick & the lads _exactly_ what he felt!

'Shut that fucking music off, stop dancing around like a skinny assholeand _tell_ me, damn you! Just what the fuck do you _want_ from me?!'

The music stopped and the _'Who Who Who'_ shit faded away and the band vanished stage left. _The Voice,_ however, was still there. Mental image of various smiling Santa Clauses floated before his mind's eye.

Isn't it obvious, Blakie?

I want you to fulfill your 'potential'.

I want you to truly be 'all you can be'!

The Voice then lost it's gentleness and Santa's smile vanished.

I want you to be First among my Harvester of Souls!

I want you to stack them up at my feet like cord wood!

And in return --- I shall rise you up among the High!

Hudson felt the words strike him like blows. Inwardly he reeled. _'You want me to what?'_ his brain stammered, the words tiny and timid.

The Stranger's voice was once again that of the kindly grandfather. 'It's really quite simple, Blakie. I want you to continue doing what you do best --- _killing people._ And as a reward I will give you that which you have always longed for. Not only will you be _respected_ , but you will be _feared_ as well.

Men will tremble when you pass and women will fall at your feet. You shall become one of the _'Masters of the World'_.

You shall be like --- a god. And many years from now, when you yourself are ready to pass on, you will go knowing that your life did indeed have a _'special meaning.'_

Well, Blakie, what say you? Do we have a deal?'

A moment, a second, an eternity passed.

And then the long, heartfelt answer.

' _YESSSSS !'_

***

With Sam and Elfago out riding with Hector and his braves, the bottom of the barn was unguarded. Sergeant Graham was up in the hayloft with the .50 calibre and Roscoe and Jasper were manning the top windows, however Roscoe had gone to check out the jeep that had made it up to the far side of the barn --- the jeep that contained Butch and his young driver.

***

"Kill the engine and give me the bloody keys," Butch ordered. "Good. Now get out and stay the fuck _behind me!_ "

Dave the driver scrambled to obey, scooping up his rifle and helmet. His eyes were wide and his breathing fast. Butch frowned and nodded at the bag of extra clips for the guns.

"Well? _Get them_ , for Christ sake!"

"Yes Sir!" Dave squeaked.

Sounds of battle came from both in front and behind the large barn, but in their little tree enclosed area, all was silent and still.

Butch checked the clip in his rifle, stuffed two more in his flak vest and motioned for Dave to take up his position several paces behind him.

That done, Butch silently moved towards the small door set in the side of the barn.

***

Roscoe looked through the top side window. The rising sun was streaming through the dirty glass, illuminating the millions of dust motes floating in the air and making a dappled rainbow on the dry, warped planks. Roscoe leaned in a little more and got tangled in a spiderweb, it's creator, sleeping in the center, scurried off to safety. Once his eyes and nose was wiped clear, Roscoe saw the empty jeep parked not twelve feet below.

'Shit!' Roscoe growled inwardly, his eyes flicking to the ladder leading to the ground floor. 'Only one way down, son!' he said to himself. 'Best _get 'er done!_ '

***

Butch, once his eyes became adjusted to the gloom, saw the ladder leading up to the loft. He could hear the distinctive bark of the .50 coming from up there, probably at the middle by those open doors he'd seen earlier.

' _Fucking Pops!_ ' he cursed silently. _'I'll soon teach that bastard a lesson he'll take to his fucking grave!'_ Slinging his M-16 across his back, he pulled the stubby cut-off shotgun he had thrust in him belt and went up the ladder one handed, the side-by-side ready in the other. _'With any luck,'_ he reasoned, _'I'll catch come up behind the fucker!'_

Driver Dave, trying his best not to shake, stood at the base of the ladder with his rifle at the ready. Butch was over half way up when the door they had just entered opened again. Silhouetted in the yellow light was a figure with a gun. Dave, almost shitting his pants, spun round and let go a continuous burst in the door's direction.

Then Dave's gun jammed and he stood there slack jawed and shaking.

The silhouette at the doorway had fallen inside the barn. Its twin that had been following close behind was knocked back outside, one booted foot still hooked over the raised door jam. As Dave frantically tried to clear his weapon, two more silhouettes darkened the door, the muzzle flashes of their own weapons lighting up the darkness as they fired point black into the fear-struck young driver.

" _What the fuck?!"_ Butch yelled down from the top of the ladder, then, not waiting for an answer, scrambled the rest of the way through the opening and into the loft. He looked quickly around for Pops, but his view was limited.

' _Haybails!'_ he thought. _'Fucking haybails stacked to the fucking ceiling!'_ He rolled clear of the ladder's opening and pressed his back against the musty smelling wall of hay. The M-16 dug into his back in a reassuring way. With both hands on the stubby shotgun, he slowly peered around the corner. A familiar smile greeted him from less than thirty feet away.

"Butchie-boy! _Glad_ ta see ya!" Sergeant Graham grinned, standing there like Rambo with the heavy .50 supported on his right hip and its ammo belt draped over his outstretched left arm.

In the enclosed space the heavy gun sounded like a cannon barrage. The good sergeant emptied the entire belt in Butch's direction, riddling the wall of thick haybails and tearing a dozen holes in the far wall. Sunlight streamed in them, turning golden the many pieces of floating straw in the smoke filled air. Tracer bullets had set a half dozen or more small fires, which were spreading quickly in the dry straw. Thick, yellowish-white smoke floated upward on the rapidly heating air.

Between the sergeant's greeting and his pulling of the trigger, Butch had tossed the stubby shotgun aside and dove head first back down the ladder. Using feet as well as hands, he managed to stop himself before slamming into the floor. Though his wounded leg and ribs still pained him, he rolled off the ladder and landed on something softer than the plank flooring.

Looking beneath him he saw the bullet riddled body of Davey his driver. Suddenly before him he saw several sets of uniformed legs. The combined smells of shit and burning straw filled the air, with the former being much stronger than the latter. Butch rolled off Davey's stinking corpse and a gloved hand reached down to help him to his feet. Butch looked up into the blue eyes of Lieutenant Bobby Johansson.

"Sir!" Johansson snapped off a salute.

Butch got to his feet and quickly sized up the situation.

The hayloft was on fire. Unless something was done, the entire barn would soon be ablaze. "Lieutenant, that cocksucker 'Pops' is up there with a .50 cal! Have your men take care of both the fire and him!"

"Right away, Sir!" Johansson replied, motioning six of his men towards the ladder.

Butch glanced down at the boy's body. Two others were dead over near the far door. He looked back at the crumpled body at his feet.

' _The idiot shot those two as they came in,'_ he reasoned _. 'Then Johansson's men shot him! Stupid little fuck got what he deserved!_ ' Butch then turned his attention to the _'real'_ problem.

"Lieutenant, have we reached the _main house_ yet?"

" _Almost_ , Sir. Lord Ace is handling the rear attack. He sent me to secure this barn."

"Have you seen Captain Hudson?"

Johansson never batted an eye. "I believe the captain is taking heavy casualties out front, Sir. The riders are _very_ good."

"Have _any_ of our troops reached the house yet?" Butch asked.

"Three made it to the back wall, Sir."

" _And?"_

Johansson swallowed. "A woman shot all three of them."

"A _woman?!_ " Butch repeated.

"Yes, Sir. A young blonde _._ "

Butch just shook his head. "Send your best man and three others to _find Captain Hudson and bring him to me_. Tell them to _use force_ if they have to. You stay here and take care of that shithead traitor upstairs. When you have _both_ Hudson and the traitor, _bring them both to me_. I'll be _out back_ with Lord Ace. _Clear?_ "

"Yes, Sir --- except for one thing, Sir."

"Ya? What?

"The traitor, Sir. Do you want him dead or alive?"

Butch seemed to ponder for a moment, then smiled. " _Alive_ if possible --- but _dead_ will do."

"Yes _Sir!_ "

***

When the sergeant had cut loose with the .50, _Roscoe hit the floor_. He had wriggled into a narrow space between the back wall and the large mound of stacked haybails, all the while hearing the soft 'hissing' sound as the led smacked into the densely packed bundles of straw. The bullets that flew over the stacked bails went on to punch neat, round holes in the side wall of the barn. The sound was deafening as the entire belt of ammo was used up. Then the shooting had stopped. At first he wasn't quite sure, due to the loud ringing in his ears. A growing cloud of smoke hung in the air. As Roscoe peered out, he saw tiny bits of burning straw drifting on the breeze. Looking down the length of the barn he saw several haybails already burning.

' _Those bloody tracer shells!'_ he cursed inwardly. _'Christ, the whole place will be burning in minutes!'_

Then he saw the sergeant's head advancing through the low hanging smoke. Jasper's pale face was close behind. Roscoe glanced over at the ladder protruding through the trap door, saw it was still empty and stepped out and called softly: "Sergeant Graham! Jasper! It's _Roscoe!_ "

As he quickly moved towards the two men, a helmeted head suddenly poked up from the trap door. In the swirling smoke it took both Roscoe and the soldier a second to see each other. When they did they both raised their weapons and fired.

***

" _Prudence!_ What's happening?!"

The voice was raspy and weak, but unmistakably Will Penny's.

"Will? _Will!_ Oh, _thank God!_ " The Widow Horn rushed to the bed. Taking the fever-wracked man's hand she gazed lovingly down at the man lying in the sweat-stained sheets. Though his grip was not as strong as it should be, the look in his eyes was just as fierce as ever.

The sound of shooting from both inside and outside turned the look even fiercer. "Are you hurt?"

Fighting back tears, Prudence shook her head.

"And Marcy?!"

"Fine."

The man nodded, then looked around the room. He saw Marcy at the back window, loading a Winchester. "They're attacking the house?"

"Since dawn. Two, three hours now. Here, take some water."

After the drink, Will pulled on his wide brim hat and attempted to rise.

" _William Penny!_ What the _hell_ are you doing?"

Through the pain, he managed to swing around and give her his best frown.

"I'm fixing to do a little shooting, woman. Fetch me my guns."

Prudence tried to get him to lay back but he wouldn't hear of it. Not surprisingly, Marcy was on Will's side.

"Ma, sit him up in a chair by the other window. He can load for us and maybe even get a shot or two off."

Will glanced over at the young woman that he lovingly thought of as his own daughter. Their eyes met and he managed a smile. "At least _one_ of the Horn women has some sense. Now Prue, kindly help me over to the _bloody window!"_

***
**Ch** **apter 41: 'As Ye Sow'  
**

Johansson's sergeant found Captain Hudson in the thick of battle. He and his men were three quarters of the way up the hill and firing at the front of the house. The riders, though still weaving in and out like wraiths from Hell, had clearly taken casualties of their own.

Hudson, surrounded by an armed group of followers he called his 'chosen men', was striding up the hill as though out for a casual stroll. The sergeant hastily saluted and delivered Butch's message.

"He wants me _where?!_ " Hudson demanded. He was still filled with power and new purpose from his _'little chat'_ with the kindly old ' _Stranger'_. Since then the world had suddenly _'opened up'_ to him! He had _easily_ rallied his troops and was now pushing successfully up the hill. The riders were falling back and soon he would take the main house. THEN they would see that HE was ' _The Man_ ', not that greasy motorcycle creature that dared call himself ' _Lord_ ' Butch!

" _Behind_ the main house, sir," Johansson's sergeant repeated, a touch of impatience sounding in his voice. "Lord Butch wants you to come to him _right away, sir_."

The answer was swift in coming.

"Does he indeed? Well, sergeant, go back and tell your 'Lord Butch' that I will see him _after_ I have taken the main house!' Hudson turned away, the sergeant already forgotten, when the foolish man had the audacity to actually lay a hand on him!

"Sir!" the sergeant said, his hand on the back of Hudson's shoulder. "Respectfully, I must _insist_ that you accompany me to Lord Butch _now!_ "

Hudson half turned and looked down at the man's hand still on his shoulder, then up into the sergeant's defiant gaze.

After a moment, however, all defiance bled away, leaving something akin to fear in its place. The sergeant's hand dropped away as though it had touched a flame. When Hudson spoke, his words seemed chipped from ice. "You will take the greasy biker _this_ message: I will _receive him after my victory_. Go now, quickly --- while you still can."

As the stunned sergeant turned to leave, his corporal stepped in his path, his voice low, angry and urgent. "What the _fuck_ , serj! If we don't take this asshole back to Butch, he'll have _all_ our fucking balls in a ringer!"

The sound of the .45 going off right by his ear made the sergeant jump nearly out of his boots! The corporal, shot point blank in the chest, was punched backwards onto his ass. The expression on his face was one of puzzlement --- then it faded into the blankness of death and the body slumped to one side.

"Anyone _else_ wish to question my orders?" Hudson asked casually.

"No, Lord Hudson!" the sergeant answered, drawing himself up to attention and saluting. "Your will be done!"

"Excellent!" Hudson beamed. "See that it is."

As Johansson's remaining men moved quickly away, the sound of a bongo beat floated up from the dark depths of Hudson's being. Its rhythm was familiar, its words were both magnetic and compelling. As he listened, he inwardly toyed with the sound of his new title on his tongue. _'Lord Hudson' does indeed suit me!'_ he thought _._

' _Yes, but'Your Majesty' suits you even better !'_

his newfound friend whispered from the shadows.

