

Introduction

_Hail and well met, Gentle Reader!_

What you have before you is a _'taste'_ of my work.

Bits and pieces, bites and nibbles, of my various scribblings;

put together for you to browse through at your leisure.

My main areas of interests are.

Action Novels

Fantasy

Science Fiction

Historical Novels

(and my favorite)

_Alternate History (18+)_

Please, check out a few samples,

but I warn you **,  
**

the _'Alternate History'_ in the first half

is _'rather rough'_ in places and

not for the faint of heart! _  
_  
Now, kindly step into my world \--- if you dare!

Copyright 2012 W.Wm.Mee

Smashwords Edition

Table of Contents

_Ever Onward_ (Alternate History)

1. Papers Served.

2. Pussbag Smitty

3. The Antichrist

4. The Spine of God

5. The Lost Boys

6. May Saves the Day

_Fallen Angels_ (Alternate History)

7. Judy-May Leaves Home

8. The Cowboy

9. Two-Times Tyree

10. The Major

11. The Doctor

12. The Teacher

13. Suzy Creamcheese

14. The Reverend

15. The Circle 'C'

16. A Piece Of Cake

17. The Widow Horn

18. The Calm Before The Storm

19. Small Going In

20. Click! Click!

_God Wills It_ (Alternate History)

21. A Wolf Of A Different Color

22. The Good Reverend

23. Lady Macbeth

24. A Tale To Break Your Heart

(Table of Contents Continued)

_SHARD_ (Epic Fantasy)

25. The Glitch Slath

26. Wolf's Head

27. The Wanderer Is Found

28. Into The Delgii Hills

29. The Contest

30. The Sending

31. Cast Upon The Wind

32. The Bloom Of Youth

Across The Water (Historical Novel)

33. Introduction

34. The Bonnie Prince

35. Culloden Moore

36. Shots In The Road

37. Damn Fine Sport!

38. The Enemy

39. Gone But Not Forgotten

This is the first book in my _'Ragnok Series'_ ,

also called the _'AC Series'_ for 'After Change'

or 'After Cleansing'.

The series is about various groups of

survivors of a world wide plague that

killed off most of the population.

Please note:

Unlike my historical and fantasy books,

the 'Ragnok Series' has a great deal of

course language and violence.

_'Not for the faint of heart'

_

**Chapter 1:** **PAPERS SERVED**

(This tale explains how the

World Plague got started)

Nellis Air Force Base,

Nevada June 21 Next Year

Sergeant David Henderson felt like shit. Gulping a ragged breath, he leaned against the wall of the underground complex and squinted up at the bright lights, the M-16 clutched tightly to his chest. He'd had one _bitch_ of a night and the day didn't look to be any better. To add insult to injury, the booze was wearing off and the fucking pills he'd taken hadn't kicked in yet!

The M-16 trembled in his hands. Caressing it lovingly, he thought of his soon to be his EX wife, thought how he'd love to shove the barrel down her big mouth and empty the clip. _THAT_ would shut her the fuck up once and for all! Always nagging him about his drinking, his gambling and his 'other women'.

That last part struck him as funny. Booze and cards there'd been aplenty; but no other women. As far as Sergeant David Henderson was concerned, one nagging female was one fucking too many!

Not that he was any limp-wristed faggot! _Christ no!_ His red-necked father had hated faggots and had gleefully passed on the feeling to his budding red-necked son. Lawyers too! Hell yes! Henderson's sweating face smiled coldly as he dwelt on those bygone days of yore. Oh my, how his Old Man had _dearly hated_ lawyers. Chased them off the farm with a shotgun when they'd come with the eviction notice!

'Like the little prick that tried to serve me my divorce papers!' Henderson muttered to himself. A cruel sneer crossed his haggard face. He'd beaten the shit out of the little queer and lost his field commission because of it. The brass had shuffled him off to a desk job, where he now sat shuffling goddamned computer printouts back and forth for a bunch of over-the-hill, lawyer-loving, ass-kissers! What kind of job was that for a fighting man?!

Then he'd met Willard Larsh in a seedy watering hole on the outskirts of Bakersfield. Willard was one of those egg-head civilian types working on some top-secret project at the base. Henderson thought at first that he was just another computer-geek faggot on the make, but Willard had surprised him. Half way through a bottle of scotch, Henderson found out that Wee Willie Larsh was scared. Not just scared of loosing his job/wife/kids/manhood scared, but REALLY scared! The kind of scared that leaves a fella wide awake in the middle of the night with his heart pounding, his throat dry and his shorts moist in the rear.

Some strange shit was going down back on the base. Some REALLY strange shit! When pressed, Willy-boy would only say that 'it' was all wrong, and that some bitch named Estelle wouldn't listen to him. Henderson could sure as hell relate to that.

They'd met several times since, mostly at the same seedy strip-bar. Since Henderson's wife had already moved out and Wee Willie always paid for the booze, Henderson was more than content to humor the little four-eyed runt. Yet as the hours slid by, listening to Willie 'wine on' while watching Suzy Rottencrotch bump n' grind her way around the tiny stage, Sergeant David Henderson slowly began to get the 'Big Picture'.

The brass, so sayeth Wee-Willy, were secretly working on a new type of nerve gas. Not just your average 'wipe out the whole fucking village' kind, but one ball-busting, cock-sucking GIANT kind! An honest ta Gawd 'weapon of muther-fucking mass destruction!'

'Agent C.D.' was its code name. The letters stood for Crystallized Deterrent. When Henderson had asked what the fuck that meant, Wee Willie had grinned slyly and said: 'Completely Demented.' He'd gone on to explain how this new gas would make old soldiers like Henderson about as useful as tits on a nun. Grunts like the sarge would be looked on as dinosaurs. The 'soldier of the future', according to a three sheets to the wind Willy, would be 'some skinny assed kid in a spacesuit, high on drugs, a face full of zits and a squirt gun filled with C.D.'

Henderson had _not_ been a happy camper!

First the faggot lawyers had taken his wife, his money, his pride: and now they were after his goddamned job! Well, he sure the fuck knew how to put a stop to THAT right quick! When Wee Willie asked what he had meant, it had been Henderson's turn to clam up.

That had been almost a week ago. Since then the old sarge had been a very busy boy. Now at last he was ready. Hell yes! Was he ever!

Feeling like his daddy must have as he'd waited on the farm, shotgun in hand, for the lawyers to serve the eviction papers, Sergeant David Henderson thumbed off the safety on his M-16 and stepped out into the hall. Corporal Phil Lavin was on guard duty at the far end. Henderson knew Lavin from way back. They weren't real close, but they'd downed more than a few Ginger Ales together. Only a week ago they had played in the same poker game. As usual, Henderson had gotten plastered and started a fight just for the hell of it, thus living up to his nickname: 'Deadly Dave'.

'Hey, sarge! How they hangin'?"

Deadly Dave's response was to shoot Lavin twice in the face.

The corporal's body slammed back into the heavy door, then slid down into a lifeless heap. A thick smear of blood and brains marred the door's stainless steel surface.

Grinning like the madman he was fast becoming, Henderson stepped over both the sanity line as well as the body and punched in the secret code. It had been changed that morning, but he knew that. He wasn't supposed to. 'Eyes Only' shit. But they'd taken his gun and turned him into a paper shuffler, a fucking desk-jockey riding a computer console; a main-frame faggot who could surf the fucking net with the worst of them! Yet with knowledge came power, and the more knowledge the more power! So now he knew all about the famous-fucking 'Door' and what really went on behind it--- and that knowledge had driven him over the edge.

"Bastards!", he muttered, saliva flecking the corners of his twisted smile. "Cock-sucking job-stealing bastards!"

The door swished open like the ones on Star Trek. Beam me up, Snotty. Henderson was through in an instant, the M-16 now on continual burst. Full metal jacket rounds tore through the guard just inside the door. At such close range the man's stomach vaporized. Henderson was past the body before it hit the floor, the M-16 still coughing out death.

Estelle Dority, one of several non-military technicians working on Agent C.D., turned and screamed. The tumbling slugs ripped into her left side and spun her like a top. One more entered through her open mouth, exiting stage right and taking half her head with it. A mental picture of his wife flashed before him. Henderson began to smile.

Walking forward, Deadly Dave shot three more people. 'Time is precious' his mother had often told him, and Mrs. Henderson's obedient offspring knew her to be right. He had a lot to do. Miles to go before I sleep. With that he commenced spraying poetic justice at the white lab coats scrambling madly for cover. When his fifty-round magazine finally emptied, a total of nine people lay dead, among them, Willard 'Wee Willie' Larsh.

But Sergeant Henderson's one man crusade was far from over. He had eliminated the creators, but their job stealing creation itself still remained.

The smell of blood and cordite filled the room. Trembling as adrenaline pumped its way into his veins, Henderson tossed the spent clip aside and inserted a fresh one. His gaze tuned now to the room itself. Test tubes, beakers and jars littered the lab tables. Electronic machinery, each costing more than what a dedicated soldier like himself made in a year, lined the walls. From one corner a computer glared at him like an accusing eye. Henderson held the stare for as long as he could, then fired. Spent casings tapped out a staccato beat as they clattered on the tile floor. The thunder of the M-16 punched out the base, while his own screams filled in the high notes. _'Rock n' roll!'_ the old Nam vets used to yell, joyfully wasting friend and foe alike. Henderson could do no less. Shattered glass fell like broken dreams as Deadly Dave boogied on down.

The noise was deafening.

He didn't hear the door swish open behind him; the M.P.'s shouted command; the harsher, crisper sound as the M.P. fired his sidearm. So intent on blasting beakers was ol' Dave that he never even felt the .45 slug that swung him around, his arms wide like Christ on His cross.

Startled, the two men stood facing each other. The silence hung in the air like a pop fly at its apex. Then gravity intervened and his smoking barrel began its fall back to earth. Half way through its arc, the M.P. fired again --- three times in rapid succession. Bang! Bang! Bang!

One after another, small holes stitched their way up Henderson's chest, the last one hitting his nametag. Dead on his feet, Henderson's finger tightened on the trigger. The dozen remaining rounds emptied into the far wall. One of them struck a small vile encased in clear plastic, exploding it like a grenade. The contents of the vile, left there by the late, great Estelle Dority, escaped unseen into the room.

Sergeant Henderson had just killed ten people in order to stop the experiment that Estelle and her esteemed colleagues had labored so long to create. Agent C.D. The ultimate weapon; a type of nerve gas that killed only apes, monkeys and humans, leaving all other forms of life unaffected. Entering through the pores of the skin, it attacked both the red and white blood cells, crystallizing all the liquid in the body and causing almost instant death.

Estelle's team however, had been working on a little added bonus --- a way to make C.D. dispose of the bodies as well! Her team had found a way to continue the process so that not just the blood crystallized, but the entire body, including hair, bones and teeth. Only a gray, fragile parchment-like substance would remain, akin to an old wasps nest, easily blown away by the wind.

Just how this all actually worked, the recently late but far from great Sergeant Henderson could have cared less. When he'd finally broken the code on the 'eyes only' document Agent CD and read the bitter truth about what Eager-Beaver Estelle and her geek buddies had done, he decided to act. 'The faggots are taking over!', a long – deadyet familiar voice had warned him. 'Someone should do something about those queer bastards right quick before they get the goddamn farm!'

In his own twisted way Henderson had set out to do just that, to destroy the creation of the wife/job stealing faggots before it was too late. In so doing he had killed the creators but set their creation itself free. The recently deceased Estelle Dority, B.A., M.A., Doctor of Nuclear Chemistry and an acute sufferer of P.M.S., had neglected to mention one small detail in her last report, (the same report that Sergeant Henderson had inadvertently read and that had set him off on his own personal stairway to heaven). The neglected detail was that there might just be one tiny drawback to the 'new and improved' version of CD. She suspected that this new gas she and her team were working on might not dissipate quite as quickly as the older, non-body disposing kind did.