_What do you mean, 'Mister 'N'?_ Hudson asked.

The clown that was so much more than a clown

opened its black maw of a mouth and smiled.

' _Oh, Blakie-lad, I think that you_

_certainly are_ my _kind of guy!_

Come, walk with me awhile.

I have an offer for you that you're gunna love!

***

"Sir?" one of Hudson's lieutenants said to him as they stood on the body-strewn battlefield.

"What?" Hudson asked, awakened from his inward revelry, his 'new best friend' strangely still with him.

"Excuse me, sir," the concerned looking lieutenant said. "What are your orders, sir? The men are all ready."

Hudson blinked and looked around. The pounding bongos were gone, but Mr. 'N' was still there. Apparently the yellow eyed clown was invisible to all but himself, yet Hudson accepted that just as he had accepted his friend's incredible offer.

' _We're partners now',_ Hudson said to himself, the idea making him all warm and fuzzy inside. _'Mr.'N' and I are partners now forever! And he's going to make me a king!'_

"Sir? Are you alright? Have you been wounded?!"

"What? No --- I'm fine. Just thinking." He glanced around again, seeing it all through both his own eyes and Mr. 'N's yellow ones.

He was on a bloody hillside, surrounded by eager strangers all waiting to follow his bidding.

He glanced down at his hand and saw that he was still holding the .45 with which he had just shot the corporal.

With a smile he raised the weapon high and shouted, his British accent more pronounced than ever.

"Once more unto the breach, dear friends! Once more!

Chastise them all with fire and sword!

Burn them out; branch, trunk and root!"

Then Lord Hudson and his new best friend and business partner strode forth like conquering kings of old. With a mighty cheer, all that remained alive of 'his troops' eagerly followed, each soldier now infected with the battle lust that seemed to radiate from their yellow eyed commander.

***

Roscoe had made it past the burning bails of hay to join Sergeant Graham and Jasper. As he passed the ladder he had been forced to shoot a soldier who had been coming up from below. Roscoe didn't know if the man was dead or not and didn't really care. What he did care about was that others would soon take the man's place!

' _Either that, or the buggers will just back off and let the three of us burn!'_

"Roscoe!' Jasper called. "Hurry up, man. We gotta get our butts out here pronto!"

"And just how do you..." Then Roscoe saw the rope in Jasper's hand.

They were standing at the large opening used to get the hay-bails up into the loft by a block and tackle device that swung out over the yard below.

"Jasper," Roscoe beamed, "you are _definitely_ smarter than you look!"

"Thanks --- I guess ---"

"Let's go, ladies!" the sergeant put in dryly. "You can compare beauty secrets later!"

"What about the .50?" Roscoe asked. As he spoke, the sergeant tossed the heavy gun out the opening. With a crash it half buried itself barrel first in the ground below.

"Out of ammo," the sergeant said, holding up a small rectangle of metal. "Just in case they have some, I took the firing pin out as well. Now, _lets move!"_

As the smoke, flames and enemy soldiers crawled closer and closer, the 'three musketeers' swung out, down and away as the barn quickly became a fiery inferno.

***

Sam looked up, saw the barn in flames, then searched the milling bodies around him for Elfago. He saw the old Mexican calmly reloading his pistola a dozen yards away and called out to him. A gold tooth glinted from beneath a battered sombrero. There was still a lot of noise so Sam pointed as well as shouted.

"Back to the main house! _Now!"_

The gold tooth bobbed up and down and then vanished as the old bandit wheeled his mount and headed back up the hill. Sam was hard pressed to catch up!

The two of them galloped into the front yard at the same time as Sergeant Graham, Roscoe and Jasper jogged over from the burning barn. Billy and Dell joined them, the flames from the barn having set the summer kitchen ablaze. Sam saw that Dell was limping and that Billy's left hand was wrapped in a towel.

"Bad?" Sam asked Dell.

"Naw. Just twisted my goddamned ankle!" Dell nodded at the blood soaking Sam's right leg. "You?"

"Looks worse than it is."

Several bullets whizzed by them and smacked into the thick log walls of the main house. _'Thank God we boarded up all the windows!'_ Sam thought.

Just then the large front door swung open and Marcy and Candice ran out to meet them. Candice let out a squeak when she saw Billy's bandaged hand. Marcy eyed Sam's leg and frowned.

"Let's get _inside_ , everyone, while we still _can!_ " she said.

Elfago was the last one through the door. Just behind him, Sam heard a meaty 'slap' and the old man groaned. Turning, he saw Elfago leaning heavily on the doorjamb.

" _Christ!"_ Sam swore. " _Elfago's_ been hit!"

"Eeet's _nauda_ , Mr. Sam. I'll be fine."

Sam and Marcy helped the old ma into the house and Roscoe shut and barred the door, then he and Jasper took up firing positions at various windows.

"Get your mother!" Sam said to Marcy.

"I'm here, Sam," Prudence Horn replied from half way down the stairs. "Where was he hit?"

"His back! Right shoulder I think!"

"Put him face down on the dining room table. Marcy, get water and towels. The rest of you get the _hell_ out of my way!"

***

They killed a lot of them all that day. Hector Bluejacket and his six remaining braves had joined the others in the main house and together they had repelled all comers. Wave after wave of the fools had attacked both the front and the back, but the thick log walls absorbed all the rapidly shrinking army could send their way. Attempts to burn them out had failed as well, the thick log walls and slate roof seemed impervious to their paltry little flames. By dusk the grounds all around the house looked like just what it was, the center of a hard fought battle. As the sun went down, so did the attacker's desire to fight --- or so it seemed.

"Soups on!" Raven called from the kitchen. "Come n' get it while it's hot!"

Sam stepped back from his position by a downstairs front window. "First shift, go and eat now!" he called out. "Second shift eats in fifteen minutes!"

Marcy came downstairs from delivering hot coffee to the ones who would watch while the others ate. She took the Winchester off Sam, handed him a cup and motioned at a chair.

"You haven't stopped all day! _Sit!_ "

Sam smiled and did as he was told. "Is _this_ how it's going to be, then?"

"What do you mean?" she asked.

He shrugged and sipped the coffee. "You telling me what to do and me doing it?"

"Ha!" she smiled. 'Fat chance of _that!_ You're _almost_ as stubborn as Will Penny!"

Sam's smile vanished. "How is he?"

Marcy shook her head, her long hair flowing about her shoulders. Her words sounded angry, but her green eyes were atwinkle. "He's upstairs shooting out the back window! Got Roscoe and that fool Jasper to prop him up ' _so he can get a clear shot'!_ Stubborn old fool!"

"He's got sand, that's for sure!" Sam chuckled. "What about Elfago?"

Marcy's smile faded. "Mother says he lost a _lot_ of blood and the shoulder bone is shattered. He was in a lot of pain as well but she gave him something and he's been sleeping for hours. Hector's upstairs with him now. We'll know more when he wakes up. Now, what about that _leg_ of yours?"

Sam looked down at his bandaged thigh. "Bullet went right through and missed the bone. Hurts like hell but the bleeding's stopped."

"I'll ask mother to give you something for the pain."

Sam shook his head. "Need to stay sharp. This _isn't_ over yet."

"You think they'll try something tonight?"

"They'd be fools not to," Sam replied. "They didn't _do so well_ in the daylight!"

***

"And you're _sure_ you know how to use that shit?" Butch demanded.

' _Lord'_ Hudson smiled condescendingly. "Of _course_ I do, old boy. The US Army taught me how to make a bomb out of a pile of manure, a handful of nails and a flashlight battery, but these sticks of blasting dynamite will be much more effective."

Butch grunted. He had never liked Hudson; had always found him to be one of those loud-mouthed Navy Seal type _wannabes_. All strut and noise and full of themselves! But now he seemed different --- _'changed'_ somehow. _Almost like he wasn't the same person!_ The foul mouth and boyish, cocky manner had been replaced by a newfound maturity, an air of self-confidence and what sounded like a bloody British accent _!_ He still talked big, but it was much more subdued, even 'refined' --- and he now backed up the talk with action!

' _The crazy bastard did lead the troops himself in attack after attack!!'_ Butch marvelled inwardly, more than a little jealous of Hudson's obvious bravery.

' _No fucking way Ho-zay you'd get_ me _to lead a charge up that fucking hill!'_ he admitted to himself in a rare moment of honesty. _'Not with that bloody Cowboy and his bunch of sharp-shooters blazing away from the goddamned windows!'_

Butch glanced at Hudson out of the corner of his eye. _'Even now, after taking a rifle slug in the chest the bastard looks like he's been out walking in the fucking park! Lucky for him that he was_ wearing a vest! _Still, that sucker must have hurt like hell! And what the fuck is up with his eyes?!'_ Butch thought as a sudden shudder passed through him _. 'They've gone all fucking yellow and creepy looking!'_

Butch dragged his eyes away from the 'golden boy' and turned to Ace. "How many men do we have left?"

Ace looked like shit. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept, his right arm was in a sling and it hurt like a bitch! When he spoke his voice sounded like an old man's. "We've got _thirteen_ regular troops left, and that's including two sergeants. Then there's you, me, Cat Lady and Suzy. Johansson and Hudson are the only officers still alive. Oh ya, there's Gregory and two or three of his 'pals'."

"That' _s it?!"_ Butch demanded.

Ace shrugged. "There's Charlene and a few of the girls, but they can't do fuck all. Maybe four or five of the wounded can still fight. Even then we're _under two dozen shooters_. We started out with _over a hundred_."

Butch slammed the vinyl top of the camper's fold out table. "I _know_ how many we _had!_ I asked you how many we fucking _have!_ "

Ace ignored the outburst. "Twenty-five at best, twenty at worst."

Butch swore, then turned back to Hudson. "This dynamite you found! What do we do? _Toss_ it at them?!"

Lord Hudson, sitting casually in one of the camper's plush chairs, looked up and smiled. "You _could_ do that, but it wouldn't achieve very much. For _maximum effect_ it should be placed _against_ the front door or that boarded up front window. Once a _breach_ is made, we can rush in and take them while they're still _dazed_ from the blast." His smile widened. "Quite simple really."

"Except for the part about _placing_ the fucking charge!" Butch growled. "Every time we get anywhere _near_ the house those fuckers blow us away!"

Lord Hudson accepted a cup of coffee from one of the several soldiers who seemed to have attached themselves to him specifically. "That's _strange_. I didn't notice _you_ out there, Lord Butch. Perhaps I just _missed you_ in all the commotion?"

Turning red at the obvious insult, Butch balled his fists and took a step forward ---only to be met by Hudson's two _'aids'_ with raised their weapons. Suddenly the crowded room took on the uneasy feeling of the calm before a storm.

Hudson had another sip of his coffee and slowly put it down. His voice, when it came, was cool and measured, almost like a very young Michael Cain in the classic film _'Zulu'_.

"Do you _really_ think, old boy, that _now_ is the best time to be _airing our differences?_ "

" _Fuck you, Hudson!"_ Butch yelled. "I _made_ you! I can _fucking break you!"_

The tension in the room shot up to Depth-con Four, with half seeming to side with Butch and the other half with Hudson! Suzy had raised her ever present Ak-47 and Cat Lady had her Glock out. Others had their weapons either raised or on their way. Into this highly charged arena Lord Hudson slowly stood up, smiled and spoke; once again sounding like Cain's character _Captain Bromfield_ addressing his redcoated troops on the dusty African plane.

"Since the Cleansing some time ago, things have been in a constant state of flux. I put it to you, gentlemen --- and ladies --- that they will continue to be so for some time yet --- probably years, perhaps even decades."

"What the _fuck_ are you talking about?" Butch demanded.

" _Change_ , old boy. The one _absolute_ law of Nature. _'Nothing remains the same'_. But perhaps I should put it in terms that even _you_ can understand?" The velvety voice with the British accent continued, dripping a potent mixture of honey and condescension with every word uttered. "For _whatever_ reason, the world suddenly and very drastically 'changed'. You and your motley crew took over; filled in the gap so to speak. When 'Lord' Troy came along, you aligned with him and later took over his position. You then wisely raised me up from a common soldier to an officer and now..."

"And now _you_ want to _take over from me!_ " Butch growled and took another step forward, but suddenly the majority of all the guns in the room were pointed at him. Even Gregory had pulled a small, pearl-handled out Derringer and was pointing it directly at his _'former'_ lord and master's head.

Hudson smiled. " _Change,_ old boy. Can't fight it. _Useless_ to even try.

***

"The diversion out back is all ready, m'lord!" a burly sergeant reported, breathing hard from his run. "I had the boys siphon three buckets of gas out of an old tractor, Sir, just like you ordered! Those buggers inside will be too busy beating out the flames at their _back door_ to even know where coming in the _front!_ "

Lord Hudson cast his yellow eyed gaze on the red faced sergeant and smiled, causing the man to feel both elated and terrorfied at the same time.

"Oh, they shall _know_ alright, captain."

"Ah, begging your pardon, sir," the man cautiously said; "but I'm just a sergeant."

Lord Hudson's smile became almost angelical. "Not any more ---captain."

When realization struck, the burly man's eyes nearly burst from his head. Drawing himself up and saluting, a heartfelt ' _Thank you Sir!_ ' burst forth. Lord Hudson waved him away, then changed his mind.

"Captain."

"Sir?!"

"I'll send a runner when I want the fires lit."

Bowing and muttering his 'undying loyalty', the ex-sergeant backed away, turned and rushed to see that the fiery diversion out back was ready when the word came.

An hour ago Lord Hudson and a small team of his _'chosen men'_ had worked their way up to the front door and laid the charge, silently killing two of Hector's sentries on the way. Seven old sticks of dynamite that Big Jim had kept around for blasting stumps were taped together and placed in a small metal but lidless box to both magnify and shape the explosion. A quick trip by two of his lads back to Cut Bank's _'Radio Shack'_ had produced all the batteries and electronical components Lord Hudson needed to work his wizardry.

Now the new lord-commander calmly waited for the light of the rising sun to work its way down from the mountains to the valley where they were. So far dawn's golden rays had reached the slate roof of the big house and were about to illuminate the upper windows. The man that would be king motioned to the muscular leader of his 'chosen men'.

"Major, it's time."

"Yes Sir!" replied the waiting man crisply, then, turning to a baby-faced private: "Off you go, lad."

The private saluted smartly and ran off.

***

Butch now sat chained hand and foot in the camper where, until very recently, he had held court, casually doling out life and death at his whim.

Four of Lord Hudson's 'chosen men', wounded in the earlier fighting, now sat, a bottle of booze in one hand and a loaded pistol in the other, guarding the recently deposed despot.

As for Butch's three faithful followers, their fate is easily told.

_Ace and Cat Lady_ had been disarmed, taken outside, forced to kneel and shot twice in the back of the head by Lord Hudson himself, their bodies left where they lay.

With _Suzy Rottencrotch_ , however, the new lord of the manor had _'other'_ plans.

Suzy had been beaten unconscious, stripped naked and, in the middle of the night, quietly tied spread-eagled to a large tree facing the front of the big house. He wanted her to watch as he swept away the last pocket of resistance before he finally turned to her. You see, 'Lord Yellow Eyes' _rather fancied_ Sweet Suzy, for she reminded him of a girl called Sarah that had once foolishly rejected his advances.

Now, as the flames from the splashed gasoline licked at the rear of the large log building, sending clouds of black smoke billowing up into the air, the first golden rays of the rising sun struck the front door --- Lord Hudson, quietly humming to himself an old Rolling Stone's song, pushed the _'send'_ button on the cell phone in his hand.

***
**Chapter 42** **: 'So Shall Ye Reap!'**

The explosion rocked the building, tearing out not only the front door but several feet of the thick log wall on either side. The upstairs bedroom floor over the door buckled and part of the roof sagged, its moss-covered slates spilling earthwards. A shudder passed through the near century old building, akin to that felt over three millennium ago at the biblical town of Jericho. Doorways heaved, plaster crumbled, glass shattered and ancient dust sifted down from the rafters like chaff blown on the wind.

Elfago, bandaged and semi conscious on the bed in the room above the front door, was dumped unceremoniously onto the floor, passing out as his shattered shoulder struck the rippling planks. Hector Bluejacket, dozing in a rocker by the bed, was also tipped asunder. Falling heavily on his ancient .306 carbine, he groaned, swore, got to his feet and searched for someone to kill.

In the other front bedroom, Jasper, watching droopy-eyed at the window, was momentarily blinded and blown back by the blast. Roscoe, sleeping fully dressed on top of the bed, was shaken rudely awake. As were all the occupants of the main house, those that were not already watching and waiting.

Marcy, who had been sitting at the same table sorting ammo and loading guns, was already up and moving.

Raven, her hands covered with flour as she kneaded the dough for the morning's biscuits, slumped against the thick wooden table in the pantry just off the kitchen.

Candice, sitting with a shotgun across her lap, guarding both the downstairs back window and Billy, the man-child sleeping on the bed, cocked the shotgun and aimed it at the window.

Will Penny, bandaged, hurting and strangely happy, was doing much the same thing as Candice --- sitting with gun in hand watching over the one he loved while she slept. On the bed, Prudence Horn seemed lost beneath the old patch-work quilt. When the explosion rocked the room, she sat bolt upright calling Will's name. The old cowboy was beside her in a second.

Through the swirling, choking, smoke-filled, dust clogged whole where the front door had been poured Lord Hudson and his hungry host of reapers! _'Follow me and I shall make thee great!'_ was his silent, unspoken promise to his men, seemingly accompanied by a distant yet persistent bongo beat that _not only he heard_ , but now _his battle-crazed followers heard_ as well.

***

The fire out back and the explosion out front disoriented them all and brought a gut-wrenching moment of panic to most of them. The flames raging out back had drawn them like moths to a candle --- all except Sergeant Graham.

All night long he had been guarding what he considered their most vulnerable spot in the house --- the large front room. The main door and a wide bay window afforded the easiest access.

In typical _'Special Forces'_ fashion, he was not sitting on a chair peeking out the front window, but back in the _'nest'_ he had built for himself out of the overstuffed sofa and wing-back chairs.

' _Not exactly sandbags, but they'll do'_ he had told himself earlier in the evening when he set about constructing his 'bunker'.

Dell Ross had asked if he could both help in the construction as well as share in the watch.

"Just like we did down by the bridge, eh Dell? Sure thing! Grab a chair!"

And so when the explosion came in the early morning, Graham and Dell were there to greet Lord Hudson and his _'chosen men'_ when they came through the wide gap blown in the front wall.

***

Sergeant Graham's M-16 spit out _triple bursts_ of the small but deadly 5.56 mm of led towards the 'expanded doorway'. Tongues of automatic fire stabbed back. Shadows ran through the dust, silhouetted by the rising sun. The first two were dropped in mid stride. Those following came low and fast.

Then the gun jammed!

" _Shit!_ " the sergeant barked, tossing the automatic rifle away and grabbing a stubby pump shotgun. This particular model, the Defender 2000, could hold _nine_ 12 gage shells instead of the regulation three --- _if you took out_ a certain wooden plug in the feeding tube under the twenty-four inch barrel.

Which, of course was against the law --- but then, hey! _What the hell?!_

Sergeant Graham let go a blast that tore the shit out of a loveseat by the front window, then received withering fire from inside the smoke-filled room, causing him to dive behind his makeshift foxhole.

" _Christ!_ " Dell swore, pressing himself as close to the floor as possible as automatic fire tore up the stuffing of an overturned Queen Ann chair just above his head. He then shoved his right arm up and over the riddled chair and emptied his revolver into the smoke.

" _Loading!_ " he called, just as the sergeant had instructed him to do. The Marines had long ago learned that by doing this, two very important things happened: one; your 'fireteam buddy' guarded your back while you reloaded and two; it helped to calm the nerves of both members of the team.

Sergeant Graham popped up, surveyed the smoky, dust-filled room and marked his target.

A soldier sprinting through the gap was suddenly pushed back outside as though he had just run into an invisible wall. The sergeant ducked back down as the return fire slapped into the sofa. Several bullets made their way through, one of which hit Dell in the chest.

" _Ahhh shit!_ "

"What?" the sergeant demanded.

"I'm hit."

" _Where?!_ "

Dell's left hand went to the right side of his chest. The hand came away bloody. More dribbled out the side of his mouth.

' _Lung shot!_ ' Sergeant Graham thought. ' _He'll be dead in five minutes!_ '

"Bad?" Dell asked, already knowing the answer.

"Naw," the sergeant lied. " _You'll be fine._ "

" _Bullshit!_ " Dell said, though there was no anger in his voice. He knew why his friend had lied to him. He coughed and a pink froth bubbled on his lips.

As the sergeant leaned forward to see what he could do to comfort the best and probably only real friend he had, something like a long hotdog with a sputtering fuse came sailing over their little barricade.

The ex-biker/ex-marine didn't see it, but the ex-mechanic/ex-husband/ex-father did.

***

Just moments before, lying face down in the rubble, his ears ringing from the second dynamite explosion, his chest aching from where Dell's bullet had struck his Kevlar vest, Lord Blake Hudson had had what a religious person might call a _revelation_. The rest of us great unwashed and unanointed would simply call it one motherfucking, mind-blowing, _wake-up call!_

_Time,_ Lord Hudson had suddenly come to realize, _was a very,_ _very_ _relative thing!_

As a child Time had to him as an endless river, stretching out before him in a constant string of fearful days and terrifying nights, each one much the same as the one before --- ruled over by the ogre that was his father. As a teenager Time had seemed to fly by --- a whirlwind of new, exciting, hedonistic experiences. As a young soldier it had switched back and forth between the long, slow, monotonous trickle of 'hurry up n' wait' and the mind-blowing, adrenalin filled rush of war.

Then, when the entire world had suddenly gone into the crapper, Time had actually seemed to have _stopped!_ One might even argue that Time had taken a giant leap _backwards!_ Back to a far more basic, primitive period when survival was not based on a boring, monotonous job, a paycheck or a promotion, but a gun, a knife or a club --- and a willingness to _use_ them.

Yet since his 'partnership' with Mister Nasty and his infamous 'Bongo Band of Renown', _Time_ had once again changed. The world and the people in it continued along at their 'regular pace', yet at the same time he and his newfound friend seemed to flit about at _warp speed!_ He and his symbiotic partner ---- for now at least a part of Hudson understood that in willingly accepting this _'unholy partnership'_ , he had allowed Mr. Nasty to move right in --- lock, stock and barrel!

Like some gender-bending 'new age couple', they now shared _everything!_ All the senses --- especially sight. (Hence Hudson's switch from baby blues to his new sickly yellows!) They shared all their hopes, dreams and emotions --- and their desires. _Especially_ their desires --- and the ever changing Magnificent Mr. 'N' had some beauties!

But right now the 'dynamic duo' were lying face down in the rubble, their ears ringing from the second dynamite explosion; their chest aching from where Dell's bullet had struck their Kevlar vest.

' _Well,well! It looks like we're still here!'_ the new 'supreme commander' said to himself and his 'inner partner'. He was lying in the smoke and dust, his lungs gasping for breath and his chest hurting like a son of a bitch! For the second time in as many days, Lord Hudson had been shot. Both times his thick flack vest had saved him and both times it had been like getting kicked by a bloody mule! --- but at least he was still alive!

And so was his 'partner'.

Looking around he saw his second in command lying in a crumpled heap just a few feet away, what was left of his face in a pool of his own blood. A couple of his troops had made it inside, but the rest were reluctant to come in through the gap. The last one that had tried had just been nearly cut in half by a shotgun!

' _These bastards are really starting to piss me off!_ ' Hudson/Nasty thought, all the while knowing he/they had the solution to that little problem on him/them.

The bomb that had blown away the front door and a good portion of the wall had used seven sticks of dynamite. Hudson's men had found nine. The two remaining sticks were in his knapsack with some extra ammo clips. He now took one out and fished around for the Bick lighter he had put in with them. When the fuse began to sizzle and pop, a familiar bongo beat started up in his head. Lord Hudson's yellow tinged gaze lingered for several seconds on the sparkling fuse; the rhythmic, almost hypnotic sound of the drums sinking into his soul. Mick's cutting through like nails on a chalkboard.

I stuck around St. Petersburg,

When I saw it was time for a change!

As though in a dream Lord Hudson drew back his arm and launched the hotdog-like missal. Up, up and away it went; over the barricade of chairs and sofas stacked in the middle of the room like a child's fortress. It landed, sputtering and sizzling near the two men behind the makeshift wall.

I killed the Czar and his ministers,

Anastasia screamed in vain!

Dell Ross, shot in the lung and dying, saw it land and without a second thought, managed to shove his friend to one side and, with the last of his strength and his wife's name on his lips, Dell threw himself on the blood red stick of dynamite.

Pleased to meet you, Dellie! Hope you guess my name!

But what's puzzling me is the --- nature of your game!

***

Sam, his leg throbbing, was in the kitchen doorway when the second explosion went off. He saw Dell shove the sergeant aside and throw himself on what at first looked like a large firecracker.

Then the thing went off.

From underneath Dell blinding light shot out in all direction --- then Dell himself followed, bits and pieces of him flying every which way! A shoe bounced off the boarded window, the foot still in it. A roundish object had come rolling lopsidedly up to Sam's feet. Looking down he had seen his old friend's sightless eyes looking up at him.

Then the shockwave, both physical and emotional, hit him, punching him back through the doorway to sprawl stunned on the kitchen floor. Raven, who had been several steps behind him, was also bowled over by the blast, though thankfully spared the sight of Dell's body being blown to bits.

His head pounding, his vision blurry, Sam managed to get to his feet. Staggering like a drunk, he bent to help Raven.

" _Go_ , Sam!" she cried, pushing him back towards the doorway. "I'm _fine!_ Help Dell and the sergeant!"

Sam saw the gash on her forehead where she had struck the edge of the kitchen table. As he bent to retrieve the rifle she had dropped, he saw the pistol still clutched tightly in his own hand.