It might, in fact, NOT dissipate at all!

Months earlier, junior adviser Willard 'Wee Willie' Larsh, after checking and double checking simulated tests on his computer, had reluctantly informed Ms. Dority of his findings. Young Willard claimed that once exposed to the air, said new gas would most probably undergo a chemical change --- a rather serious chemical change. Wee Willie had even gone so far as to call it a double-scoop mother-fucking RADICAL change! Not only wouldn't it die off like smoke on the wind --- it would MUTATE AND MULTIPLY!

As was Sergeant Henderson when he 'ruffled the placid governmental waters', Young Willard was quickly and firmly shuffled off to shuffle his own endless stream of computer printouts. But by then the damage had been done. The divorce papers had been served, the farm had been sold, the scotch had been drunk \--- and the seeds of destruction had been sown.

And Agent C.D., known affectionately as Crystallized Deterrent and/or Completely Demented, was set free on an unsuspecting world.

Had he lived long enough, Young Willard would have had the last laugh, perhaps even renaming it Agent Complete Destruction, for he had been right about the chemical change all along; new and improved Agent C.D. did indeed multiply. The only part Willie had miscalculated was just how fast.

Almost everyone on Nellis Air Force Base was dead by morning.

The rest of the world would take a little longer.

***

Chapter 2: **Pussbag Smitty  
**

Private Theodore Smith, called Smitty by a few and _Pussbag_ by many, rocked back and forth in the corner of his barracks. His ferret-like eyes wild with maniacal fear, a dripping bayonet clutched in his bloody hand.

Close by was the body of a young soldier. Not one of those papery bee-hive things, but a honest-to-God flesh and bone body! Like the precious few other people left alive that morning, the young private had somehow been passed over by the late, great Estelle Dority's infamous creation. A survivor who had survived only long enough to be killed by yet another survivor! _Aint life a bitch?_ The irony of the situation however, was clearly lost on Pussbag. In point of fact, Pussbag himself had been lost for most of his miserable, psychotic life.

The child-soldier had come upon Pussbag trembling in a corner and offered him his hand. Thinking himself attacked by his many sins come to life, Pussbag Smitty had stabbed the hapless survivor till his arms tired.

Now, sitting in a puddle of his own urine, Pussbag cocked his head to one side. What was that? A motor? Yes? _YES_! Crawling on all fours to the nearest window, he timidly poked his head up just high enough to see out.

Pussbag couldn't believe his eyes. A jeep! A Jesus to Christ _jeep_! Tooling along over the tarmac as nice as you please! There was just one guy in it and --- would ya look at _that_?! The fucker was smoking a cigarette and _smiling_!

Pussbag watched the dark stranger with ferret-like intensity. Something in that face reminded him of... of something he both desperately wanted to remember yet longed desperately to forget. A dead dream resurrected from his hellish childhood. The one nightmare he repeatedly pushed away had now suddenly come to life!

Unbidden, an image of his mother materialized in his maggoty brain. She was leaning over him, one hand clamped on his frail shoulder, the other pointing to an open book. Young Theodore had not wanted to look at the picture, but Mommy had insisted, and Mommy always got what she wanted.

" _Look at Him, you little shit! LOOK AT HIM!!"_ , her shrill voice had demanded. Even through the haze of years Pussbag could still smell the sent of cheap gin and religious ecstasy on her breath. _"Look at the Dark Stranger! If you're naughty, He will come for you!"_ Her ringed fingers had dug into his thin flesh, pushing him closer to the page. _"The Dark Stranger ALWAYS comes for naughty little boys!"_

His heart pounding, Pussbag absently wiped his snotty nose with the sleeve and fixed his gaze back on the man in the jeep. The handsome face was the same as the one in Mommy's Good Book. When the jeep passed beyond his view, Pussbag Smitty silently followed, the bayonet still clutched in his bloody hand.

Jocco stopped the jeep at the back of the Officers Mess and looked around. Bodies were everywhere. Draped over crates; laying sprawled on the ground. One was half in, half out of the back door. All had been reduced to that paper-thin gray shit.

With all the finesse of a runaway garbage truck, the ghost of a plan Jocco had kept secretly locked away for years continued to push itself forward. Humdrum, every day thoughts were casually shunted aside as easily as the parchment thin bodies that littered the runway. Part of him tried to hold it back, to wait until he was certain. Yet another part, the wilder, savage part that always lurked just beyond the surface, urged him on.

Then someone staggered out the side door of the Officer's Mess, leaned over the railing and puked. The bottle he'd been holding fell, exploding on the asphalt like a bomb. Looking up, their eyes met. The puker's widened, flicked to the shattered bottle, then back to Jocco. His mouth fell open, a string of thick saliva trailing from his lower lip.

"You a _ghost_ , man?"

Jocco grinned. "Not likely. What are we drinking?"

The man, in his early thirties, was big, balding, unarmed and drunk as a skunk. Jocco casually walked over and read the soldier's nametag: Sampson.

"Nothing but the _best_ , man", Sampson slurred. "The fucking _best!_ "

His hand close to the .45 at his hip, Jocco motioned towards the open door of the Mess. "Set 'em up then, friend. I'm buying."

Sampson seemed to find the casual remark extremely funny. Laughing as only a well practiced drunk can, he staggered back inside. Jocco followed.

"Keep your money, man," Sampson grinned. "Drinks are on the fucking house!"

The room was littered with bodies. A good number were women, their skirts and dresses mingled with the uniforms like a cut close line. Officer's wives, daughters, girlfriends. Jocco could care less. Sampson had found another bottle and was attempting to fill two glasses. His hand shook so much that most of the amber liquid ended up on the bar.

"Fuck it!", he growled, sweeping the glasses away with his free hand, he grabbed another bottle and thrust it towards Jocco. "Here, man. Help yourself."

Jocco took a sip, then placed the bottle gently on the dripping bar. Sampson was chugging his. Shock, Jocco reasoned. He'll pass out soon. Soon turned out to be very soon. Sampson hadn't half finished the bottle before it finished him. His eyes rolling white, he slid silently down behind the bar. What remained of the bartender was already there.

Jocco smiled, his mind racing. Over three thousand men were stationed at the China Lake Base. It seemed that only three of them were left alive. One in a thousand. He wondered if those odds held for off the base as well. The wild part of him hoped so.

One way to find out, he reasoned. He walked to the phone and dialed an outside line. A list of names and numbers was by the phone. He tried them all. State Police; Ridgecrest Hospital; Bakersfield Hospital; Los Angeles Airport; then, just to be sure, the Malamar Naval Air Base near San Diego. He got a number of machines, but nobody home. Some high roller had penciled in the number of The Golden Nugget in Las Vegas. Under that was scrawled: _'For a sweet time call Candy'_. A local number followed. Snake Eyes on the casino. Candy's number got him a recorded _'Moved. No forwarding address.'_ Jocco grinned. Even the local whore-house had suddenly packed up and blown away.

His pulse raced. With every passing moment years of conditioning dropped away, leaving him stripped to the emotional bone. His smile widened. Ex-pimp, ex-pusher and now, ex-private in the army of the late-great United States of fucking-America! Ain't life grand?!

Just then a horn sounded. Jocco saw a jeep stop out front. Lieutenant Pinkton from Personnel I presume? Jocco took the bottle from the bar and sat down facing the door. He then placed his .45 automatic on the table next to the bottle. He intended to give Pinkton a choice. Join his little team of carefree survivors or join the other silent snoozers that now seemed to litter the outside world.

It was while pondering such weighty questions as these that the plane passed overhead.

***

Chapter 3: **The Antichrist

**

June 25, Barstow, California,

50 miles south of China Lake

Naval Weapons Center.

As the armored personnel carrier pulled into the parking lot of Barstow's Holiday Inn, its six tractor tires crunched over the remains of several bodies. A large Troop Transport and two heavy trucks followed. Swirls of dust choked the air; not all of it from blown sand.

The door of the heavy APC swung open and Jocco climbed down. In the fading light, his first conquest lay before him: Barstow, located where I-40 continues west to Bakersfield and I-15 heads south through the San Gabriel Mountains all the way to LA.

It had taken Jocco two days to find and load all the little toys he would need to implement Part B of his Grand Plan. The trucks, weapons and manpower had been easy; the APC had not. At first he had wanted a tank, but Bobby-Joe Burlis, one of several other survivors that had willingly joined Jocco's merry little band, had talked him out of it. Bobby-Joe had pointed out that they needed more speed rather than more firepower.

"Sweet Jesus-on-a-stick!", Bobby-Joe had drawled in his thick southern accent. "Why, you got enough ass-kick in them two trucks to start a goddamned war! Besides, a tank needs a trained crew; radar, gunner, navigation, the works." He'd jerked a thumb back in the direction of the motley bunch they had assembled in the China Base Hanger. "Look, Jocco. I can drive just about anything with wheels, but I wouldn't trust one of those assorted assholes near my daddy's old tractor, let alone a fucking tank!"

So Jocco had settled for the APC. It had front and back machine guns, a 50 mm. swivel cannon turret, and was heavy enough to either push aside or plow through wrecked cars. It could also, in Bobby-Joe's own words; "Hump along like a whore on a quart of moonshine!"

George the Man leaned out the window of the Troop Transport. "Hey, Boss. Where do you want me to park this fucker?"

Jocco's cruel smile took in the parking lot of the Holiday Inn. "Right in the front lobby, Georgie-boy. It looks like rain."

George's eyes widened, then a cruel smile of his own lit up his pale face. "Fucking-A, man! Fucking-A!"

Moments later the high plate-glass windows shattered as Georgie – Porgie smashed his way into the lobby of Barstow's Holiday Inn. Grinning like the savages they were fast becoming, Nathan Hight and Rege Shehe, the two other drivers Jocco had recruited, followed Georgie's lead.

On a low hill near the edge of Barstow, Manuel Estaban Gazara, called Rat by everyone but his mother, sat astride his new Honda 350. Both the dirt-bike and its rider were filthy. Rat's long, greasy black hair was tied back by a headband as red as the numerous pimples on his sallow face. Dressed in a mixture of studded leathers and high boots, the eighteen year old looked like something out of a Mad Max movie. A Smith & Wesson .38 Special hung from a new shoulder holster. A 12 gage Defender shotgun, it's black pistol grip sticking obscenely up out of a rifle scabbard, was strapped to the Honda's gastank.

Rat squinted against the blowing sand as he watched the scene below him unfold. At first he thought that the Army had arrived. The idea had sent twin shivers of anger and disappointment coursing through him. Manuel the Rat liked things just fine the way they were, thank you very fucking much! Wild n' crazy n' free for the taking! And he sure as shit didn't want any Law & Order types fucking things up!

Before the Change, he had had nothing; he had been nothing. A petty thief; a small time pusher; hanging out with a bunch of big-mouth Chicanos who strutted and swaggered but did dick all. Now they were gone and he was left --- and everything was his. So Rat was less than ecstatic when the four Army trucks rolled into the parking lot of Barstow's Holiday Inn.

Then the crazy fuckers had driven right into the front lobby! The sight nearly blew his mind! Fucking glass everywhere! No regular Army pussies would do that! Rat smiled to himself and turned the ignition key. The big 350 purred like a cat about to spring. He drove down the far side of the hill, through the sand dunes and up onto the hard surface of I-15. It would be dark soon and he had a few things to do before he came back and checked out these crazy gringos.

Private Pamela Gliss, unafectionately known as Pam the Bitch, finished field stripping her M-16, snapped the 20 round clip back into the magazine and worked the slide. "Lock 'n load, boys and girls! It's party time!" George, along with Tim Galt and Bobby-Joe Burlis, were passing a bottle back and forth and watching a porno movie on the wide screen Sony in the hotel's lounge. A bleached blonde with jugs that made Dolly Parton look flat-chested was bending over a surprised but happy Maytag repairman. Pam the Bitch, deciding to give the boys on the couch a little show of her own, fired a triple burst from the hip. The hollow nosed slugs shattered the glass, imploding Japan's greatest contribution to the Western World.