" _Go_ , Sam! _Go!"_

Raven's words were clearer now, the ringing in his ears less loud. He took a step towards the livingroom, then another. It felt like walking through mud! Again he looked down at the gun in his hand. The Scofield break-top. He transferred it to his left hand and drew the Colt from its holster.

' _Twelve shots,'_ he told himself. _'Should be just about right!'_

He went through the doorway with both guns up and ready to shoot anyone he saw, however a thick wall of smoke all but blinded him and he tripped over something. Falling to his knees, he thrust the Colt into the cottony whiteness --- only to have it suddenly snatched away from him. An instant later the silver hair and glass eye of Sergeant Graham was only inches from his face.

"Sam!" the sergeant grunted. "Thought you were one of them! Here's your gun back! Now, let's get into the kitchen!"

Sam stayed where he was.

"Come on, Sam! We're too exposed in here! We gotta get some walls between us n' them!"

"I'm _not_ backing down from these bastards any more!" Sam growled. "This is _my_ house! Nobody's running me off!"

The big sergeant half dragged the battered cowboy back behind the makeshift barricade. "We aint runnin' nowhere, Sam \--- just a little _'tactical withdrawal'_."

Doubled over to miss some of the trapped smoke from the explosion, the two men made it back into the large kitchen. Raven greeted them with a raised rifle.

"Thank God it's you!" she cried, shifting her aim to the side. Her well worn but still handsome face was sheeted in blood from the cut on her forehead. "Where's Dell?"

The sergeant shook his head.

"Oh Sweet Jesus," Raven whispered, the rifle barrel lowering, along with her head --- but only momentarily. A second later both the barrel and the head were up again, a cold fire in her dark eyes. "Then I guess we'd better get to _killing the bastards_!"

"That's the spirit, old girl!" Sam grinned, his own face just as determined and bloody as hers.

" _Mr. Sam!_ " a voice yelled out. "Mr. Sam, _it's me_ , Jasper! You _alright down there?!_ " Jasper's face appeared around the top of the steep, back stairs that led from the kitchen to the bedrooms up above.

"Jasper, get _everyone_ down here _right away!_ " Sergeant Graham ordered. "Bring the wounded too! And _all the guns_ you have! Now, Jasper! _Go!_ "

He then answered Sam's unasked question. "We've been _over-run,_ Sam They're _all around us_ and some are _inside the next room_. That means they can _burn the place down_ with _us_ in it. We've got _to take the fight to them_ right away or we'll be _burnt alive!_ "

***

There was no door between the kitchen and the livingroom, just a large open arch, beyond which the smoke was billowing. Vague forms could be seen moving about.

The enemy was getting ready to make its move --- yet so were the defenders!

It had taken only moments to get everyone down into the kitchen. "We've got to hit them _before they get organized!_ If not, we're _all_ dead!" the sergeant told them. He then used his finger to draw out his plan on the bloody kitchen table.

"The two wounded, _Elfago and Mr. Penny_ , are sitting back here in the kitchen firing _through_ the opening. We tip the table over in front of them for cover. The women are here and here, _a pair on either side of the opening_ to fire into the room diagonally" The sergeant looked up at the four women, his gaze automatically going to the Widow Horn, where it lingered for a moment before passing on. "Do NOT, for ANY reason, _enter that room!_ "

His intense gaze now took in the men bunched around him. "On my command, firing as we go, the rest of us will charge through the opening, then go to the side and hug the kitchen wall Do NOT advance int the room any further, the ladies and two men out here will be firing through the opening!" The sergeant paused and turned to Hector. "Mister Bluejacket and his braves will go right and the rest of us go left. Remember to _stay close to this back wall_ so as not to be hit from fire from the kitchen. We then kneel and kill anything that moves in front of us. Clear?"

Hector spoke up. "I've only got two men left."

" _Christ_ , Hector!" Billy exclaimed. "You came with a _dozen!_ "

Hector shrugged. "I had six until that bloody _bomb_ went off!"

"Alright!" the sergeant cut in. "Billy, _you just volunteered_ to go on Hector's side. That makes eight of us rush them, four to a side. Good?"

Everyone nodded and quickly took their assigned positions. The sergeant turned to Sam. "How's the leg? Can you move fast enough?"

Sam's smile was wide, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Lead the way, sergeant. I'll bring up the rear."

Up by the opening, Roscoe looked over at Marcy standing beside her mother. He drank in her beauty for several heartbeats, just the nearness of her filling his soul with joy.

He then looked back at Will and Elfago sitting on their chairs behind the overturned table. Will had two pistols with him, his big Winchester too much to handle in his condition. Roscoe took one more quick glance at Marcy, then followed the sergeant into the living room, both men firing as they went through the dark opening. In pairs the other men did the same, each one going either right or left as the planned called for. Nodding at Marcy, Sam cocked both Colts and followed the others. The four women, the two wounded men opened fire as soon as Sam was clear.

***

Lord Hudson instinctively flattened himself on the floor when the fusillade began. Bullets zinged and zipped all around, coming through the smoke like very angry hornets. Glass broke. Wood splintered. Someone screamed.

' _Handguns!'_ his brain registered. _'But heavier than .9 mil!'_ Suddenly realization swept through him. _"They're going to rush us!"_ he screamed, levering himself up on one knee, raising his stubby M-4 carbine to his shoulder. "Spray the fucking doorway!"

But the attackers were already through and a half dozen back-up shooters were continually pouring led through the wide doorway. The mother and daughter team on the left, Raven and Candice on the right, each younger team member kneeling while the older one fired over her shoulder. Back in the middle of the kitchen Will and Elfago, crouching in their chairs, kept up a withering fire from behind the overturned, much splintered table.

" _Major Benson!_ " Lord Hudson yelled, calling his recently promoted 'second in command' to him! " _Benson!_ Where the _fuck_ are you?!"

" _He's dead, Sir_ ", a very young, very frightened looking face told him. "Bullet in the head, Sir. One in the chest as well."

"You're _Williams_ , right?"

"Yes, Sir. Corporal P.D. Williams, ' _Chosen Men_ ', Sir!"

"Williams, you're now a _sergeant!_ Get your men in here _right now!_ "

"My _men,_ Sir?" the ex-corporal blinked. "There's only a _few_ of us left, Sir, and most are _wounded._ Even _Lieutenant Gilbert!"_

Williams continued to blink repeatedly, then inspiration struck. "You want me to find _Captain Johansson_ , Sir? He's an _awful smart fella!_ Nice guy _too!_ "

" _Fuck Johansson!_ " Lord Hudson yelled. "Just _find_ me some _more goddamn men!_ "

But as the newly promoted sergeant turned away, a bullet struck him in the spine and another in his side. With a surprised look on his young face he fell dead at his commander's feet. More bullets came. Lord Hudson emptied his clip into the smoky room and thought he saw at least one shadowy form by the back wall go down.

Then, as he was fumbling in his haversack for a new ammo clip, he suddenly found his salvation! The _'ace in the whole'_ that could get them out of this mess! Smiling, he pulled out the _last_ remaining stick of dynamite!

Willing his hands not to shake, Hudson managed to light the fuse, and, while it sputtered and fizzed in his hand, he barked out an order to his men fighting inside the room.

" _Chosen Men! Retreat NOW!_ This is your commander, _Lord Hudson!_ All Chosen Men _out NOW!!_ "

All around him he heard men moving back; orders shouted to retreat, shadows rushing for the shattered doorway that they had fought so hard to reach.

Suddenly an open hand was thrust towards him.

" _Sir! It's time to go!_ "

Looking up Lord Hudson saw Lieutenant Gilbert. The man was covered in blood but still had his weapon. With the fuse now down to a couple of inches, His Lordship agreed --- this more than a little urging from Mr. Nasty --- that the time had indeed come to go. He took the man's hand, was pulled to his feet --- and launched his last hope of survival at the back wall.

***

This final explosion was louder than the last, for that one had been muffled when Dell Ross threw himself on top of it. This 'little bundle of joy' however, landed right in the middle of Hector Bluejacket's group, killing three instantly and blowing one back into the kitchen.

Moments _before_ that explosion however, Candice, from her position to the right of the kitchen entrance, had seen the Horn's, both mother and daughter, hit by a blast of automatic fire.

Without stopping to think, she had sprinted across the deadly space, tempting the bullets from both Lord Hudson and his 'Chosen Men' as well as those from the other women and Will Penny and the tough old Mexican --- _except that the grand old gentleman_ with the gold tooth and the ready smile was _already dead_ from a bullet in his heart.

" _Marcy!_ " Candice yelled, going to her knees and cradling her friend's head in her lap. The golden hair was sticky with blood that trickled down her right cheek.

"Marcy! Can you _hear_ me?!"

"Is she --- _dead?_ " a voice close by whispered.

Looking up, Candice saw Prudence Horn slumped against the wall, her bright eyes glaring up at her. Blood was pumping out of her left shoulder like a firehose. As she watched, the older woman's eyes glazed over and closed.

" _Shit!_ " Candice swore and, laying her friend's head down, quickly moved over to the mother and felt the neck for a pulse.

' _Faint, but there!'_ she thought _. 'But the bleeding must be stopped!'_

She took two diapers from the 'emergency bag' that the sergeant had insisted everyone carry and staunched the wound as best she could, Duct tapping the thick diapers both front and back. She was about to check on the unconscious Marcy when the Lord Hudson's _'Ace in the hole'_ went off.

Though she hadn't really like football, back in high school she had briefly dated a linebacker and had gone to a number of his games. She had seen how the eager young men had thrown themselves together, slamming into each other like rams in rut --- which, she had soon realized, was _exactly what they were_.

Now, kneeling between two wounded women, one of them only a hairsbreadth away from bleeding to death, _another body came careening into her_ with all the force of that long ago linebacker.

The person struck her in the chest and they both went down in a tangle of arms an legs, coming to rest as they smacked into the back wall.

" _What the...?! Billy!_ " she cried, seeing the familiar face beneath his long, shiny black hair. " _Billy, it's you!_ "

Billy Raintree had been the one person in Hector Bluejacket's group that had not been blown to bits by the last explosion. Instead he had been blown into the arms of the one he loved.

***

Out in the smoke filled main room, near the left side of the wall, Roscoe had been the closest to the explosion that had hit Hector's braves. Roscoe, and to a lesser extent Jasper, were both struck by the shockwave and flying debris --- including body parts.

Like a suddenly derailed train, Roscoe was hammered into Jasper, who was knocked into Sam who landed at the feet of a blood and gore spattered Sergeant Graham.

" _My arm!"_ Jasper moaned, seeing the bone of his left forearm protruding through the skin.

" _Suck it up, soldier!_ " the sergeant growled. " _We're not finished yet!_ " Pulling Sam to his feet, the two men looked back at Roscoe's crumpled body.

"Dead?" Sam asked, his own head pounding from the blast.

The sergeant ignored him. Instead he reached over, hauled Jasper to a sitting position against the wall and shoved a pistol in his hand. "Anybody but _us_ two come through that door, son, you _kill 'em dead!_ Got that?!"

Jasper nodded, his teeth clenched against the pain in his arm.

Sam put a comforting hand on the young man's shoulder. "Hang on, Jasper. We'll be back soon."

"Sam! _Let's move!_ the sergeant yelled. _The bastards are getting away!_ "

***

As the two men readied themselves for one last fight, a suddenly a long, continuous barrage of automatic fire sounded from just outside --- none of which seemed to be directed at them.

As Sam and Sergeant Graham rushed through the smoke-filled front doorway, they were greeted by a very strange sight. A tall, blond haired soldier stood out in front of eight or ten others, all with their empty hands held up in the air. On the ground in front of them lay a number of bodies, several still twitching in their death throws.

Lord Hudson was one of them --- his bullet ridden corps lying spread-eagled on the ground. At first glance his handsome young face gave him the look of a fallen angle; this image was marred however by his cold, sightless blue eyes--- and the large hole in the center of his forehead.

The tall blond man in front drew himself up and saluted smartly. "Captain Robert Johansson, gentlemen --- at your service!" The hand came down and was extended in friendship, a smile transfixed his tanned face and reached his eyes. "Though my _friends_ call me Bobby. I'd be _honoured_ if you gentlemen would as well."

***
**Chapter 43** **: 'You Get What You Need!'  
**

" _What?_ " Sam asked, taken completely off guard by the tall man's friendliness.

"Bobby Johansson," the man repeated, offering his hand a second time.

Sam took it woodenly, his attention still on the bodies all around him. One in particular drew him --- the clean-cut looking blond soldier with the four silver stars on his collar and the hole in the center of his forehead.

"That's not _Butch_?" Sam asked.

Bobby Johansson's grin widened. "No, that's _another psychopath_ called Blake Hudson. Butch, _I believe_ , is in that large camper down by your gate. Some of Hudson's wounded men are still holding him prisoner."

" _Butch_ is a _prisoner?!_ " Sergeant Graham demanded, speaking for the first time.

Johansson nodded. "Apparently there was a _coup_ of some kind." He nodded at the body at his feet. "Hudson here tried to take over."

"And now _you're_ taking over from him?" the sergeant asked suspiciously.

Johansson's wide smile was back. " _Not me!_ " he beamed, showing his empty hands again. "I _never_ wanted to be in _any_ army! Not Troy's. Not Butch's and _certainly not_ this piece of shit's!"

"And _now?_ " Sam put in, "You and these men behind you ---?"

The broad, boyish smile was back. "We just want to find a place to _live quietly_." He turned and pointed at his men. "Phil there is a carpenter, Don was studying dentistry. Ted was a computer programmer, _but we won't hold that against him!_ " he said and laughed. "Peggy there is a nurse and I was training to be a vet when all _'this'_ happened. Wouldn't mind trying my hand at being one now."

Sergeant Graham brushed past Johansson and headed down the long driveway.

" _George!_ " Sam called. "Where you going?"

Though Sam already knew the answer that came back, it still chilled him to the bone. "There's still one more bastard that needs killing!"

Sam took a deep breath. " _Wait up_ , George! I'll go with you! But _first_ I have to see to those inside!"

The sergeant spoke over his shoulder as he continued to walk down the long, body strewn drive. " _You go on_ and take care of them, Sam. I'll be back soon."

Frowning, Sam quickly led Johansson and several of his men into the house, calling out to Jasper and the others not to shoot. He saw Marcy, her head now bandaged, helping to lay her mother on the splintered dining room table.

"Is she --- ?" he whispered.

"Dead?" Marcy put in, taking his hand and squeezing it tightly. "No, Sam, but she's lost a _lot_ of blood. Candy here _saved_ her!"

He looked around and saw Candice, her sleeves rolled up, red hair pinned back, working frantically on the injured. Sam turned to Johansson. "I'm _trusting you_ with the wounded. You said you've trained as a _vet_? So now you're _our doctor!_ " He turned and put a gentle hand on Marcy's shoulder. The bandage over her temple was stained red. "Johansson and his men will help. He's studied medicine. I'm going to check on the sergeant."

Johansson caught his arm. "It's Sam, right? Everyone just called you _'The Cowboy'_. I'll post a guard outside and do what I can for your people here, Sam --- but be _careful_ down there. Some of Hudson's men are still around and Butch is one murderous bastard!"

***

Suzy Rotchencroft was free!

Naked, sore and pissed off, but free!

' _Free at last! Free at last! God Almighty I'm free at last!'_

Lord Hudson had beaten her, humiliated her and angered her greatly, but he had not _broken_ her. He had stripped her, raped her and tied her to the old oak in front of the big house.

' _So that you may watch my victory, my dear'_ the smiling little yellow-eyed puke had said in his half-assed British accent, all the while casually running his hand over her naked body. Bruised and battered, she had hung there all night; seething inside, building up her hatred like a volcano ready to blow. Then, during the dawn attack she had managed to work her hands free of the ropes and had slipped away during the smoke and confusion. With bodies scattered about like fallen leaves, finding clothes and weapons had been easy. The trouble was finding boots that _fit_ , for 'Suzy Rottencrotch' had very dainty feet.

Now, dressed in flack vest, pants and boots that were way too big for her, she was armed, dangerous and still _very pissed off!_ She knew what had happened to Ace and Cat Lady, for Lord Shithead had made her _watch_ while he gave them both two each in the back of the head. He _then_ made her watch as two of his 'chosen assholes' held Butch down while he 'bravely' kicked the shit out of the biker-lord. The Captain America wannabe stood there laughing while his ass-licking followers dragged what was left of Butch down to the big trailer by the main road.

Now, two things only were on Suzie's mind: to set Butch free and then kick some very serious ass herself! As she neared the long RV she head loud voices and even louder music coming from inside. Obviously drunk, the men set to guard Butch were laughing and attempting to sing along with Mick and the lads as they belted out one of their many rock classics. The heavy bongo beat almost drowned out the drunk's off tune accompaniment.

You can't, always get, what you want!

You can't, always get, what you want!

But if you try sometimes, You just might find,

(ba-bop, ba-bop---ba-bop!)

You get what you neeeeeed!

This last word was drawn out and followed by more drunken laughter. Suzy saw that no-one was around or guarding the trailer, so she walked right up to the door. This close, the words of the song were much clearer, the beat more driven, almost manic.

I went down to see, the Dark Stranger

To have my, fortune read.

He smiled n' said, 'Hey Buddy!

Send me down, all your dead!'

Suzie worked the slide on her AK and slung it muzzle down over her right shoulder, ready for a fast _twirl and shoot_. The fools inside kept singing. For some _strange reason_ the assholes seemed to know _all the weird words!_

I saw her, at the reception,

With a bloody knife, in her hand,

She was there to, make her connection,

And free her, psycho man!

Suzy loosened her combat knife in its metal sheath, unzipped her flack vest so that her boobs were clearly visible, drew a deep breath then she banged on the door. It took several attempts before a grinning drunk finally pulled it open.

***

Big John was feeling no pain. In fact, he was _completely_ shit-faced! The three of them had been drinking non-stop since dawn, when all the other _lads n' lassies_ had _merrily marched off to war._

' _War, my fuckin' ass!'_ Big John had thought to himself days ago when he'd first been wounded. _'This aint no fuckin'_ war! _It's a goddamned_ slaughterhouse! _The fuckin' Cowboy n' his bunch are poundin' the livin'_ snot _out of us!'_ As he raised the bottle for another drink, his wounded shoulder still pained him.

"Hey, Big John!" one of the other two wounded warriors yelled. "Go see who's at the fuckin' door!"

" _What?_ " he replied, as The Stones and the two other 'guards' continued to crank out the hypnotic tune.

' _You can't always get what you want!'_

"The _door_ , dickhead!" one of the guards yelled between verses. "See who's _at_ the fuckin' _door!_ "

You can't always get what you want!

"Can't _hear ya_ , asswhipe!" Big John yelled. "The music's too fuckin' _loud!_ "

You can't always get what you want!

" _Get the fuckin' door!_ " the two guards sang out in drunken unison.

"The _door_?" Big John repeated, his booze-filled brain slowly processing the request. Then the lightbulb finally turned on. "Ya, _sure!_ Noooo _problemmo, man!_ Hey!" he chuckled to himself, suddenly very pleased with his great wit. "Maybe it's the fuckin' _pizza guy!_ " As he made his way towards the door he was struck by another primal hunger that had ruled the world since the beginning of Time itself \--- _sex_.

"Better _yet_ ," he muttered out loud; "maybe it's the fuckin' pizza _girl!_ "

But if you try sometimes, You just might find,

(ba-bop, ba-bop---ba-bop!)

You get what you neeeeeed!

Big John reached the door and found himself in a quandary. His hands were full. One held a near empty Vodka bottle and the other a fully loaded Smith & Wesson.

And Big John was loathe to part with either one.

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_ Whoever was knocking on the fucking door was doing _a hellova good job!_ "Hold _on_ , for _fuck_ sake!" Big John rumbled. Choosing the lesser of two evils, he put the _gun_ on the counter and brought the bottle to his lips as he opened the door. He was in the midst of swallowing when Suzy's more than ample breasts swam into view.

" _Fuck me!!_ " Big John gasped, the booze going down the wrong pipe as he ogled Suzy's 'twin exhausts' thrusting so perkily out of her open flack vest.

With a flip of her multi-coloured tresses, Suzy stepped into the camper, her left hand going to Big John's crotch. "Thought you'd _never ask_ , Lover Boy!"

" _Hey!_ I _know_ you!" Big John stammered, fear suddenly replacing lust in his bloodshot eyes. Once he had managed to raise his gaze up to her face, he had immediately recognized Suzy. "You're that _Suzy bitch_! _Butch's girl!_ "

His right hand left the doorknob and had just touched the moulded grips of the .357 when Suzy's combat knife buried itself deep in the side of his neck .

As the body sagged forward, Suzy eased it to its knees, pulled the knife free and continued on into the tailor. She saw three men. Butch and two others. The song, now that she was inside, was cranked up to the _max_ , the _beat_ almost deafening. Butch was sitting in a kitchen chair, his hands tied behind him, his swollen,black and blue eyes fixed on Suzy as she silently approached. Oblivious to the sudden death that was mere moments away, the two remaining guards continued to sing along at the top of their lungs.

I went down, to the drugstore,

To get your, prescription filled.

They had their backs to Suzy as she made

her way towards them.

Standin' in line, with Mr. Nasty.

He smiled n' said: 'Who'd you just kill?'

"Hey, Big John!" the one closest to her called. " _Who_ was at the door? The ' _Cops'_ wantin' us to turn the fucking _music down?!_ "

He laughed at his own pathetic joke while the other one hung onto his shoulder like a drunken choirboy.

I decide to, have some pussy,

My favorite flavor, cherry red.

Suzy nodded at Butch as she glided up the isle, the knife in her hand leaving a trail of dark red drops on the floor.

' _A toast my boy, said Mr. Nasty._

I get her soul, you get her head!'

Both guards raised their bottles on high, loudly toasting each other's health.

Suzy was close now. Only a few feet separated her from the back of the closest guard.

" _Johnny-boy!_ " he yelled drunkenly, turning towards the door. Where the _fuck_ are... _yaaaaaa!_ "

Suzy drove the point of her knife deep into his throat, turning his shouted question into a long, gasping sigh. Hot blood spewed from the gaping wound, covering Suzy from head to toe. Through the wine red coating her white teeth gleamed in a feral snarl.

As the body toppled forward into Suzy's open arms, Butch stood up, bringing the chair with him. Like a raging bull, he charged into the third guard, head-butting him in the stomach and then, with a upward snap of his head, clipped the startled guard solidly under his chin.

Looking like an avenging Valkary, Suzy stepped over the second guard and deftly slit the throat of the third. Through the eerie silence that followed, the Stones brought their classic tune to an end.

***

Sam, his horse in a full out gallop down the hill, was still two hundred feet away when he saw Sergeant Graham reach the door of the big RV.

" _Waiiit!_ " Sam yelled, but the distance and the drumming hooves drowned out his call.

Or, perhaps in the end, it was Fate that put him there at that exact moment --- either way, the sergeant, shotgun in hand, was about to kick in the door when it was suddenly opened from the inside and he came face to face with Suzy. Seeing her drenched in blood from head to toe startled him for a split second. Not long, but long enough for her to swing up her AK-47 and fire a burst into his chest.

As the bullets punched him backwards, his finger pulled the trigger on the shotgun, sending a score of heavy led pellets into her neck. At point blank range the double-ought shot all but decapitated her. As he fell gasping back onto the green grass, her already lifeless body collapsed, the once pretty head hanging by a flap of skin. Blood shot up like Old Faithful, but quickly faded to a pulsing dribble as the body emptied itself.

Sam skidded his mount back on its hind legs and was off and running towards the sergeant even before the horse had stopped. " _Nnnoooo!_ " he yelled, going to his knees beside his friend. Sam saw right away that the wounds were fatal, five or six of them made a bloody line across his chest.

The sergeant's one good eye looked into Sam's ashen face. His lips moved, red frothy bubbles coming out instead of words. Sam bent closer to hear. The voice, once so strong, was now raspy and low.

"Get --- the --- bastard..."

Then the body sagged, the one good eye filmed over and Sam was left holding only dead weight and memories.

***
**Chapter 44** **: 'Kill the Bastard!'  
**  
 ** **

Through his anger and grief, Sam heard glass break. He looked up and saw Suzy's body in the RV doorway. Then something heavy hit the ground on the far side, flowed by a muffled curse.

' _Butch!_ ' his mind screamed.

Scrambling to his feet, he drew his Colt and ran around the side of the big RV, only to see an open jeep racing away down the driveway. Sam emptied his revolver after the fleeing vehicle but only managed to punch a couple of holes in the back tailgate and take out a rear light.

Seconds later the jeep reached the main road and swerved right, accelerating quickly when it reached the asphalt.

' _East, towards Cut Bank!_ ' Sam reasoned. ' _Maybe there's still a chance!_ '

He sprang to his waiting horse and galloped not after the jeep, but at a steep diagonal back up the slope. Sam knew that the road to Cut Bank followed the steam that meandered its way through the rolling foothills. If he pushed it, riding straight cross country, he _might_ just make it to the _second bridge_ over the river before the jeep did!

Sam rode like he never had before! Heedless of the danger to either his mount or himself, he drove the wide-eyed animal up, over and down the rolling hills, splashing through shallow creeks and up dry, stony watersheds.

Thorns and brambles tore at both man and beast, ripping clothes and tearing flesh. Sam kept up the gruelling pace until lathered, almost completely blown, his wheezing mount topped a grassy hill overlooking the second bridge. Off to the left, a little over a mile away, Sam caught the glint of sun on metal. Butch was fast approaching --- but not there yet!

Sam was forced to make a hard choice. If he was to reach the bridge in time to stop Butch from getting away, if he was to keep his silent promise to Sergeant Graham, if he was to ever avenge the hurts and wrongs that this man had caused, he had to somehow reach the bridge first. On foot he'd never make it. Shooting from here would be next to useless. He had to reach the bridge --- yet he knew that to do so would almost certainly _kill his horse_.

Though it hurt him deeply, he quickly made his decision. By kicking in his heels and using the reins as a whip, Sam forced his exhausted animal down the steep, rocky slope. Twice it nearly stumbled, righting itself just in time before spilling itself and its rider. Then, snorting and blowing pink froth out its wide nostrils, the valiant beast went down on its knees only a few yards from the far entrance to the bridge.