"Jesus-fucking Christ, man!", George yelled. "It was just getting to the good part!"

"Ya!", Bobby-Joe drawled. "Ol' Georgie-boy here was 'bout ready to shoot his own load!"

Pam the Bitch placed the butt of her M-16 against her crotch and rotated the barrel in a slow circle. "I just thought you boys might like a little of the real thing."

Tim Galt, more than a little drunk, nudged Bobby-Joe. The night before Private Pamela Gliss had quite eagerly joined in the latest initiation ceremony. Undoubtedly Tim anticipated a repeat performance.

Lieutenant Sam Waterson sat on the far side of the lounge, quietly nursing a straight Vodka and contemplating murder. Nurse Shirley Bates, her ear badly infected from Pussbag's bayonet, lay on the couch curled up in a fetal position. Walter Pinkton stood sullenly off to one side, his eyes fastened on the slowly rotating gun barrel.

Suddenly Nathan Hight, a tall, muscular black, came running in, his weapon sweeping the room. "What's all the shooting?"

Pam turned her hard eyes on him and smiled. "Just warming up the pie, Buckwheat. Want a piece?"

Nathon's white teeth lit up his dark face.

Things were just starting to heat up indeed when Rege Shehe and Pussbag filled the doorway. Between them was a sallow faced teenager dressed all in black leather. Pussbag's bayonet was pressed against the youth's throat.

"Who the fuck ya got there, Pussbag?", George grinned. "Your new boyfriend?"

Tim Galt seemed to find the remark hilarious.

"Caught the little fucker sneaking round the trucks," Rege said. "Calls himself Rat. Where's Jocco?"

"Here," answered a cool voice. Jocco walked into the lounge. He was dressed like the rest in army fatigues, only now he sported two .45's in matching shoulder holsters and four gold stars an his collars. General Jocco Wellington turned and surveyed his troops, his cold eyes coming to rest on Pussbag.

"And what have you brought me now, friend?"

Pussbag seemed to swell with pride. "A thief, Sir!"

Rat suddenly squirmed free and stepped towards Jocco. "I'm no fucking thief, man! Not no more! I came to trade!"

Jocco's left eyebrow rose. "Indeed? And just what, prey tell, would a daring young lad like yourself have to offer?"

Rat's beady little eyes took on a sly look as he milked his moment in the sun for all it was worth. "People," he said at last. "Five of them. Three men and two women. One of them's a real fox too!"

Jocco moved closer. "Where?"

Rat's pimply face cracked into a smile. "You let me join up with you and I'll tell you where, only I don't want no shit job like driving a fucking truck. I got me a good hog outside. A 350 Honda. I wanna be your point man, your scout."

Jocco's smile never reached his eyes. "Perhaps. Every army needs good reconnaissance. Now, where did you say these people are?"

Rat's head came up in defiance. "First tell these ass-kissers to give me back my gun!"

Pussbag was already reaching for Rat's hair, his long knife ready when Jocco stopped him with a look. He moved closer to Rat, putting a friendly hand on his shoulder. His voice was like a patient parent talking to a belligerent child.

"We are not a mob or some mindless group of looters; we are an army. Small, but growing quickly. I am the leader. My people treat me with a certain respect. You - will - too."

Rat shrugged, feeling more sure of himself now, even a little cocky. "Ya, sure, General, I understand."

"No," Jocco said, still smiling. "I don't think you do. But you will." He turned to Rege. "He had a gun?"

Rege pulled the .38 Special out of his belt and handed it to Jocco. Flipping open the chamber, Jocco removed five of the six shells, closed and spun the chamber. "Twice I asked you where these people are. Twice you failed to respond." He cocked the .38 and pressed it against Rat's forehead. The tension in the room suddenly seemed to crackle. Shirley Bates moaned from her place on the couch. Jocco's voice, still that of a patient parent, continued.

"Twice."

CLICK!

The hammer of the revolver dry-fired.

Rat's small eyes threatened to pop out of his head. Over in the corner Walter Pinkton gasped. The .38 was cocked again, the double click sounded like nails on a chalkboard. Rat sagged and would have fallen if Rege and Pussbag hadn't caught him. Jocco squeezed the trigger a second time and Rat's bladder let go. The hammer fell on an empty chamber and Rat fell to his knees.

Still smiling, Jocco pointed the gun at the ceiling and pulled the trigger a third time. The sound of the explosion shattered the silence. Tossing the smoking gun at Rat's knees he spoke again. "Where?"

"In the church!", Rat gasped. "The big fucking church in the center of town!"

Jocco turned to Pinkton. "Take this lad into the kitchen. Get him cleaned up and then get us something to eat. As of now you're the cook and he's your assistant. Move."

Pinkton jumped forward, half dragging Rat towards the kitchen. Sam Waterson started to go with them, but Jocco called him back.

"Not you, Pilot. I still don't trust you out of my sight."

"Why?", Waterson sneered. "Afraid I might fly away?"

Jocco's handsome face broke into a grin. "Not at all. You know I'd kill Pinkton and the girl if you did."

"Why then?"

Jocco nodded at Pam the Bitch. The butt of her M-16 was again pressed tightly between her thighs. Tim Galt was aiding her with his hand and George the Man was opening her shirt. "Because, Sammy, the games are about to begin."

Bobby-Joe Bemis let out a Rebel yell.

The next morning Rat, winding his Honda around the few cars blocking Barstow's main street, came to stop in front of a large stone church. The APC, rumbling along behind, merely brushed the cars aside. Jocco, standing in the open the hatch of the turret, looked like a young Patton in North Africa.

"There it is, Sir!", Rat beamed. "Just like I said!" All trace of arrogance had vanished from his voice, if not from his heart.

Jocco pressed a button inside the hatch and the turret swiveled to face the large church doors. He then spoke into a hand mike, booming out instructions for anyone inside to come out with their hands up.

Silence. The hot California sun baked down. As arranged, Pussbag and Tim Galt moved up on either side of the APC. Both carried assault rifles. Jocco fiddled with a switch and the turret gun lowered. On the small console in front of him the double doors were now lined up in the computer's cross-hairs. He thumbed a red switch and the heavy gun spoke. The APC rocked slightly and the thick doors exploded inward. Smoke poured out of the gaping hole. Flames licked at the charred wood.

Tim Galt wiped sweat out of his eyes and ran forward, Pussbag flanking him on the right. From the cab of the Troop Transport, George the Man could be heard swearing merrily away. The rest waited anxiously.

Then someone was staggering through the smoke. A man dressed in a long robe. He held a large crucifix up in front of him as though to ward off evil.

"How dare you attack the House of the Lord?", the priest demanded, stopping in front of the APC. "The Day Of Judgment is at hand! Repent, ye sinners! Repent!"

Jocco smiled down at the red faced priest. "All in good time, Father, all in good time. But first, send out the people hiding inside your church."

The priest's face took on a look of righteous indignation. "They have been given sanctuary! God has laid His hand on them! He has chosen us all to await His coming!"

Jocco's smile slipped slightly. "Your waiting is over, Father. This side of the grave I'm the closest thing to God you're likely to find. Now, do you send them out or do I send my men in?"

The priest kissed the crucifix and held it up like a shield "The devil will claim thee for this sacrilege!"

A flicker of a smile flashed in his cold eyes. "Too late, Father. He already has." Jocco nodded towards the church. Tim and Pussbag ran inside. Billy-Joe and Pam the Bitch came up to stand beside the priest. A moment later there came the muffled sound of gunfire. A woman screamed and kept on screaming. The priest hugged his crucifix, muttering in Latin. Suddenly the screaming stopped.

Moments dragged by. Then a man and two women came through the smoking doorway. The man was clutching his arm. Blood flowed freely. One of the women was carrying a baby. The other woman was slim, pretty, with long blonde hair. Tim and Pussbag followed.

The priest looked up at Jocco. "What will you do with them?"

Jocco's gaze lingered on the distant mountains. "Your God took away their lives, Father. I intend to give them back."

The priest's brow creased. "At what price? Their freedom? Their dignity?"

Jocco turned his handsome face on the priest and smiled. A fire seemed to dance within his cold eyes. "Their souls."

The priest's own eyes widened. Terror coursed through his frail body. Having neither eaten or slept since God cleansed the earth, he now existed in a permanent state of exhausted grace. Reality competed with Divine Revelation and was rapidly loosing ground.

"Antichrist!", he hissed, raising the heavy crucifix to strike at Jocco's gloating face. The blow, however, never fell, for Pam the Bitch yanked his head back and Pussbag cut his throat.

***

Chapter 4: **The Spine of God**

Blade felt like shit. His feet hurt, his wrist still throbbed and hunger and thirst were making him dizzy. The steep drops on both sides had closed in and the path had narrowed to a twisting goat's trail. He had passed through a briar patch of scrub and now faced a rock wall. Painted blazes stretched up and over.

It looked like another bitching climb. He glanced back, but the boulders obscured his view. "Fuck it!", he muttered. Shoving his .38 Special in his belt, he wiped the sweat from his brow and started up. Being careful of his injured left hand, he climbed over the ledge and down into a protected draw.

The three men jumped him as he sat down to catch his breath. They came from above and both sides at the same time. Rough hands grabbed him, pulling him back, stifling his cries. Then something hard struck the side of his head and the dazzling blue sky dissolved into blackness.

"Blade! Blade!", Snake yelled. "Answer me you fuck!"

Snake drew his revolver and fired into the air. The roar of the heavy gun rumbled back from the surrounding peaks. He called to Flame, ordering her to go on ahead. She held his gaze for a long moment, then pulled her Smith & Wesson and started up the trail. Snake and Bull shuffled along behind.

Flame's mind raced. Where was Blade? Was he hurt? Had he fallen? Surely he'd heard Snake's cannon? Why hadn't he answered?!

Then another thought intruded, stabbing her mind like an icicle through the eye. What if she found him dead? His neck broken from a fall. Did she care? Really care? A shudder ran down her spine as she gazed about. These mountains were beautiful but unforgiving. She'd felt that the moment she'd stepped out on the ridge. The Spine of God. A place where He saw all.

She shook her head to clear the image. "Fuck that shit!" Despite her best effort a long buried feeling washed over her, a tidal wave of guilt that carried her all the way back to her daddy's farm. _'Thou shalt not blaspheme, daughter!'_ After all these years the old prick's voice still roared in her ears. Good old God-fearing Daddy. Praying out loud while he finger-fucked his red-headed little girl. Reading the Good Book while he made her \---

"Jesus Christ!", Flame yelled to the sky, not sure if it was an oath or a prayer. Forcing the memories away, back into that little used door in her mind, she strode up the twisting path, the Smith & Wesson held before her like a cross.

Through a slit between two boulders Josh watched her approach. Snake and Bull were out of sight somewhere behind her. Did they have time to capture her like they had Blade? Should he let her continue on, hoping Tina could take her when they jumped Snake? But that would leave her close to the boys! Josh, making up his mind, drew his handgun. Watching him, Brad and Billy did the same. All three moved on his signal.

Flame heard something off to the left. Turning to meet it, a form momentarily blotted out the sun. She had started to bring her gun up when something struck her hard in the stomach. Her lungs emptied and she fell on her back gasping for air. A boot stepped on her hand and the .357 seemed to slither away like a snake. Strange. Part of her was glad to see it go. Then the form was leaning over her, the sun making a glittering nimbus around the silhouette. Lack of food and drink made her head swim. She was pulled forward by her hair and the muzzle of a black handgun shoved in her face. Instinct told her to start sucking, but she pushed the thought away. It belonged in the past. Back on Daddy's farm; back with the snakes.

Why the hell had she thought that?!

"Make one sound and you're dead," a voice said. A cool voice, lacking either hatred or the lust to kill. She'd heard the other kinds enough times to know the difference.

The voice was speaking again. Telling her to nod if she understood. Nod if she agreed. She nodded both times, not understanding a damn thing. Suddenly the gun was gone, replaced by a knife at her throat. She was helped up, not yanked but helped. She turned to look at her captor. It was the guy from the bridge, the one who had called Snake out. Not handsome, not ugly; about forty with longish brown hair with wisps of grey. No tough guy, but obviously no pussy either.

Their eyes locked. She saw no hatred there, just worry and concern. For her? Don't be stupid! For the others, for the blonde haired girl. Her stomach rumbled. His tanned face went in and out of focus. She would have fallen if he hadn't caught her. His grip was strong but not hard. What would it be like if ---

Then someone else was there, binding her hands roughly behind her. He said something and the hands became more gentle. A bandanna was tied around her mouth, tight but not too tight. She was led off the trail. The blonde girl and the guitar player with long hair helped her up and walked her behind a large boulder.

There, bound and gagged, was Blade.

"Where the fuck are they?!" Snake hissed.

Bull shrugged. He didn't know where Blade or Flame was. He didn't even know where he was. And right now he didn't give a shit. He was hungry and thirsty and tired. His head ached like a bastard and his leg hurt worse than his head. All he knew for sure was that he wanted to be anywhere else but up here! High places made him want to puke.

Snake thrust a rifle at him and then shoved him up the trail. Snake was no nice guy. He sometimes pretended to be, but Bull knew that inside Snake was a sack of shit.

"Move out, lard-ass," Snake growled. "I'm right behind you!"

Bull shuffled forward. Every step sent rivers of pain up his leg. The narrow trail blurred. He shook his head, but the pounding only increased. Dizziness became nausea. His tongue felt too big for his mouth, his lips dry and cracked. Without a warning, he up-chucked on his boots.

Then Rings was before him, hovering in the air, smiling, holding out a cold beer. Behind her the rock looked like a witch's face. Bull blinked and Rings was gone. But she'd come back. All he had to do was follow. Despite the pain, he started to jog up the slope.

"Hey! Wait up, Bull!" Snake's voice sounded like a dry rasp.

Bull kept on jogging.

Cursing, Snake ran after him, his beergut bouncing with each labored step.

***

Eddy watched from his hiding place as Bull shuffled past. His thumb rested near the safety of his rifle. The scope attached to it dug into his chest, his knees hurt from squatting and he had to take a leak.

'Time enough for that later, Eddy-boy,' he said to himself. 'One false move now and you could be leaking blood!'

Snake came next, breathing hard and sweating like the pig he was. Eddy fought down the urge to step out and shoot the bugger in the back. Not because Snake didn't deserve it, but because that wasn't the plan. He had no idea where the others were. Blade had gone by a couple of minutes ago, then Flame. Eddy hadn't heard a damned thing.

The seconds dragged by. Then the shot came, followed by Josh's voice. Eddy leapt forward and nearly fell on his face. His bloody knees had cramped up! Cursing under his breath, Eddy started up the path, his Daddy's old deer rifle held ready across his chest.

Rounding a bend, he saw Bull and Snake less than thirty yards away standing in a dip in the trail, guns raised, seeking something to shoot. Rocks rose up steeply before them and on both sides. Snake glanced back down the path and saw Eddy. The .44 Redhawk boomed, the sound all but deafening in the confined space. A chip of granite broke off near Eddy's head and fell to the ground. Eddy did the same, only needing a moment to find Snake's heaving chest through his scope.

Josh's voice spoke again. Eddy presumed he was using what Jessie referred to his 'teacher's voice'. "Drop it, asshole! I won't tell you again!"

Flame, her mind awhirl, looked at Blade moving closer to her. Something was wrong. He was supposed to be tied. An object glittered in his hand and her wrists were suddenly free. Her gag vanished. He pressed his mouth to her ear and whispered.

"We're getting out of here, Babe. Just you and me. But first we need a few things."

Then he was gone, moving like a shadow through the rocks. She looked up and saw a large hound watching her, its brown eyes puzzled. Was it real? Everything seemed fuzzy, dreamlike. In a daze, she walked over to the dog, her head pounding. A rough, wet tongue licked her hand. A tail wagged.

Then she heard the shot. It sounded like Snake's Redhawk. Both she and the dog ran toward it. Coming round a slab of rock, she saw two strangers below her, one on each side of the spot where she had been jumped earlier. Using the rocks for cover, they were both aiming down into the circular depression where Snake and Bull stood in the open. A third one, the guitar player, was higher up on the far side.

Then another movement caught her eye. Off to the left Blade was suddenly standing behind the blonde haired girl, his small, razor-sharp Boot knife pressed to her throat. Flame, still feeling like she was caught in some weird dream, felt rather than heard the world take on an otherworldly like stillness. Then Snake's arrogant voice shattered it all.

"Well, Hayseed! Looks like we got ourselves a real Mexican fucking stand-off! You kill me, my main man there kills your woman! So what say we both back off, eh? Give things a chance to cool down."

Eddy, still sighting on Snake, heard Josh call out his name.

"Eddy! You still have Snake in your sights?"

"Sure thing, Josh! Lined up in the cross-hairs!"

"I'm going to count to five," Josh replied; "Five, Eddy. Then you put one in his chest! Back or front, it doesn't maker --- just bring the bastard down!"

"No problem, boss!"

Snake, trying in vain to locate Eddy, danced around behind Bull.

"Still got him?", Josh asked.

"Better than ever!", Eddy lied, Bull now completely blocking his view.

"One!", Josh said coldly.

"Wait a fucking minute!", Snake screamed, then turned to Blade, high above him and still holding a knife to Tina's throat.

"Blade! For Christ sake, DO SOMETHING!"

Flame saw Blade smile. It was not a pleasant sight. It stirred distant memories best left undisturbed.

"I am, Snake!", Blade yelled back. "I'm hauling my ass out of here. Flame's coming with me. What you do is your fucking problem!"

"Two!", Josh said.

Snake glared around him, the heavy Readhawk now held tightly by both hands. He could see the barrel Josh's rifle pointed at him but little else. Brad was even harder to see, just a shadow high up on the far side. Where this Eddy asshole was he hadn't a clue!

"Blade, you stupid fuck! Get a gun and shoot that prick!"

Blade laughed. To Flame it suddenly sounded like her Daddy's laugh. Another memory best left buried.

"Why should I, Snake?", Blade demanded. "What've you ever done for me besides try to screw my old lady?!"

"Three!" Josh's voice sent a shiver down both Snake's and Flame's spine.

"You can have here, Blade!", Snake yelled. "I swear it, man! You can have them both! Just get me out of here!"

Blade chuckled dryly, then swung Tina round so he was looking at Josh over her shoulder.

"You heard him, Hayseed. Tell your boys to back off! The knife at Tina's throat glittered in the sun.

Josh looked up to Billy's position twenty feet above Brad. Something silver flashed in the sun. The longhaired youth was sighting down the long barrel of his overlarge handgun. Josh knew the target would be Blade's head, but he also knew that Billy didn't have a chance in hell of making the shot. Maybe if he had a rifle, but with that hand cannon he'd either miss completely or kill them both. Maybe Brad could take Blade out, but a rock outcropping blocked his cousin's line of sight.

Then he saw Flame standing midway between Blade and Billy. Instantly Josh decided to try the bluff he had first used on The Dude back in Crown Point. "Billy, you hear me?"

"Sure do Mr. Williams."

"Then listen up! Shoot AT the red-head! Don't hit her, Billy! Not YET! Just fire at the rocks BESIDE her! Now, Billy \--- NOW!"

Billy's Python was almost as big as Snake's Redhawk. Out in the open it sounded like a bloody cannon.

The heavy slug ricocheted off the rock a hands width from Flame's right ear. He'd been aiming at another rock a yard to her left.

Josh played his next card. "Well, Blade, what's it going to be? The next one can be right between her eyes --- or yours! But if you let Tina go, both you and the red-head can walk away."

"Don't fucking believe him, Blade!", Snake screamed. "The bugger will kill us all!"

"Hey, Eddy,", Josh casually called out.

"Ya, Josh?"

"Four!"

Cursing, Snake backed up against the rock wall, pulling a confused Bull with him. Eddy's shot was now completely blocked. Blade, sweat running down his narrow face, backed over toward Flame. Just behind them the land fell away for a thousand feet.

"She's got a gun on her, Babe. Get it!"

Feeling like she was trapped in some never-ending nightmare, Flame fumbled the Glock Lightweight 9 mm out of Tina's small belt holster. It looked like a child's toy.

"Good!", Blade growled. "Now, shoot those fuckers!"

What must have only been seconds seemed to stretch out forever. Then a small, distant voice, as though it came from far away or perhaps long ago, spoke. "No." Flame was surprised to find it had been her own.

"What?!", Blade demanded, disbelief written on his sharp features. "Shoot them now!"

"I... can't. I... I won't!"

Blade turned toward her, his eyes wild. Her father's eyes. Her father's face. Her father's voice. "Shoot them or I'll slit her fucking throat!"

"No."

"Do it, Babe, or I'll do her!"

"No you won't," Flame hissed, raising the small gun and pointing it at Blade's head.

"Five!", Josh yelled.

A number of guns went off at the same time. Eddy shot at Snake while Snake blasted away at Josh. Brad fired at Bull who fired at Billy who fired at Flame. For her part, Flame shot her lover point blank in the face. Three of the bullets found their marks. Snake was hit in the shoulder, Bull in the heart and Blade right between the eyes.

Bull died instantly, Brad's 30-30 slug entering the left breast and exiting through the big man's right hip. As for Blade, his lower forehead now had a neat 9 mm hole in it. The back of his head, however, was gone. Punched back by the impact, his dead arms released both the knife and Tina as he stepped off into empty space. The body bounced twice before it finally came to rest far below the Witch's Face. The old stone crone seemed to smile.

With a very large hole in his shoulder and Bull's two hundred plus body pinning him to the ground, Snake wasn't going anywhere. He still had his gun however, and as everyone there knew, a snake is at its most dangerous when cornered.

Stepping back from the edge of the draw where Snake lay bleeding, Josh turned both his attention and his rifle on Flame. He needn't have bothered. She had slumped down, gazing over the long fall that had claimed her lover. Tina's pistol lay at her feet. Both Jessie and Ken moved in beside her. The dogs were with them. Ken had his target gun out. Jessie still carried his bow. Og ran forward and licked her hand.

Billy had reached Tina and now sat with his arm around her. Brad worked his way cautiously around to his son while Jessie moved down to stand beside his father. Eddy soon joined them. All three glanced at the depression. Out of sight twenty feet below them they could hear Snake's heavy breathing.

"What do we do now, Josh?", Eddy asked. "Leave the snake in its pit?"

All three of them were thinking of the man Eddy had leg shot back at the barricade less than a week ago. It seemed like years. Josh suddenly turned away and dug out his pipe. 'Christ!', he thought. 'How many times am I going to have to do this?!'

'As many times as you need to,' came the answer. The silent voice in his head sounded a hell of a lot like Doc Gruber's.

"Look out!", Billy suddenly screamed, groping for his massive Python. Tina, sitting with Earls old .303 across her knees, was even faster.

Both Eddy and Jess had their backs to the gully where Snake lay dying. As they turned, they saw the heavy .44 magnum already over the rocky lip. Snake's head followed; face twisted with pain, eyes wild with rage. Even as they swung around, they heard the metallic click of the hammer being pulled back.

Josh had faced that gun once before and lived. This time however, he didn't feel so lucky. Yet his son stood close beside him, and he had to do something. Shoving Jessie aside, Josh began to raise his 30-30.

The sound of three guns going off was the last thing he heard.