Sam was out of the saddle and pulling on the bridle, coaxing the dying animal a few feet further, a few feet closer to the bridge. His plan was simple, though some may think it harsh: to block the bridge with his horse's body. Use the hundreds of pounds of horseflesh as a barricade; to deny the enemy an exit --- _at all costs!_

"Come on girl," Sam pleaded. "Just a little further \--- _then you can rest_."

Tears were streaming down his face. He'd raised this horse since she was born eight years ago. She was one of the best quarter horses on the Circle 'G' and Big Jim had turned down numerous offers to buy her. She and Sam had shared many a lonely camp in the mountains, gone through many and adventure together. Simply put, she was his friend.

Just like Lear, the big, friendly German Sheppard had been. Lear had died several days ago. Shot by one of Butch's troops. And then there was McDuff. Even now no-one knew what had happened to the goofy little Beagle. Gunfire had always frightened him and Sam believed he had simple run off. He hoped the sweet little fellow was still alive.

"Almost there girl! Only a _little further_."

He pulled again on the reins and the mare managed to move into the middle of the road. Sam ran his hand lovingly through the course main, looked once more into the big, brown eyes, then drew his pistol and shot his friend in the head.

The four legs splayed out and the horse collapsed, dead before it hit the ground. Sam cuffed the tears out of his eyes, drew his Winchester from its scabbard and hunkered down behind his saddle. The heat of his dead friend's flesh warmed him, the familiar smell calmed him, the fond memories gave him strength.

The jeep came screeching round the last bend and headed straight for the bridge. As Sam watched its approach, an image of his father came into his mind. It hung there as the jeep came closer and closer. His father, thin, frail and unassuming, smiled down on him. His soft voice filled his head.

' _My son, 'The Cowboy'. Who would have thought it?_ Especially _coming from a Chicago accountant! I'm_ proud _of you, Sam. Always_ have _been --- always will be.'_

Then the jeep was on the far end of the bridge and speeding directly towards him. Sam worked the lever on his Winchester and rested its barrel on the neck of his dead horse. It seemed like his father was right there beside him.

***

Butch couldn't believe his eyes! A dead _horse_ in the middle of the _fucking road!_ And not just in the road, but _blocking_ the far end of the bridge!

' _No way around it,'_ he reasoned. _'Have to go_ over _it!_ ' Pressing the peddle to the metal, he pushed the jeep to its limit.

Suddenly one of the front tires blew and Butch was fighting the wheel as the jeep slewed sideways and scrapped along the steel girders. Sparks flew and metal tore. He managed to gain some control, then the other tire blew! The jeep, grinding its way along the steel bridge, finally came to a stop fifty or so feet from the dead horse.

Butch took a deep breath and then looked at his weapons. He had managed to grab a rifle and a handgun off the dead guards just before he escaped out the back window of the trailer. The long gun was some kind of bolt action sniper thing that Hudson's ' _Chosen Assholes_ ' had used. It reminded Butch of his Uncle Al's old deer rifle he had once fired as a kid. The recoil had knocked him flat on his ass and the old drunken fuck had teased him about it for years. The pistol was much more familiar to him. It was a .357 chrome plated ' _Python_ ' with an eight inch perforated barrel and combat sites --- the only trouble was it only held _six_ bullets and he didn't have any extras! Same deal for the sniper rifle. No extra ammo so he'd have to make every shot count if he was going to nail the bastard that took out his fucking tires!

Just then a bullet punched its way through the windshield and whizzed by his right ear. The glass spiderwebbed all the way over to the passenger's side. He put a hand to his ear and it came away bloody.

" _Mutherfucker!_ " he growled, grabbing his weapons and quickly climbing out the rear of the jeep. Another bullet hit the windshield and it disintegrated into a million pieces. Through the open frame Butch could clearly see the horse's carcass blocking the end of the bridge. A closer look showed the glint of a rifle barrel and what could be the top of the shooters head.

" _Got ya_ , fuck-face!" he hissed between clenched teeth. He worked the bolt on the long, black rifle, pushed down the little red button that he _hoped_ took the safety off and sighted down the barrel. There was no scope and the rear sight was a _small peephole_ , which greatly restricted his view.

"Where the fuck _is_ the bastard?!" he muttered trying to find his target through the tiny hole. _Then he had it!_ Then it was _gone!_ " _Stay the fuck still!_ " he growled, wanting to smash the unfamiliar weapon in his rage but knowing he couldn't --- not if he wanted to get out of this cluster-fuck _alive!_

As though to prove his point, _another bullet_ whizzed in, imbedding itself with a meaty 'slap' in the spare tire he was crouching behind. The air hissed out like an angry cobra.

Butch tried the peephole again. Saw the horse. Saw the bump that might be a head. Maybe even a hat. Took a breath and _squeezed_ the trigger.

The rifle bucked like a mule and kicked him just as hard in the jaw!

" _Mutherfucker!_ " he screamed, jumping back from the weapon and rubbing his face. He'd bitten his lip and spit out blood.

" _Sonovabitch!_ " he rumbled, angry with himself for not snugging the goddamned riffle butt into his shoulder like that old fuck, _Uncle Al the Kiddies Pal_ , had warned him about all those years ago.

To add insult to injury, another bullet whistled by his head, causing him to dive back behind the jeep. He picked up the sniper rifle and _slammed_ the rear site into the jeep's steel frame. The _hated peephole popped off_ , leaving only the bevelled ridge the target sight had rested on. " _Now_ we got some _real combat sites!_ "

' _Thud!_ '

Another bullet smacked into the spare tire.

Butch worked the bolt, shouldered the rifle and pulled it in till it hurt his already bruised shoulder. His long dead uncle's laughing face swam before him, mocking him like he always had. _'Fuck you, old man!'_ he swore inwardly as he easily placed the now crude site on the target, which he now clearly saw was the crown of a _cowboy hat!_

' _It's him!_ ' Butch's mind screamed. ' _I just know it is! Only he would try a fucking stunt like that!'_

'Bang!' the big bore rifle barked again, hurting his shoulder but not near as bad as the first time.

The hat, however, was still there, though a deep, wide grove had been gouged in the dead horse's flank.

He worked the bolt and looked down into the breach. He saw two more bullets underneath the one ready for the spout.

' _Gotta make these buggers count!_ ' he reasoned.

But they _didn't._

But then, _neither_ did Sam's.

_Both men_ had blasted away at each other several times, but _with no serious damage_. The problem was that Butch's riffle was now empty --- and Sam's wasn't.

" _Hey, Cowboy!_ " Butch finally yelled. He'd already put the empty sniper rifle down and taken hold of the Python. As he spoke he snapped open the chromed cylinder. Six .357 rounds gleamed up at him, looking like elongated brass eggs in a circular nest.

" _Ya, asshole_ ; what do you _want_?" floated back to him.

"What I _want_ is for _you_ to face me like a _man!_ No more of this _fucking around!_ "

While Butch talked Sam reloaded his Winchester, the Colt and checked the Scofield. "What do you have in mind?"

" _We both stand up_ ," Butch yelled, whipping blood from his curt lip. " _One handgun each_. We _walk towards each other_ \--- and the _best fucking man walks away_."

"Why _should_ I?" Sam yelled back. "My _people_ will be here soon."

Butch's answer was his ace in the hole. " _To prove you're not just a smart mouthed pussy in a big hat!"_

Sam actually _smiled_ at that --- then he stood up.

Seconds later Butch did the same.

A little more than fifty feet separated them. Not far in you're making a _Hollywood movie_ , but any real life handgun user will tell you that twenty-five to thirty feet is a pistol's _maximum range for any kind of accuracy_. Anything more than that and it comes down to two things: _luck and nerves_.

'Luck' speaks for itself, but 'nerves' in any kind of shoot-out means _slow and steady_. Butch, it seems had very little of _either_.

He started walking quickly towards Sam, the _Python_ raised and held fully extended in his right hand.

Bang! One miss.

Bang! Another miss.

Forty feet now and closing. Bang!

" _A hit!_ But the sonovabitch _won't fall!"_ Butch yelled

A fourth shot and another _goddamned_ miss!

And the bastard was still _just standing there_ beside the fucking _dead horse!_ Thirty feet now and ---.

Sam's Scofield barked once.

Butch felt something hit him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him.

Sam's second bullet struck Butch high in the left shoulder. He staggered backwards, regained his balance and tried raise the _Python_ , but the fucking thing felt like an _anchor_ in his hand!

Sam's third shot hit Butch low in the chest, missing the heart but puncturing a lung. Butch sat down hard as his legs gave out. He blinked and found himself on his back, looking up at the blue sky --- and a silhouetted form wearing a cowboy hat.

"You --- you've --- killed --- me ---"

Sam squatted down beside the dying man. "Looks that way."

Butch reached out and grabbed Sam's hand. "I --- I almost ---"

Then he died.

Sam took a beep breath and stood up. His side was bleeding. "Ya Butch. You _almost_ did." Sam then turned and slowly started walking back home.

The End

********
A Note from the Author

Thank you so much for reading my novel.

I hope you enjoyed 'the world' I created for you.

There is a lot more where that came from!

Perhaps you'd like to read a bit of the 'follow-up' novel

I'm writing about many of the characters you've already met?

If so, please read on. 'The Widow Horn' awaits you.

Wayne Mee,

Montreal, Canada

***

## 7 AC

## 'The Widow Horn'

by

### W.Wm.Mee

A Novel of the

'After the Cleansing'

Dedicated to my son,

### Jason Christopher

### Copyright 2020 W.Wm.Mee

Smashwords Edition
Hail and Well Met, Gentle Reader!

The adventure tale you are about to read,

like a tree in a forest, stands alone in its own light.

But, also like a tree, there are others around it.

Each the same, yet, in their own way, each different.

Sort of like people. So it is with this book.

The 'main character', Marcy Horn,

was a 'minor' character in an earlier book

I wrote in 'The Cleansing' series.

2 AC

'Fallen Angels'

Read them in order if you want to,

but it is not necessary --- just a little more logical.

'Rest ye gentle, sleep ye sound,'

***
Prelude: 'The Aftermath'

One year earlier,

October 17th, Year 6 AC,

the Horn Ranch, Montana.

Marcy Horn knelt in the dirt in front of her burning ranch, cradling the head of her murdered husband, Sam Goodnight. Will Penny and several others had also been killed--- shot by the savage biker gang that had attacked the ranch. Sam, Will and the others had finally fought them off, but the cost had been high --- far too high.

Dazed, in shock and wounded herself, Marcy looked down at the man she had loved for as far back as she could remember. Sam Goodnight. Ten years older than her and twice as much man as any other she had ever met. Lying dead now in her arms; killed by a looters bullet!

Suddenly her foreman, Roscoe Banks, staggered onto the front porch. He'd been shot in the left shoulder and half his face was a mask of blood from a scalp wound, but it was the other half that told the tale --- that and the look of sadness in his eyes. He'd been out back in the kitchen with Raven, the housekeeper, and Prudence Horn, Marcy's mother. The three of them had been firing at the attackers as they came in from all sides. When Roscoe spoke his voice was little more than a whisper. "I'm sorry, Miss Marcy, but they're gone. Raven and your mother both."

###  _"Gone_?" Marcy asked, frowning up at the blood covered man she'd known for years. "What do you mean 'gone'?! Taken?!"

Roscoe shook his head. "No Marcy, not taken. Dead. Shot when three men broke down the back door."

Marcy let out a little moan and pulled her husband's still warm body closer.

"I tried to stop them," Roscoe continued. "I shot the first two, but then my damn gun jammed! Your mother shot the third one, but he had a shotgun and fired as he went down. Roscoe's voice seemed to catch in his throat. "The blast hit her square in the chest. Raven had been hit earlier and was already gone. I'm so sorry, Marcy."

Suddenly Roscoe's legs gave out and he sat down hard on the porch. Neither of them seemed to notice. Roscoe, tears mingling with the blood from the scalp wound, left glistening red lines down his cheeks. He gave a deep sigh and slumped forward. Dead or simply passed out was not clear \--- but Marcy was beyond such things now as wave after wave of pain washed over her.

Candice Raintree, Billy Raintree's young wife, ran over to Marcy while her husband went to Roscoe. Most of the shooting had stopped and the looters were retreating. The roar of their motorcycles quickly faded away and the quiet, peaceful world of the ranch returned --- except that for Marcy and the others left alive it would never be the same again. In one terrible day Marcy Horn Goodnight had lost not only friends and trusted employees, but her husband, her mother, her step father and a woman she had considered her second mother --- all to Skull Henderson and the gang of savages that called themselves The Wild Bunch!

Even as Candice sat down behind her and rocked both Marcy and her dead husband, the new Widow Horn's mind was already racing. 'Things need doing, Marcy!' her mother had told her time and time again. 'And they won't get done on their own! So get off your backside, girl, and move!'

Marcy looked up at the clear, blue, uncaring October sky. 'Snow's not far away now momma, and Sam, you and the others need a proper burial. Up on the hill with the rest of the family. Wounds need tending to as well. Need time to heal.'

Yet another part of her racing mind, the part dealing with her broken heart, was already planning her revenge. 'Come spring though, momma, I intend to be on their trail. Track down Skull Henderson and his murdering gang and kill every last one of them! Kill them all like the rabid dogs they are!'

With her unspoken vow repeating itself over and over in her mind, Marcy allowed herself to be taken into the ranch and her wounds seen to. The fires were all put out, guards were set, and the bodies put in the barn and covered for now. Graves would be dug in the morning and the funeral service in the afternoon --- and then the long wait for spring would begin.

Spring, the time of awakening, new beginnings and rebirth ---and for Marcy Horn Goodnight, now the new Widow Horn, spring would also be a time for revenge.

***
Chapter 1: 'The Hunt Begins'

### _April 7th, 7 AC_

### _The Horn Ranch,_

### _Western Montana_

An early April snowstorm kept Marcy caged like an angry lioness for another week or so before she could finally take up the hunt for Skull Henderson and his Wild Bunch. Everyone, including Candice Raintree, had tried to talk her out of it, but Marcy was determined to see her family's killers brought to justice --- if not a in a court of law, then by the rougher, quicker kind found at the end of a knife, a gun or a rope.

The day after the storm, when the roads were still drifted in and the tree boughs weighed down with wet snow, a lone figure slowly rode up to the ranch.

Jasper Spears and two of the hired hands were playing cards in the bunkhouse when the rider pulled up in front and called out. "Hello the cabin! Ease off any hammers boys, for I come alone and I come in peace!"

Jasper, in charge of keeping an eye out for strangers, had thought that three feet of snow would have been enough to discourage visitors. Apparently he was wrong. Stepping out on the covered porch, his rifle loaded and cocked, he saw Hector Bluejacket's smiling, leathery face.

"Still carrying that Winchester, eh Jasper?" Hector said. "Your daddy's as I recall."

"Yes sir. And his daddy's before him."

Hector's smile widened as he patted the butt of the rifle sticking out of his saddle scabbard. "I always favoured the older Henry myself. But then old men like me often favour the past over the present."

Jasper gently uncocked his rifle and moved it into the crook of his left arm. "From what I hear from the rez, sir, it seems the 'old ways' have round again. Braves dressing old-timey n' wearing paint n' feathers in their hair."

"Some are taking that path," Hector said. "Mostly the young men. It's about them and a few other things that I've come to see the Widow Horn. I've got a business proposition to put before her."

It took Jasper a few seconds to realize that Hector meant Marcy, and not her dead mother, Prudence. For nearly three decades Prudence Horn had been know all over western Montana as the 'Widow Horn'. Even after Prudence had married her second husband, the legendary cowboy/hunter/trapper Will Penny, folks had still called her the Widow Horn. Now, with both her mother, stepfather and husband having been killed in last year's raid, the daughter Marcy had taken on her mother's mantle.

"Well, step down here Mister Bluejacket n' on come inside," Jasper grinned. "We've got coffee brewing n' I'll send word up to the Big House that you're here."

Hector, a full blooded Blackfoot pushing seventy something, dearly loved his coffee --- just one of the many things hard to come by now that the world had 'moved on'. Though part of him actually liked this sudden throwback to the 'old times', going without certain luxuries like coffee, electricity and flush toilets wasn't among them. "Don't mind if I do, Jasper. You wouldn't happen to have any biscuits to go with that?"

"Fresh backed this morning," the young cowboy beamed.

"And butter?" Hector asked, hoping against hope.

"Frozen in the churn out back, but I'll gladly chip you off a chunk."

"I'd take it kindly, Jasper. Mighty kindly indeed."

***

An hour and a lot of hot coffee later, Marcy and Hector Bluejacket had hammered out an agreement. At first Marcy had been reluctant to go along with the old Indian's rather strange proposal, but everyone finally talked her into accepting.

"So, we are agreed then?" Hector asked. Marcy nodded and he put down his cup and stood. The old Blackfoot spoke loud enough for everyone in the large room to hear. "Widow Horn, your family and mine will now join together in a Hatonka Pi-Ya or 'Blood Feud' against the group that murdered our loved ones. Together we will hunt down the group known as The Wild Bunch and rub them out, bringing peace at last to the spirits of those they took from us."

He looked first at Marcy, then all the others before continuing. "But the path of a Hatonka Pi-Ya is always a dangerous and bloody one. You go to avenge our dead, yet in doing so, others of you may also die. All that go must understand that they too might not to return to the land of the living." He paused for several heartbeats, then asked: "Is this also agreed?"

The old man looked not just at Marcy, but the others that would be going with her --- for Marcy had finally come to see that the revenge she hungered for could not be achieved alone. Skull Henderson and his Wild Bunch were far too many and far too brutal for one person to handle. She'd need help --- a lot of it.

So she had agreed to Hector's offer; there would be a Hatonka Pi-Ya; a Blackfoot 'blood feud'. The four friends going with her were her foreman, Roscoe Banks; Roscoe's best friend Jasper Spears; Billy Raintree and his wife Candice.

Hector said that ten or 'two fists' was an auspicious number, so five Blackfeet would also walk the Hatonka Pi-Ya. John Standing Bear, Hector's nephew would lead the other four Blackfeet. They were Charlie Four Shoes, Danny Strongheart, George Redfeather and a young woman named Sonya Moonstone. Charlie Four Shoes was a famous tracker/ man hunter known all over the northwest; while Danny Strongheart was as large and strong as his name implied. George Redfeather was an expert with all manner of native weapons, including the bow, lance and tomahawk.

But the fiercest of the five --- aside from John Standing Bear himself --- was the green eyed woman Sonya Moonstone --- known best by both her friends and enemies as The Dark Angel. Like John, Sonya had fought in the Crazy Wars and had come back home and joined the reservation police force.

Long, lean and as lovely as she was deadly, Sonya Moonstone was a force unto herself. Dressed in tight fitting, dark leathers and festooned with weapons, her piercing gaze and mocking smile gave her an air of haughty superiority --- and drew men like moths to a flame.

"John and Sonya will be around tomorrow to discuss the details," Hector said, finishing off his last coffee and turning towards the door.

"Details?" Marcy repeated. "What details? We just load a few pick-ups with food, guns and camping gear and head out."

The old man's smile was warm and his eyes twinkled. "Your mother was a tough, smart, woman. Well known around here and much respected. She knew ranching, horses and men --- and could easily handle all three. You also know these things and will rule here just as easily as your mother did. But now you are going far away, to strange places and even stranger men. They will care nothing for you or your big house or your fine herds. To them you will just be a pretty woman who they will want to use sexually and then toss away. My nephew, John Standing Bear, knows this type of men. Since the world 'moved on' he has spent the last seven years with men like that --- training them, fighting them --- and killing them. So, Widow Horn, when he comes tomorrow and says 'this is needed and that is not', you would be very wise to listen to him."

The grandfatherly smile was suddenly back. "And now, I'll say good day to you all --- and if I don't see you before you leave, 'happy hunting', and may Man Above watch over you all."

***

Early the next morning a large, wide military vehicle easily churned its way up the snowy/muddy drive. As the massive hum-vee came to rest in front of the main house, the driver's door opened and a tall, bearded man dressed in army fatigues and a flack vest stepped out. Marcy saw right away that this was a hard man; thick, muscular and scarred, yet the hardest part was the look in his eyes.

John Standing Bear had joined the Marines at eighteen and spent several years in countries where people had tried to kill him on a daily basis. He'd left the marines just before The Cleansing to be a deputy sheriff on the reservation. He spent three years in the Crazy Wars and just recently came back to the rez to teach his military skills to the men and women in his tribe.

Even as a child John had always believed that the best way to defend yourself was to go on the offensive --- and that was especially true now that the world had suddenly slipped backwards into some sort of weird neo 'Dark Age'.

He was happy to lead the Hatonka Pi-Ya that his Uncle Hector had organized. What he wasn't happy about was sharing that leadership with a white woman who had just lost her husband. He'd seen emotions prove fatal for a number of soldiers \--- men and women both. 'Keep your shit together' wasn't just some catchy phrase to pass around in a bar. Often it was the difference between life and death \--- and in a 'leadership position' it could prove fatal for a whole lot of people.

In the fight with the biker gang last year at the Horn Ranch, John had lost his beloved great aunt, Raven --- a woman he cared for as much as his own mother. He had sworn a private oath to kill the leader of this so called 'Wild Bunch' \--- the man called Skull Henderson. But it was a cold, impersonal thing; like a slow fire well banked with ashes, the hot coals deeply hidden until really needed. Once John had this Henderson under his knife however he planned to calmly cut the man's beating heart out of his still living body.

As Marcy stepped out on the front porch, John's dark eyes followed her. She stared back, meeting his steady gaze, then moved forward and held out her hand. "I don't believe we've ever met. I'm --- "

"The Widow Horn," John said, making no move to shake her hand. "I knew your late husband, Sam. Not well, but well enough to know that he was a good man. I'm sorry for your loss ---doubly so as I wish he were here instead of you."

If Marcy was taken back by John's frankness, she didn't show it --- and she gave him back as good as she got. "Are you always this direct with everyone, Mr. Bear --- or just with women?"

John Standing Bear's hard eyes turned even harder. "With just about everyone, mam --- but especially if they can put my people in harm's way."

Marcy's legendary temper quickly rose to the surface. "And just how can I do that, sir?! I did not ask you or your men to come along on this venture!"

"No you did not \--- but my Uncle Hector did. But I want something very clear at the start --- this may be a 'joint venture' but it is not a joint command! I give the orders --- to both my men and yours. Is that understood?!"

Marcy's piercing gaze became even more so. "It is indeed understood, sir, but not necessarily agreed with. I concede that you and you alone should run the military aspect of things; the 'how to' and 'when to' parts. After all, you are the soldier here, not I." She then took a step closer to the big man and raised her head defiantly. "But in all other things, be they great or small, I will have my say. Is that clear?!"

The ex-captain of Rangers held the beautiful woman's fierce gaze for several heartbeats and then snorted out a laugh. "My Aunt Raven told me that you were a lot like your mother. I see that, as always, she was telling the truth."

Marcy bristled. "Oh? And just what did that fine old woman have to say about me?"

"That unlike your direct, no-nonsense mother, at first you might seem to be softer and more gentle than she was --- but that underneath that pretty surface the same strength that runs through the mother also runs through the daughter."

In truth his aunt had told him a lot more besides, but of those things he was not yet prepared to speak; for those thoughts dwelt in a 'secret place' within him that he seldom visited --- a place of emotions and longing and things that 'real men' don't talk about.

Over the years he'd seen 'the Horn girl' a few times, but always from a distance. Though young, he had thought her uncommonly handsome --- but he had not seen her since returning from the Crazy Wars, and the pretty young girl that he remembered had grown into a beautiful woman. One night shortly after his return had casually asked his aunt --- who worked at the Horn ranch as head Housekeeper --- about 'the golden haired Horn girl'.

The old Blackfoot woman had stopped stirring the fire's embers, squinted knowingly and wagged her stick at him. "That is one filly, nephew, that even a great warrior like you should stay well clear of! Not only is she recently married to Sam Goodnight, one of the most powerful, richest and best men around here, but she is a force to be reckoned with all on her own!"

"What?!" Standing Bear had laughed. "She's not but half my size and weight! All legs, long golden hair and sky blue eyes!"

Raven had just shook her head, her long, once glistening dark locks she had been named for were streaked with grey now and stuffed into a battered old Stetson. "I see the truth of it now, nephew. You've already been bitten by Nanatana, the 'Love Bug'!" her sparkling eyes narrowed. "Does the Widow Thorn know that you secretly burn for her daughter?"

"Who says that I burn for her?!" he had demanded --- too loudly she had thought. After a moment he sheepishly added: "But even if I do, it is like you said, Auntie --- she's another man's wife. That makes her 'honto' to me!"

"Ah," the old woman had said, going back to stirring the fire. "It's true that she is 'forbidden' or 'honto' to the White half of you --- but what of your other half? Your Blackfoot half? For us, another man's wife --- or another wife's husband --- is not forbidden --- not if they themselves want to change partners."

"I'll not steal another man's wife!" Standing Bear had said indignantly; to which she had chuckled and squinted at him with her one good eye .

"What's so damned funny?" he'd demanded, knowing full well that the answer was himself.

Her smile remained, the flames showing her history in light and dark on her weathered face. "There will be little chance of that, nephew, for women of iron like The Widow and her golden haired daughter, their hearts can never be 'stolen' ---just 'given freely'. Also, Marcy Horn has been in love with Sam Goodnight since she was five years old. Only death will part them --- and perhaps not even then."

Unfortunately a few years later his aunt's casual comment had sadly come to pass. A savage, group of outlaw bikers had attacked the Horn ranch and Marcy's entire family had been killed --- including her husband and John Standing Bear's Aunt Raven --- and now here he was helping the 'new' Widow Horn to avenge her dead husband.

Standing Bear shook off such troublesome memories and focussed on the problem at hand \--- the fierce eyed beauty that now stood glaring daggers at him.