***
Chapter 5: **The Lost Boys**

Chad Hastings, or _Bad Chad_ as the rest of the Lost Boys called him, was out back by the pool. An original Louis XIV table sat beside him, its gleaming surface holding a crystal punchbowl half filled with pills. A veritable smorgasbord of American Pie. Reds, whites and blues, mixed in with uppers, downers and your ever-popular tabs of LSD. A box of very stale donuts awaited for desert. A fifth of Scotch and a half gone bottle of Southern Comfort was on hand to wash down this sumptuous fair. Fittingly, Janis Joplin blared forth from a giant boom-box near the pool while a couple of naked sun worshippers danced their little teen-aged hearts out.

Relaxed in a lawn chair, Bad Chad watched as their breasts, one pair small and upturned, the other heavy as melons, bounced in time to the beat. The brunette sitting astride both him and his lawn chair was already in orbit. Her large, vacant eyes gazed dreamily off into space as she simultaneously stroked him with one hand and herself with the other. Bad Chad, however, hardly felt a thing. The uppers he had taken on the way back from the Farmers Market back on Wilshire were just starting to kick in with a vengeance! Somewhere in the fuzzy distance, Janice n' good ol' bobby McGee gave way to The Byrds. Eight Miles High n', fallin' fast! All around him the rest of the Lost Boys were engaged in whatever depraved little personal activity turned them on.

Through a world suddenly gone mega-weird, Chaddy-baby saw Gears do a cannon ball off the diving board. The water droplets from his splash seemed to take forever to fall back to earth. Across the pool some blonde was treating Smoke and Moose to a double feature. Through a haze of burnt meat and burnt-out brain cells the Chadmyster saw Cowboy fanning flames at the large Bar-B-Q. Down at the Market they'd picked up a bunch of frozen steaks. Well, half frozen. Since the power had gone off a couple of days ago, the thought flickered through Chad's chemically intoxicated mind that these might be the last steaks he'd ever eat. For several reasons. So what?, a little voice said from deep inside him. You can always phone out for pizza.

But even zonked as he was, Chad didn't need his two years at the U.of Southern Cal. to tell him that the days of fast delivery were over n' done. Just look the fuck around ya, Bro! The world is deader than a fucking used condom!

Ya, Chaddy?, the little voice inside him whispered. What about that fucking plane? Federalise on the way? Narc Squad come to bust your lily white ass?

Chad took a swig of Southern Comfort, but somehow didn't feel too damn comfortable. Glancing up, he saw that the brunette, now looking a hell of a lot like good old Janis herself, had given up on the hand action and was working on becoming a human shishcabob, using the lower part of himself as the skewer.

Despite her actions, that little voice in the back of Chad's head kept churning out the goodies. Its all over, Chad baby. The entire world just packed it in, leaving you and these fun-seeking air-heads as tombstones. The Lost Boys my ass! Gears, Dude, Cowboy, and any other walking-dead you find, don't mean shit! You can run, Chaddy-Waddy, but you can not hide. Mr. Goodtime always leaves a bill, and sooner or later you have to pay his price!

Chad shook his head in an effort to still the voice, but only succeeded in making everything spin. The world had receded to a hazy kind of Rockwellian nightmare. Even good old Janis, now deeply in the saddle and wildly riding the range, seemed like a twisted dream. Reality was the worm in his head. That all seeing, all knowing worm that kept on broadcasting the same message over and over. The Timex worm; takes a licking but keeps on ticking.

And just what the fuck was this all important message?

Simply this, Bro. That despite the tough front, despite all the guns and the drugs and the never-ending party, _Big Bad Chad was scared shitless_. The fast talking, cool walking leader of the Lost Boys was no different than any other lost child. Cold, tired and longing to go home.

But there is no home to go to, Chaddy!, the worm shouted gleefully. What ya see, Babe, is what ya get! Yuka-yuka!

Trying to ignore the insane laughter in his head, he focused on the brunette. Suddenly, beyond her bouncing body, beyond the pool and the smoking Bar-B-Q, Chad caught a glimpse of forms moving toward him. Leaning around Jumping Janis, Chad saw more forms pouring out the large patio doors at the rear of the house. Still others appeared on the upstairs balcony.

Someone had changed the tape. The Byrds had flown. Jimmy H. instead of Janis J.now pumped out their dead lyrics. Gotta love those oldie n' goldies! Purple Haze roared all around him and washed through him. Vainly he shoved the brunette aside and fought his way out of the chair.

_Excuse me, while I kiss the sky!  
_  
  _  
_

He had made it half way when the shots began. Gears, struck several times just as he reached the apex of his dive, looked like an epileptic in mid seizure. His body, riddled with holes, splashed into the clear water. Pink froth flowed around him. Someone screamed. More shots followed. The screaming stopped. The shots did not.

Chad frantically groped around for the snub-nosed .38 he had stashed under his towel. The weapon was almost in his grasp when a rifle butt slammed into his head. Purple haze suddenly filled his mind --- painfully.

***

"He's coming around, Boss," an excited voice said.

"Good," a cooler one replied. "Perhaps a dip in the pool will speed things up."

Chad heard the words as though from a long way off. Part of him wondered who they were talking about. Then rough hands grabbed him. A moment later he was weightless; then gravity took over and he splashed into the pool. Water went up his nose and down his throat. Opening his eyes for the first time, he fought his way up toward the light. Gasping, he thrashed about. Something was beside him. He clutched it to him. Gears' face stared back at him, a look of surprise frozen on his dead features. Screaming, Chad shoved the body away. Then someone had him by the hair. More pain followed. The concrete edge of the pool ground into his stomach. Retching, he again opened his eyes. They focused on polished combat boots. He promptly shut them again.

"Bring him here,", the cold voice said.

Chad didn't like that voice. There was something under its calm exterior that Big Bad Chad would rather not get to know. It seemed, however, that he was to have very little say in the matter. The rough hands were already lifting him again.

"Look at me," the cold voice ordered.

Chad obeyed. He was afraid not to. Pussbag's bayonet was at his throat.

Jocco stood before him. His grey eyes bore into him. Though there was a smile on his handsome face, the eyes showed just the opposite. Chad was suddenly aware of his nakedness. As he reached down to cover his genitals, a large woman with brown stubble growing on her shaved head, sneered.

"Let it hang, Pretty Boy. So far its the only part of you worth shit!"

Laughter followed, cut off quickly as Jocco turned and frowned. Chad

reddened, but drew his hand away. Out of the corner of his eye he saw several of the Lost Boys sprawled on the ground. Four girls were huddled at the far end of the pool. Chad's former pool partner was among them. A man and a woman dressed like soldiers and armed with military rifles stood guard over the frightened group.

Jocco sat down beside the Louis XIV table. As those wolf-grey eyes stared up at him, Chad felt his knees grow weak. "What's your name?" The cold voice grated against Chad's ears, yet he responded quickly. Jocco asked several more questions, then told someone to give Chad a towel. He took it gratefully.

"So, these 'Lost Boys' are yours?"

Chad nodded.

Jocco smiled. "Not any more. As of right now all of you are part of my little organization. I'm forming an army. The Army of the Dark Stranger." As he spoke he drew one of the .45 automatics he carried in twin shoulder holsters. "You and your friends can either join or die." He cocked his head to one side at the same time as he cocked the gun. "Which is it to be?"

Chad almost wet himself right then and there. These guys were for real!

What the fuck did you expect, Chaddy?, the worm's voice chortled from deep inside his head. I told you that sooner or later you'd have to pay the piper. Shit or get off the pot, Chaddy-boy, shit or get off the fucking pot.

The muzzle of the heavy .45 swung up. To Chad it looked like the mouth of a really big cannon.

"I'm waiting," Jocco beamed.

"But you can't...!"

The cannon boomed, taking with it Chad's objections as well as a tiny chunk of his left ear.

"I'll join! I'll join! Just fucking-well don't shoot me again!"

The gun lowered. "I thought you'd see the light." Jocco turned to George the Man. "Bring them all into the living room in five minutes. Dress the men but leave the women naked. And get that body out of the pool."

George saluted smartly, then began barking orders. Chad and the others were hustled toward the large mansion. Five minutes later, now dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, Chad again found himself standing before the man with the wolf-grey eyes.

There were eleven of them left. Chad and the other six men stood in a line, their eyes downcast. Crazy and Cowboy had at first refused to follow orders, but after Pussbag sliced off Crazy's ear, the Lost Boys jumped into line right quick. Crazy, a towel pressed against the side of his head, needed to be held up by Four Wheels and Cowboy. Chad could dig that. His own 'ear-job' was only a nick, but blood still trickled down into is long hair. The four women, ranging in age from fourteen to twenty-something, stood shivering in a huddle. Despite the heat, goose bumps stood out on their naked flesh.

Jocco's soldiers formed a circle around them. The two women among them, Pam Gliss and a relative newcomer named Eva Madeau, both brandished M-16's. Pam the Bitch looked tough. Eva Madeau looked tougher. Tim Galt had dubbed them the Bitch and the Butch respectively. Pam seemed to have enjoyed it. Eva had grabbed Tim by the balls till he howled.

The leader of the Army of the Dark Stranger now addressed the Lost Boys. His tone was quiet and commanding, a patient father instructing his wayward offspring. The gist of it was this: Chad was now a sergeant, the Lost Boys was his platoon. Jocco would return in a week or two; when he did he expected to find things changed. Radically changed. The taking of drugs would stop. The partying would stop. They would gather cases of food and supplies from the local stores. They would comb the city and bring any survivors back here. They would not mistreat those they found, yet neither would they include any of them in their group. When Jocco returned, all would be 'tested'. As sergeant, Chad would be held personally responsible for any and all screw-ups. Did he and his little buddies all understand?

Most of the Lost Boys merely nodded. Chad, however, heartily agreed. Ever since the Change --- hell, even _before_ it, he'd been caught up in a never-ending story of sex, drugs and rock n' roll.

Party hearty, Dude!

Yet underneath it all there had been the fear. The heart-stopping, cock-softening, wake-in-the middle-of-the-fucking-night kind of terror that made the family jewels crawl up in a corner of your gut and cry Momma! Oh, he'd hidden it from the others, and at times, even from himself, but down deep the worm was always there, always eating away at him.

And now Mr. Goodtime had indeed delivered his bill just as Wormy-baby had said he would. A part of Chad was even glad Jocco had come, for now he wouldn't have to worry about what decisions to make while trying desperately to look cool.

Where to go; who to trust; what the fuck to do?!

Now Jocco would see to all that. Bad Chad was still leader of the Lost Boys, but now they weren't lost any more. Jocco had lifted a great weight from him, set him on a path and given him a purpose --- and all it had cost him was an empty crown that he never really wanted in the first place.

Had he been there, Lt. Walter Pinkton would have had an apt quote for the occasion:

### 'But if you hide the crown,

### Even in your heart,

There will He rake for it!' _

_

Looking into those wolf-grey eyes, Chad realized that Jocco would not be content to use a rake. No way, Hozay! This cold-hearted mother-fucker would use a chainsaw!

And a Christly BIG one at that!

***

"Are there any questions?"

Chad shook his head.

"Good. My squad and I will be leaving now. But we'll be back." There was a pause, then: "See that my orders are carried out, Sergeant."

Chad nodded, and received a hard smack on his still bleeding ear from Eva Madeau. "Salute, Shit-head!"

Chad drew himself up and saluted smartly. "Yes, Sir!"

Jocco smiled. "You learn fast, Sergeant. See that your men do as well."

"Yes, Sir!"

Jocco turned to Eva. "Bring the brunette."

The husky woman grinned and yanked the frightened girl away from the others. She screamed and tried to pull away, so Eva thrust the barrel of her M-16 into the open mouth. The brunette ceased her struggling.

Still smiling, Jocco turned and walked back to the parked vehicles. Pussbag and the others flowed after him, drawn along like gulls following a shark. Before leaving, George the Man leaned toward Chad, intent on imparting a bit of sage advice.

"Don't even think of running, Limp-dick! Jocco wouldn't like that. Just do as he says and things will work out fine. And remember, we WILL be back."

When they were alone again, the Lost Boys crowded around Chad. Some were angry, some were scared. The three remaining girls were crying. Crazy sat slumped on the floor, the towel stained with his own blood still pressed to his missing ear.

Four Wheels asked the question that was foremost in all their minds. "What do we do now, Chad?"

Chad's answer was quick in coming. "You heard the man, you'll do exactly what you're told to do. We all will." He glanced down at Crazy. "We'll start with getting Crazy fixed up. Girls, see to it. Smoke, Four Wheels, go get rid of Gears' body. Cowboy, cook us up some more steaks and don't burn the fuckers this time!" Chad fixed them all with what he hoped was a 'cold stare' of his own. And no more pills or booze! After we eat we got a lot of work to do. Now move it!"

Slowly at first, but quicker as the realization set in that they too once again had some purpose in life, they began to carry out their appointed tasks. Watching them go, a smile of his own slowly crept across Chad's face. He had never really liked being king. Too many fucking decisions. But he sure as hell liked being the boss. A big fish in a small pond was what he was meant to be. The smile grew into a grin, the grin into a laugh. Life for Big Bad Sergeant Chad was once again sweet.

***
Chapter 6: **Fay Saves the Day  
**

The bartender, one Benny Weinstein, looked up as One Arm came through the tavern's door. A drunk, either an early starter or someone left over from last night, was standing in the way. One Arm shoved him aside and stepped up to the bar. Benny handed him a bottle.

For the first three weeks after The Change, this roadhouse on the outskirts of Plattsburg had been Benny's own little kingdom. He had gathered a number of survivors, including several women, and decided to 'open for business'. He'd even painted a sign to hang out front. Being a life long James Bond fan, he had christened the place 'Pussy Galore'.

Then, a little over a week ago, One Arm and that cold bastard Rambo had showed up. His little kingdom had quickly crumbled. Now he considered himself lucky to just be alive.

"You look like hell, Boss", Benny said by way of a greeting. "How did things go with those hayseeds you went after?"

After a long pull on the bottle, One Arm turned to the balding bartender. "Shut the fuck up and get me something to eat!"

Benny smiled. One Arm was a real asshole, but he was one mean bastard of an asshole. Benny figured he had it soft here, and had no desire to be back out on the road. If that meant taking a little lip, that was fine by him.

"Benny's right, Tough Guy," a female voice said. "You do look like hell. Come upstairs and let me get you cleaned up."

One Arm took another drink, managing to give her the finger at the same time. The woman rewarded him with her most rewarding smile; the one reserved for the powerful and dangerous shitheads. She called herself Easy-Lay Fay, and though the spring of her life had long since come and gone, in that low-cut dress and all that paint, she still didn't look half bad. Looks aside, she ran the other girls at the 'Pussy Galore' like a master-sergeant, keeping them turning tricks almost as fast as Benny served his watered whiskey. Of course, with all forms of money now a thing of the past, all 'payment' had to be done on the barter system. Things traded, work done, that sort of thing. Fay was even better at it that Benny.

Just then Rambo came in. Straw trailed behind him like an anorexic shadow. They walked past a beefy looking man with no neck sitting behind the door. Bruiser the Bouncer they called him. Bruiser wasn't too long on smarts, but he could pound the shit out of any three men without working up a sweat. One Arm let him sleep out back for services rendered. Rambo kicked the half risen drunk aside, grabbed a bottle from Benny and stalked past One Arm into the back room. The door slammed shut.

Fay turned to Straw. "What the fuck happened to you boys, Runt?"

Straw, his beady eyes already devouring one of Fay's girls lounging around in her underwear, reluctantly met the older woman's gaze.

"We got the shit kicked out of us, that's what! And don't call me Runt! Where's Sally?"

"Upstairs with a John. Where's the rest of your bunch?"

Straw started towards the stairs. "Dead. Who's she with?"

"The Pope! For Christ sake, Runt, you had over a dozen men with you!"

Straw turned on her, his mouth a grim slash. "You fucking deaf, Bitch? They're all dead! And I told you not to call me Runt!" His hand went to the knife at his side. Before it was half-way drawn, Fay had a silver-plated Derringer pressed against his temple.

"Go on, Prick-Face," she said coldly. "Make my day."

Straw stood perfectly still, a line of sweat forming on his upper lip. It was only a shitty little .22, but he'd seen Fay splatter a John's brains with it just a week ago and the memory of that gray matter dripping down the walls was suddenly very vivid. His hand itched to draw the knife, but as the hammer on the little pop-gun clicked back, he decided he wanted his own brains exactly where they were. He'd deal with the old bitch later.

When Straw backed away, the people in the bar breathed a sigh of relief. Even Bruiser the Bouncer relaxed. One of the girls came up to Straw and whispered in his ear. A moment later he was chasing her upstairs. One Arm, now half-way through the bottle, handed it to Fay. She slid the Derringer into her ample cleavage and took a long pull.

"Christ, Fay! I should have brought _you_ along instead of that bunch of limp dicks! You got more balls than the _lot_ of 'em!"

Fay grinned. "Feel like checking that out, Tough Guy?"

One Arm looked her up and down like the hungry predator he was. "Why the fuck not?"

Benny breathed easier as Fay led the one armed psycho up the stairs, then yelled at Bruiser to throw the drunk out into the street.

' _Sometimes_ ,' Benny thought, as he poured himself a drink, _'life works out just fine!'_

***

Chapter 7: ' **Judy-May Leaves Home** '

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

Why, you ask? Because, Dear Reader, the wee hours of the night was the only _real_ time these degenerate assholes of Neverland ever 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 dirty 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, twice shy!'_

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 neither! Mama favored that _'Old Time Religion'_ , the kind that comes from the 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 still living 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 Penitentiary.

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!

_Can I get a halleluiah_ **and** _an amen?!

_

***
Chapter 8: 'Sam the Cowboy'

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 'C', in the wilds of Montana. 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 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 'C', 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 'C' 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 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 should 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 'C' 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 a perfect sky. They wound through forests of shimmering maples and quaking aspens, all ablaze with the colours 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 Change)

Circle 'C' Ranch, Montana

When Sam was twenty five and had just been promoted to assistant foreman of the Circle 'C', 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 'C' 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 a bit, ah \---moody."

"Marge was always a royal pain in the ass, and everybody knew it!" Big Jim barked. "Still, the Circle 'C' 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 'C', 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 the majority of times 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.

***
Chapter 9: **'Two-Times Tyree'**

Neverland Prison, Alabama

The Night of The Change

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', Sharleen --- 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 on your nerves _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 of 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 jungle-bunny 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! 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 their one rickety chair.

"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 a ' _Death Cloud'_ ...?" 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 pouring off him like he was outside in the 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 10: **'The Major'**

Upstate New York

Several months AC

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 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 is 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, Dear 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 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 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 beside Julius Caesar. That time he was _Mark Anthony_.

The next 'death' he can clearly recall was in the fourth century AD when he was fighting in Celtic Britain as Centurion _Claytonius Burnus_ of the Tenth Legion!

What puts the Major in a more elite group of _'eccentrics_ ' is that he also believes he was _'chosen by some Higher Power'_. It is his belief that over fourteen 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 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 is Black. The Major is not in any way a racist.

He judges each person solely by their _character_ , not their color.

He does the same with countries, and it saddened him greatly that his own beloved country had been tested and _found wanting_. During his years in the military he had 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 Change_ had only served to make that striving all the more urgent!

***

The Major 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 ninety-five percent of the humans on Earth.

"Sixty-two days ago the United States of America was attacked! Various countries launched nuclear warheads at other countries. Who fired first is _not_ important. What is important is that, though several of our large cities were hit, _most were not_. 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 these harsh facts sink in before continuing. Most of the young men and women listening to him, had family and loved ones 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 one 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_ we will be sending a squad of volunteers outside."

His stern features relaxed somewhat. "If you have any questions, _now_ is the time to ask them.

"Excuse me, Sir" a young female voice cut in. "Respectfully, Sir, how do we know for certain 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.

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 _'familiar loyalty'_.

And this was no 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 at least fourteen 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 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 upa grand total of five living humans. Three of these, seen weeks ago, were frightened, lost and obviously insane, crawling about, chewing at roots. The last two however, seen just yesterday, did _not_ act frightened , lost or insane. The 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 what cities were hit and what 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."

There caused considerable agitation in the room. The Major let it go 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 or by bomb, 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.

"What _does_ matter is this. For all we know, we may 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."

Stunned silence --- during which he waited several heartbeats, then continued: "I'm calling for ten volunteers for this first reconnaissance mission. If interested, give your name to Sergeant Johnson. 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_ ; 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.

Can I get a halleluiah, Groupenfurer?

Which way to the Ovens?
Chapter 11: **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 Change, 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.

He was seriously contemplating suicide.

But then really, who the hell could blame him? After all the horrific 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 Dave 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 and rotting corpses. Well over three quarters the world had died as the first clouds of 'chemical death' had 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, ploughmen and poontang 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'! An apocalyptic death that spread over the land like an ever growing malignant shadow! An amazingly swift, all encompassing Death that came in the guise of a tasteless, odorless gas that crystallized the organs, boiled the blood and transformed the flesh, bone and brain into a grey, crumbling parchment. In less than a week the worldwas populated with only four and multi-legged creatures and millions upon millions of well-dressed, lifeless _'scarecrows'_.

But at first Doctor Dave did not despair.

_Some_ people had not dried up and blown away!

_Some_ people had survived!

Each day small groups of the survivors were slowly trickling 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 chemicals. They were dubbed _'Death Clouds'_ and they marched eastward on the Trade Winds, casting an invisible shadow over the land.

Then the electro-whatever pulse from the nukes came, turning an already frightened world into scattered pockets of terrified children alone in the dark!

Electricity was gone. That _'gift from the gods'_ that transformed humanoids from mere cave dwellers huddled around a pitiful little fire into magnificent _'modern man'_ and 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 was gone, 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 Change'_ 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!

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 hall s in Valhalla. 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.

 _  
_

' _Foolish mortal',_

they had glared at him with their amber eyes.

' _See you not that the time of Ragnok is at hand!?_

That the gods themselves are at war,

A war that shall bring about the ending of days!

Ragnok !!!

When all that was and is shall cease to be,

And even Death itself shall die !'

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. Sometimes benign, almost childlike; sometimes malignant and dangerous More often than not however, it seemed to the esteemed physician a _devious_ sort of madness, a sly look about the eyes or a cunning slant of the head. 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.

Then, three or so weeks into 'The Change' the plagues started.

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 even 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 Change, Einstein'), those millions 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 andwhat had passed or civilization took one bitchin' step backwards!

Do not pas Go. Do not collect one 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, 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_ ' ones. 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 Change 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 'shuffle off this mortal coil' --- all for the Greater Good you understand ! He told himself he did it out of 'compassion'. He did it 'because he cared'. If the truth be really told, however, the good doctor got off by _'offing'_ a fellow human being. The first time, almost a month ago, he nearly came in his pants! Since then he had actually looked for reasons to 'help out' his patients! I mean, why the fuck not? Most of them were walking corpses anyway! And the rush it gave him! Better than sex, drugs and rock n' roll combined!

Oh ya! Shag me Baby!

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 into that

Great Waiting Room in the Sky

Kind of brings a tear to your eye, don't it? Let's tag along with him for a bit, shall we?

****

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

He hit the breaks as he rounded the next bend, for 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 his bleeding arm, the youth read the hand painted sign taped to the side of the 'Deathmobile'. A puzzled smile spread over his handsome young face. "Hey Doc, why'd ya give yourself a fuckin' 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 given the youth 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. Of course, one would be wrong. Dead wrong. The man had been a certified accountant, a father of three and a closet homosexual --- _not that there's anything wrong with it!_ He was also in no need of the good doctor's help. A nine millimeter slug in the brainpan tends to cut down on the need for consultation.

Apparently it had been 'lust at first sight', at least on the part of the former accountant. The blond kid had apparently not felt the same. The nine mill Glock was still in his free hand. 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. Let the trigger happy bastard find his own bottle!

"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 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. "I thought's what he said. Are you going to shoot me as well?"

A blank look flitted across the younger man's face, his gaze went from Doc to the gun, then back to Doc. Suddenly the light bulb went on. "Ha! Good one, Doc! Fuckin' 'A'! Naw, I aint gunna shoot ya. Not right now, anyway. But I gotta bring you back to the Safe House with me."

"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! Great! Go right ahead! Shoot me! Shoot me you little punk! _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.

God bless 'em, every one!

But then 'The Change' came along and wham, bam, thank you mam! Those wayward teens, along with a sizable number of green peacers, gereration 'X'ers and all those 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 all the shit that had hit the fan. Ahhhh, but the kids! Those violent video playing, instant gratification seeking, short attention spanned adolescents just blossomed! The _'Brave New World'_ that Major-General What's-His-Name kicked off with a bang, a dead wife and a shot up biological weapons lab was just tailor made for narcisstic little psychopaths like the Kid. In a world suddenly 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 fuck 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!

Halleluiah Big Brother n' pass the ammunition!

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 a feeling he had lived with all his life and one that had grown considerably stronger since The Change.

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 homosexual accountant, (not that there's anything wrong with it!) 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 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 the 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 in his head. 'Heads' he goes with this homicidal punk, 'tails' he tells the young shit to go fuck himself. His mind's eye could see it turning in the glittering sunlight. Up, up and away.... Heads... tails... Heads!

Hooo Haw! The boy's alive!

Chapter 12 **: The Teacher

**

Billings, Montanna

The Day Before The Change

Candice Winifred Brown never had a nick-name. No-one ever called her 'Candy' or 'Winnie'. Not even 'Brownie'. 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, Sweet 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.

Remember folks: 'Love means never having to say you're sorry!'

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 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 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 have shipped 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 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' 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 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 Southern California

and are being blown eastwards!

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!

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!

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 or TV's, watching in horror as the world died all around them, a smaller, wayward ' _Cloud of Death_ ' had silently drifted over Billings.

Candice and Suzan had watched in disbelief as report after report told of the chaos that was taking place as the winds carried 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 ago.

' _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 head.

' _Dust in the wind. All we are is dust in the wind.'_

***

Chapter 13: **Suzy Creamcheese

** **  
**

She called herself _Suzy Creamcheese_. She lived with her bitch of a mother, her demented little brother, (Booger-Boy), but she liked to say 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.

Looks like a 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 The Change happened. She'd woken the 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 Change!

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 burst screaming out of the apartment building and into the street, wildly looking around looked 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 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!

Was 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 wherever 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 had 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 '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!

Chapter 14: **The Reverend  
**

During the riot, just

before The Change

' _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 that had happened.

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 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 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 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 the '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 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, 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 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

After Change

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 sleep. 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 three days of rioting and mayhem.

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

"Where the fuck is everybody?!"

It came drifting down the prison's empty corridors, amplified by both walls of concrete and desperation. Echoing off into eternity. Soon others joined in. Not many, but enough to be annoying. Some were close, some far off, all 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, man! They're all fuckin' dead!"**

Such wailings and gnashing of teeth went on and on for hours. 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 bag of ashes.

'Ashes to ashes ---'

' _All we are is dust in the wind.'_

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

Something _had moved_ in his mind!

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 strands caused the fabric of his brain to unravel?

One of them? Two? Or all?

And in the end, 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, lifted the Reverend Langhorne Calhoun up from his prison cot and cleansed his blood, body and mind. The Aged Patriarch scrubbed the Reverend'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 this sinner's eyes so that he may see and unstopped his ears so that he may hear and, most importantly of all, unlocked his heart so that he may feel.

And when He was finished, God the Father looked down upon His work and saw that it was good --- Langhorne Calhoun, former TV evangelist, swindler and con-man, had been chosen. Then that great Old Testament con-man Himself spoke to His Chose One and said these words --- and the sound of them was like the burning of a great bush.

***

Langhorne. Stand up, son!

Lift up thy head and let me see thy face.

" _Father, I am not worthy!"_

Not so, my son!

You, more than all others, are indeed worthy!

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

That too is false, my son!

Thy own mortal father 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 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, he thought he heard the plaintive cry of his mother's violin. Crystal clear notes soaring upwards, enwrapping her son and carrying him home.

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 continued, softer than before, yet all the more terrible.

Hear me and hear me well, Langhorne!

I now see that in earlier times I was far too lenient.

Far to forgiving. A flood here, a plague there.

Most of the self-centered little bastards hardly even took notice!

But this time, Langhorne,

this time they **have truly** felt my wrath!

For far too long they have hidden behind the gentler,

misguided teachings of my first borne son.

All that is now finished!

My new Pestilence has erased nine out of every ten of Adam's offspring!

I have cleansed My Garden of the rebellious parasites!

Of the few that survived, **red-faced War** will devour more than half!

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!

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

Back to the 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! He blinked his eyes and looked around the cell. Nothing. No-one It was almost as though it had never hap \---

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 ?" He stood there sweating, trembling, his own piss puddled at his feet. Like a leaf tossed in a gale, he 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 to the Funny Farm!

Halleluiah and pass the popcorn!

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_ different!

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!

***

He 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 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! His mother's? Was _She_ coming for him just as He had? She'd be so proud that her son had been _'chosen'_!

Then a worm of doubt began t wriggle its way into his whirling brain.

_Was it the 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 other cells!'_ he thought.

But this wasn't wailing or cursing one like the others. This was a softer, frightened voice, yet with a hint of steel underneath. It was also definitely a woman's voice!

"Is there ... anyone in there? Can anyone fucking hear me?" she 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. The Reverend Langhorne Calhoun. Come to me."

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

"The Father watches over us all, friend"

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 door.

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

***
Chapter 15: The Circle 'C'

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 been pulled off the top bunk, was slowly drifting out the open door.

The answer, my friend, is blown in the wind.

The answer is blown in the wind.

'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...

' _Youabout 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 'C' 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.

"Big Jim! Shorty! Raven!" He took the front porch steps two at a time. "Uncle Jim! Raven! Someone!"

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 hands.

" _Raven?_ "

"They're gone, Sam. All gone. My Shorty. Mister Jim. 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 blowed away."

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. His Uncle Jim's remains he found in his gunroom. Slumped in a plush leather chair was a chequered shirt Sam had seen his uncle wear a hundred times, a faded par of blue jeans and a well worn pair of cowboy boots. The hated gray ashes leaked out of cuff and collar.

On the floor were two of his uncles most prized possessions. A battered silver flask that had once belonged to Ulysses S. Grant and a silver plated Navy Colt revolver with worn, yellowish-white ivory grips. On the low table before him was a fancy wooden box with an identical twin of the revolver on the floor nestled in green felt. 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 sagging shoulder of the faded shirt. More gray ash drizzled onto the floor. He bent, picked up the revolver and placed it back in its box with its twin. Then, closing the box, he gently placed in on his uncle's lap.

"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. "He's gone as well, 'R'. Just like the others."

She glanced at the remains of her employer and friend of more than three decades, 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 was still there. "We got us some graves to dig, Sam. You look to your uncle and I'll tend to my Shorty. We best get at if before they're all blowed away."

***

It was afternoon of the third day After Change. Both Sam and Raven were exhausted. That first day they had buried the bodies in the family graveyard. Sam had cried as he lifted the remains of his uncle, only to have a good portion of the body pour out on the floor. 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'_ had somehow vanished.

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. Those that did survive contact with the 'Death Clouds' however often went insane, turning violent and very dangerous.

Added to this was the threat of nuclear war! Age-old enemies blamed each other: 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, some red eyed newscaster on CNN got an earful of the 'latest and greatest' from the Bullshit-Bulletin Boys. Turning fish-belly white, the anchor man grabbed his heart with one hand and the mike with the other and said those oh so long dreaded words:

" _This just in! It has now been confirmed that_ nuclear warheads _have been simultaneously launched from over a dozen sites in Eastern Europe and the Middle East._ Similar launchings _have been detected in both Asia and here in 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 'C'. Yet the various strikes all over the world set up waves of gigantic electromagnetic pulses that knocked out all ground and satellite communication, including all radio and TV. Modern communication of all kind had just been blasted back to the early 19th century.

And that was only the beginning.

On the First Day After Change, ninety percent of the worlds population had been turned to gray ash. Of the ten percent that somehow survived, half of those had been driven dangerously insane.

On the Third Day AC, many nations that did have nuclear warheads launched them. The exchange was a very limited one however; not out of any 'humanitarian ideal', but rather because of the very few people left alive with the physical capability of pushing the goddamned buttons!

Radiation, in the form of even more 'Death Clouds, was carried by the wind. Luckily since it was a 'limited 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 would 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, eating whatever the could. Sooner or later the thousands and thousands of generators and turbines that created the world's electricity would eventually start to fail, including _nuclear_ power plants. When _that_ happened, not only would _the lights go out_ \--- but they'd go out with one hell of a **BANG!** This would happen _over and over again_ until the last one had spewed its invisible death into the air.

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

***

"Looks like you're the 'Mister' now, Sam. He'd want you to have them. Besides, the way the world's gone crazy, a whole passel of guns might come in handy!"

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 had been forced to shoot Bill Granger, a man he had known for years!

"The damned fool came at me with a pitchfork when I went over to his spread!" Sam had told Raven, showing her where two tines of the pitchfork 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 plumb crazy", Raven added calmly. " _Like a rabid dog_." She had then applied some Blackfoot concoction to his punctures that had stung like hell. " _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 pre 1899 weapons. 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 bellow out laughingly and finish off the old joke with:

' _Cig-a-reeets n' whisky 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.

He chose a number of rifles, revolvers and shotguns, including an 1866 Winchester ' _Yellow Boy_ ', the same rifle his unknown counterpart, _The Duke_ , carried back in Albany, New York --- way the hell over on the other side of the continent.

From the shadows Raven watched him with pride. He was _'Mister Sam'_ now, and he was 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, my dreams and my soul.'

****
Chapter 16:'A 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 Sara 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 of the barn where he'd have a better field of fire.

"Good to see you, Billy!" Sam yelled down. "Right now though I'd like everyone inside. Looks like we've got company coming". As Raven ushered Sara, Candice and the dogs into the house, Billy however, 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 truck 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 zee old west rodao!" He then spun the horse on a dime and galloped into the shadows of the open barn.

Sam looked at the long driveway. The bike was about half way there. He then looked down at the jeep. "Glad you made it, Billy. _Real_ glad."

"Big Jim?" Billy asked. "Shorty?"

Sam slowly shook his head.

"Didn't mean to bring this trouble your way, Sam."

Sam shrugged. "You're _home_ , Billy. That what counts. We'll soon send these buggers 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 Change he'd put Wild Bill's original Navy .36's back in their fancy case and chosen a couple of Big Jim's modern reproductions instead. An eight inch barreled 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 traded his old 30-30 deer rifle for an 1873 repro Winchester, also in .45 caliber. Less chance of putting the wrong bullet in if all his guns took the same ammo.

Beside him 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 chamber of the Mossburg. "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 that his five shot .32 cal ankle gun and 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 beamed at him. _Honorable as all Hell! But not overly smart. And, just exactly what I figured you'd do._ Sam could almost eel the big man's hand on his shoulder. _'So, what say we get this show on the road! 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 now about half way up the drive, he casually sat down on a rocking chair. As he sat he drew the Scofield from its holster high on his right hip, took off his dusty grey 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 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 was suddenly dead serious _. 'Sam, you watch your ass with these fellas, ya hear?! This ain't no fuckin' 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 gawdawful 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 ona 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 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 kid was still behind it. Up on the front porch a cowboy type fella was sitting in a rocker. He was holding his hat in his lap and had a big smile on his face. Dwayne noticed right off however that the smile never made it to the fella's eyes.

"Howdy, friend," Cowboy said. "How can I help ya?"

Darrel climbed off the back of the Harley, looking like an angry clown in a bear suit, or should that be an angry bear in a clown suit? Either way he was pissed and spoiling for a fight. 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! Then ya can hand over that long haired little shit up thar hidin' behind it! But mostly yawl can hand over ta perty little 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. _'Protection'_ however, he clearly understood. The Cowboy felt obliged to _'protect'_ his visitors. _'Pressed'_ Darryl was unsure of, unless he'd meant _'shoulder pressed to the ring'_ as in Smack-Down wrestling. Darryl _loved_ to watch wrestling. _'Dispute'_ had him _totally baffled_. As a result, he did what he usually did in similar situations --- _he got angry_.

"Just shut the fuck up n' send out ta yeller hared cunt now!" The Mossberg came up, followed closely by the .50 cal on the jeep and the Scofield under Sam's hat. Dwayne pulled both of his chrome Glocks and was met by a number of clicks _, clacks and snick-snicks_ as various shotguns, pumps and lever actions 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 have 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 both head on back to your pals?"

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!_ "

Ka-Bang!

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, Sara 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 and he turned and punched his bleeding brother good-naturedly on his tattooed shoulder. "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 _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 ---

Waamm!

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 and your piece of shit brother are _only_ alive because I don't want to upset the ladies. But if I _ever_ see either one of you again, I'll kill you like I would a rabid dog. Now, _get-off-my-land_!"

As the dust of their passing swirled down the driveway, Raven came down off the porch. Her coach-gun under one arm, she took Sam's arm with her free hand. "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 17: '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, tall, athletic and _very_ sure of herself, had sat on the edge of her little brother's seemingly too short bed and 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 she 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_ 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 fatal 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 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 hair up! "Yes, mam. The trailer n' truck are both rustin' out somethin' awful, but Burt's mare is a good'n."

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 months wages in cash money ready for him when you come." She nodded towards the gagged, 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?" quietly asked Prudence, 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, of course 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. I _can't_."

"Won't isn't the same as can't, Roscoe. Why _can't_ you do it?"

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 with me in a blizzard; because he pulled me out of a freezin' stream when my cinch broke; because he read books n' taught me poetry n' didn't brag on how many beers he could drink or girls he had... _had_!" He looked up at the two women standing before him, for Marcy had moved to stand by her mother. Behind the Horn women the gagged body still twisted and swayed from the rafters. Roscoe's voice dropped a tone.

"I ain't no kind of scientist or _deep_ thinker. But I was listenin' on my portable radio those terrible nights not too long passed. Real scientist were saying that these 'Death Clouds' affected people _differently_. Most they killed outright. Turned 'em to ash. But five, ten per cent, maybe even more survived --- for a while. Some of 'em went plumb crazy --- like Stew and Rodrigo who run off the next mornin'. Some just seem to want to kill others, or themselves, like our Frank did. And then there's _some_ that don't seemed changed at all --- like us." He wet his dried lips with his tongue and continued. Marcy was watching him intently, her eyes bright, a small, proud smile at the corner of her pretty mouth.

"One scientist fella was sayin' that everyone that survived probably was changed _somehow_. That whatever this death virus 'thing' was _worked on the brain_ as well as the body. _Rewired_ us kind of. Maybe nothing _big_ that would show up right away. 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 with me in a blizzard and taught me a poem!"

Prudence, fighting back tears of her own, managed a half smile. "You think, maybe you could say that poem to him one more time ? Before we send him off?

"It's nothin' fancy or lovey-dovey like." he said. "But it kinda fits."

"Go on, son," Prudence said gently, all her anger bled away by this fine young man's compassion and loyalty to a friend.

Roscoe took a deep breath, then beganHis voice was stiff and school-boy like, but he was right --- in its own way, the poem was very fitting.

' _There are strange things done,_

Beneath the Midnight Sun,

By the men who toil for gold.

But the strangest by far,

Was that night at the bar,

When they 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 rapin' 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 those 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 red hair to molten bronze, 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_ that even. That aint none of my business. But I _saw_ the way your eyes lit up when he 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 a ' _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 Change 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 began to slowly dig towards China. "Well mam.... er, he kinda made me _promise_ to watch out fer you 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 bated 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."

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 woman.

"All right then Roscoe. I see you got your rifle. Hop in the back and you can ride to town with us _'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 18:'The Calm Before The Storm'

Marcy saw them first. She was up in the hayloft of the barn 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! 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 redhead'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. "Where'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 hard the worry in her voice, Then the realization hit him and a wave of anger and bitterness washed over him.

'I was a good enough 'substitute' when she was alone, frightened and thought the 'original' was dead!' a seldome heard voice in his head growled. 'But now that Sam is back, she doesn't need me!'

Suddenly the cruel 'wave' receded and the his bitterness and pain were washed away, leaving a sad honesty in its place.

'Ah, shit! Maybe I aint the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I damn sure aint the dullest neither!' he 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 truth however, somehow only deepened the hurt.

Then she was there, sitting her horse in front of him and gazing at him with tear filled eyes. "You alright?"

"Gotta busted wing, but it'll heal. N' you?"

Her green 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 Miss Marcy? Good friends?"

She sniffed back her tears, reaching out to take his hand. "Yes, Roscoe, very good friends. I hope we always will be --- and thank you."

"No need for that neither, Miss Marcy. I'm 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 --- and broke his heart.

"So we're still friends?"

Somehow he managed a smile. "Always!"

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.

"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." There was a sadness in Roscoe's voice that confused Jasper all the more.

"Goodbye?" he repeated. "far a 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 ten or twelve years older than her, 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 red hair flowing out behind her was turned to molten copper in the rays of the rising sun. Marcy Horn was truly a wondrous sight to behold, on or off a horse.

Sam touched the top of his wide-brimmed 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 strongest, longest, 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 green eyes. "You liked that, did you Sam? There's plenty more where that came from." The green eyes flashed unspoken messages.

Sam's grin matched her own, his own hand reluctant to let go her arm. "I liked it fine. As for there being more, I might just take you up on 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 the --- "

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 his quickly again, and whirled her horse. "Tell me that forty years form now, when we're both old and gray. Now, 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.

"Bastard!" she grinned, her green eyes flashing.

***

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 with a rifle filled the doorway. 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, quickly holstering his gun and holding 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. "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 he 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 Change 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. "How do you do, Miss Brown? I'm William Randolph Penny, but it would please me greatly if you would call me Will."

Candice blushed, making her blonde hair and deep blue eyes all the more striking. "Why, thank you, Mr. Penny, I mean 'Will'. You, in turn, sir, must call me Candice." She actually gave a tiny curtsy.

"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' a wild eyed, tobacco chewin' 'mountain man' dressed in greasy, deerskins. Probably with hair n' beard blowin' in the wind and fresh scalps hanin' from his belt! Correct?"

Candice's blush deepened further. "Something like that, Mister --- I mean, Will."

The lanky cowboy smiled again. "Well, Candice, I do spend most of my time in the mountains, often guiding rich fools from the city. Come spring however, I usually hire on over at the Horn ranch. 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. "The two of you compliment each other perfectly. Marcy with her fiery beauty and personality and you, Candice, with a much calmer, more refined Nordic loveliness --- that, unless I miss my guess, whenever needed, can easily match the fair red-headed lass in both courage and gumption."

Candice, taken back by Will's forthright flattery, his 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, grinned from ear to ear like a village half-wit.

Will smiled at the two of them and cradled his rifle in his arm. "And now, if you both don't mind, I'd like to pay my respects to the Widow Horn."

***
Chapter 19: 'Small Going In, Big Coming out'

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 didn't give a shit now, 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 story 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 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.

You see, 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 laughed. 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!

Chapter 20: **'** Click! Click! Click!'

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 clip. 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 actually charging right at them!

Shades of John Wayne: 'Fill your hand, you sonovabitch!!'

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 brain that with 'this particular fucker', sixty-six shots might not be enough! 'Have'nt I already fired that many at him with the bloody AK?!'

Crack – ping!

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 fucking cowboy that was flowing over the grass towards them like fast moving fog!

BANG!

The .357 spoke with great authority but little accuracy.

BANG! BANG!

Twice more it barked its deep 'cough'. Twice more the shots missed.

Crack – ping!

A second hole appeared in the windshield, this one much closer to the driver than he cared for.

"Jesusfuckingchrist! That was close!"

"Shut the fuck up and drive!

BANG! BANG! BANG! Click! Click!

"Fuck!"

Frantically Butch 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, but for some strange reason Butch was having trouble finding the revolver's 'mouth'.

Crack – thud! Gurgle - gurgle - gurgle \---

"Aahhhhhh...."

The driver, shot through the throat and gushing blood like a new blown oil well, slumped sideways and fell across Butch's knees. The black RV 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!

Yet another of Will Penny's 45-75 calling cards tapped rather rudely on the windshield, this time leaving a 'love note' that creased Butch's left cheek, clipping the earlobe in passing. No 'real' damage but it stung like a bastard!

Crack – thud!

The next dug a deep groove in his 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 silver 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.

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

Three well spaced attempts to kill 'True Grit' when he rode into view.

Three more misses.

Crack – HISSS!

Crack – HISSS !

Will, close now and fully into the rhythm of his galloping horse, fired two quick shots into the black RV's radiator. His next 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. Will worked the leaver on his Winchester. Butch attempted to both steer with his left hand while aiming the Red Hawk with his rapidly numbing right. Blood soaked his shirt, pooling 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.

BANG! BANG!

Will felt something hammer into his right side. A moment later liquid fire erupted along his ribs. The Winchester wavered, then steadied as it neared the racing jeep.

Butch, seeing his death fast approaching, yanked hard on the jeep's 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 bronks 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, tossed the rifle, kicked his feet clear of the stirrups and was sailing up, up and away from the sure death of 'horse meets machine at a fair clip'.

What happened next happened in the bat of an eye.

The black 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'. Bone protruded.

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 not only with a dead driver across his knees but a bleeding horses head against his chest.

The black RV, 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 horse and 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 RV. With his right hand he pulled out his great-great granddaddy's Green River skinning knife. A very young Zachariah Penny had traded two beaver pelts for it at a Rendezvous back in the early days of the Rocky Mountain fur trade. It 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. It made him slippery. Like some slimy reptile, he 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: shaken but not stirred.

In his blurred vision 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' hand gun, Butch the Mad Biker was! Instead, the Clint/Will character was holding a long bladed knife. In the true cinematic melodrama style, the 'sunlight danced along the shimmering blade.'

Butch the Mad Biker felt his testicles try to retract up inside his body as Clint/Will continue to shuffle ever closer.

Fifty feet away.

Forty-five feet.

Forty.

Biker/Butch cocked the Dirty Harry/Red Hawk and aimed it at Will/Clint.

'Make my fucking day,punk!' someone said. Butch had no idea who.

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.

'In all this excitement,' Will and Clint both said.

'We kinda lost count ourselves!' chimed in Butch and his make-believe buddy.

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?!'

BANG!

The Red Hawk went off.

Butch's hand jumped.

Thirty feet away Will staggered and almost fell --- almost. Seconds later, his great great granddaddy's skinning knife still in his hand, Will continued to shuffle forward. Limping badly now, but, just like that old watch commercial used to say: 'It takes a lickin' but keeps on tickin'!'.

Click! Click! Click!

Ten years _'After Change'_ and civilization continues

its backwards slide.

**Chapter 21: 'A Wolf of a Different Colour'

** **  
**

Outside Neverland