"Look, Miss Horn \--- Marcy --- I understand that you are grieving and want justice for your family. I'm here for the same reason --- but going up against a bunch of hardened killers isn't the same as running a ranch." He looked around at the frowning male faces --- white faces that might or might not harbor some secret resentment towards 'Indians' --- but either way it was damned clear that these men sure as hell resented him for talking to their boss like he had.

'Good,' he thought, his own anger rising. 'As long as they do what I say when I say it, they can resent meal they want!'

That was how he had led his men in the Crazy wars, in the Reservation Police and how he trained his militia now. He knew that he demanded a lot from his troops, but nothing that he wasn't willing to do himself. John Standing Bear led by example, and the Widow Horn and her modern cowboys would be treated the same as anyone else under his command.

He met the young widow's blue eyed gaze and attempted a smile. "These men here work for you; they also probably like and respect you, and so they will do whatever you say --- but the strangers we'll meet out there won't. Most of them won't give a shit about you, me or anybody but themselves!" He waved a brawny arm in front of him. "All of this; your ranch, your horses, even your body --- most men out there will just see it all as something to take. To use, sell, burn or rape!" He paused and attempted another fake smile. "So, boss-lady, it would be best for all of us if you stay here and tend to your ranch, grieve for your dead --- and look after the ones still living. If you insist I'll take two of your best men to represent you, but a Hatonka Pi-Ya is no picnic, and as I'm sure my uncle told you, whoever you send might not come back."

There was a long, silent pause, and then Marcy quietly asked a question. "Is the reason you don't want me along because I'm a female --- or that I'm not one of your trained mercenaries?!"

John's real smile flashed for the first time. "Both."

Sonya Moonstone barked out a laugh at that and Marcy's angry gaze fixed on the dark haired woman standing on the far side of the hum-vee. Marcy held Sonya's arrogant gaze for several heartbeats, then flashed back to John. "I can ride, rope and shoot as good as any man --- or woman!"

"I don't doubt that, mam," John replied. "But this aint no rodeo we're going on. The men we'll be hunting are cruel, casual killers, used to taking whatever they want whenever they want it. Your life and everyone's here will mean nothing to them."

Marcy drew a calming breath, then spoke. "And what if I choose to lead my own party instead? I'm quite sure that my friends and I will be perfectly fine without your so called help!"

"Then your 'friends and you' will be perfectly dead in less than a week," John countered. "Though whoever kills them will probably keep you around for a while. A good looking woman is worth a lot of brass."

Marcy's frown deepened. "Brass?" she repeated, ignoring the sideways compliment.

"Another word for ammo," Standing Bear said. "Bullets are worth more than dollars these days --- especially where we'll be going, and a blonde haired beauty like yourself would bring in buckets full at the slave auctions."

"Slave ---?!" Marcy stopped herself in mid question, but her shock was clear to see.

"I told you, mam," John continued. "The world outside this ranch is not a very nice place. It would be better for everyone if you stay here and look after your people. I'll bring you their leader's head."

Marcy fixed the tall, bearded mercenary with a stare that reminded both Roscoe and Jasper of the late Prudence Horn. "And if I insist on going anyway?" Marcy asked, her blue eyes challenging him.

John shrugged. "I can't stop you, but I can't guarantee that you or those around you won't be hurt, killed --- or worse."

"Good," she replied. "Because I can't guarantee your safety either. No-one can. So, now that we've cleared that up, when can you and your people be ready?"

John glanced over at the dark haired woman, received a sardonic smile, and turned back to Marcy. "We'll be here shortly after first light tomorrow. Have your gear and two reliable trucks ready but not packed when we arrive. We'll head out right after the inspection"

"Inspection?!" Marcy repeated. "We're not in the bloody army!"

Standing Bear turned back and drew a deep breath. To Marcy he looked like a grizzly getting ready to roar. Instead his voice was surprisingly soft. "If you ride with me, you follow my rules."

Marcy held his gaze, then nodded. "We'll be ready."

John got back in the hum-vee but spoke loudly through the open window. "And no bloody cowboy boots or fancy sneakers! Hiking gear is good, hunting gear is better --- and don't forget extra socks, gloves and long johns. Silk panties won't keep your ass warm."

With that he drove away, leaving the Widow Horn to glare after the insolent bastard.

***
Chapter 2: 'The Wild Bunch Head North'

At the same time that Marcy Horn and her four friends were digging out their hiking boots, sleeping bags and rain gear, Skull Henderson and his Wild Bunch were cruising back into the town of Santa Fe, New Mexico. Like the bearded, buckskin wearing 'mountain men' of nearly three hundred years earlier, the biker gang had spent most of the winter in the warm, dry desert areas of the southwest. Also like those famous fur trappers of that bygone era, Skull and his crew had spent the winter drinking, whoring and raising hell.

Where the two groups differed however was that while the 'mountain men' made their living from early spring to late fall trapping beaver from the icy streams of the Rocky Mountains, Skull and his Wild Bunch lived by murdering, raping and stealing from anyone they came across.

In the seven years since the Great Plague --- or 'The Cleansing' as many now called it, most forms of what was once 'modern civilization' had all but vanished. Everything that people once took for granted --- police, hospitals, all the government agencies set up to help, serve and protect, were now long gone. Brute force and the power of the gun now ruled. Might was once again considered right and just about everywhere the strong, the cruel and the heartless prayed on the weak, the naive and the unprepared.

However when one strong group came into contact with another strong group, the big question then was were they morally and ethically strong as well --- or were they like Skull's lot, two legged wolves that hunted in packs and always sought out the slow, the soft and the weak --- for soft and weak was what Skull had thought the Widow Horn's ranch was when they first saw it nearly two years ago. And why the hell not?! A large, isolated place rich in all the things Skull and his scavengers needed --- food, gas, vehicles and other supplies. And seemingly all run by a woman! It should have been easy pickings just like all the others \--- but when Skull and his group rode in and he arrogantly made his usual demands, Prudence Horn, her husband Will Penny and everyone else on the ranch had instant fought back. The result of the brief but bloody battle was that several of Skull's gang had been killed and he and the others were driven away. The biker lord, furious at having lost both face and men to a 'bunch of fucking shit shovelers', went off to lick his wounds --- and plan his revenge.

Far to the south Skull had brooded over the winter, gathering new men to him and making his plans and in the fall of last year he came back to attack the Horn Ranch once again, only this time with more men and more firepower! Still, it had been a long, hard battle, for the ranchers were a tough and determined lot and had beefed up their defences in the year since the first attack.

But in the end Skull had finally gotten his revenge --- though once again the price had been high. Almost too high, for even though he had killed or wounded just about everyone there and set the main barn and several outbuildings on fire, he still rode off with very little loot --- and less than half the bikers he came with! The smoke from the burning buildings had filled the crisp, fall air --- along with the cries and curses of those he had been forced to leave behind. So once again Skull had taken the remains of his battered gang south for the winter, leaving the grey, snow-filled skies, and cold winds of Montana for the warmer, gentler breezes of New Mexico and Arizona.

And now it was spring again! A time of melting snow, gentle breezes and hope for tomorrow. It was also time to lead his boys back up north. Back to the fat farmers, ranchers and townsfolk with their barns, stores and houses full of food, fuel and plunder. All theirs for the taking! Most of the stupid bastards were only too happy to hand over their goods, their guns, even their women! 'Just leave me and the rest of us alone,' they'd plead. 'Come back next year if you want; we'll be here with more food and supplies! But not if you kill us!'

So Skull and his Wild Bunch took what they wanted and usually left the rest alone \--- unless of course they refused to hand things over ---or moved too slowly or looked at them the wrong way. The worst 'punishment' however was reserved for those foolish enough to actually fight back --- to defy the natural order of things --- that 'might makes right' and that The Cleansing had culled the world back to the ancient simplicity of the sheep, the sheppard and the wolf --- and as Skull loudly proclaimed, he and his Wild Bunch were the 'wildest damn wolves of them all!'

Yet deep in his cold heart he still bore a burning hatred for 'those hard headed bastards up in Montana!' It was a hatred tinged with more than a little fear, causing Skull to relive over and over in his misadventures at the Horn Ranch. The anger he had felt at the time had mixed with the sudden, ball shrinking fear as the cowboys and their women had opened fire point blank at them! 'Just like the fucking O.K. Corral!!!' was how he now thought of it --- and he did think about it --- a lot! After it had happened --- after he had run away \--- wounded, shaken --- like a whipped dog with his tail between his legs \--- it had started to eat away at him. Not just the men lost or wounded, or the rich plunder they had been denied, but the very fact that those ranchers had really frightened him. And not just a nervous little flutter in the stomach, but a bowel loosening, piss-your-pants type of fear \--- something he hadn't felt for a long, long time. Not since the best forgotten days of his tormented childhood when his troll of a father only stopped beating on his smart mouthed son long enough to rape and beat Skull's much abused mother.

Skull had slammed the door shut on that particular memory and nailed the fucker down years ago, but somehow thinking of the Horn Ranch always seemed to open the bastard up again --- and the leering face of his drunken father would peer out at him from the long ago but seemingly oh so transparent shadows!

Skull shook himself and once again cast those memories away. 'Both of them had gotten exactly what they deserved!' he told himself. 'I bashed the old man's head in with an axe and I killed nearly every goddamned cowboy and his horse on that fucking ranch! he reminded himself --- though sometimes late at night, especially after too much booze and/or drugs, he still thought he saw his father's face --- grinning at him from the deeper shadows.

"Charlie!" he suddenly called out loud and clear. 'Charlie! Where the fuck are you?"

"Over here, Skull," his second in command yelled back. "What doya want?"

"Haul your skinny ass over here!" Skull shouted back. They were in a local Santa Fe saloon and someone was banging out a god-awful rendition of and old Beatle tune on the upright piano. Three or four of the gang, along with a couple of whores, all drunker than skunks, were attempting to sing along.

'Hey Jude, don't be afraid.

You were made to, go out and fuck her!

Remember to shove it way in,

then you begin, to make it better.

Better, better, better!

Nawwww-naw-naw ---- Na-na-na-na!!

Na-na-na-naww! Hey Jude!

Judy-Judy! Judy-Judy-Judy!'

Skull drew his long barreled revolver and shot the battered, old, upright piano. "Shut the fuck up!"

Silence followed --- except for the ringing in everyone's ears caused by firing the massive gun in a closed room. Charlie Cutter came over doing up the fly, a cigarette dangling from his bearded lips. "Nice shot, Skull. I never did like the fucking Beatles. A bunch o' pot-headed pussies \---'cept for John. He was cool."

Skull looked at the man as he finished buckling his belt.

"What the fuck were you doing? Taking a dump?"

"Sort of," Charlie grinned, the laugh lines around his blue eyes made them twinkle. "Chiquita was giving me a blow job. Or maybe it was Wauneta? I keep getting the two of them mixed up. What the fuck do you want anyway?"

"Round up Numbers, Harvard and the rest. We're getting the fuck out of here.

Charlie's eyes twinkled all the more. "About fucking time!"

***

As spring moved in and the snows in the high passes began to melt, Skull and his gang followed their usual route back northward. They would stay with the warm weather by heading west like they always did, staying well clear of the Death Zones in California --- or what was left of it. Everything west of the Sierra's was either a wasteland of nuked desert or had been drowned when the nukes had set off the San Andreas Fault, causing everything along the coast from L.A. to San-Fran-Fucking Cisco to vanish into the ocean.

They'd have to watch out for the Mutie Tribes in the wastelands of Arizona and Nevada as well as the roving bands of Eaters coming up from Mexico. They'd finally turn northwards and travel up through the remains of the western states --- now the sparsely populated but very powerful Five Kingdoms. And everyone knew that those fuckers didn't screw around when it came to law and order! They had roving patrols of armed 'Kingsmen', both mounted and in trucks, moving up and down the well maintained roads --- and they had no qualms about hanging any 'breakers of the King's Law' to telephone poles and roadside trees!

This rout they followed had varied very little in the four years that Skull had been leading The Wild Bunch. Like a savage tribe of wandering Mongolian nomads, he led his outlaw bikers in a yearly 'great circle' from north to south, perpetually following the seasons and taking what they wanted from all those that were unfortunate enough to cross their path. From Santa Fe in the south up to the old Canadian border in the north then eastwards for the summer. Come fall it was back southward through the Lakota Tribes and the Old West states --- another bunch of well-armed, mean fuckers --- and on back to winter in relatively peaceful Santa Fe.

It was a good life --- wild, free and exciting \---as long as you were ruthless, cruel and didn't give a shit about dying young. Skull, Charley and the others were addicted to all the booze, drugs and constant danger. For them and others of their ilk, the coming of the man-made Death Clouds seven years ago and the eradicating effect they had on civilization was a 'godsend' \--- not that Skull or many like him believed a 'greater power' than themselves --- but they sure as hell enjoyed the absolute, unadulterated freedom to do whatever they fuck they wanted!

The end --- for now.

***

That's all I've got so far, friend. The rest is yet to be written.

There are also a fair number of other 'After The Cleansing' novels out there for you, and plenty more planned.

Have a look at all my books at Smashwords and thanks again.

Be well and keep reading.

W.Wm.Mee

Near Montreal,

Quebec, Canada

***
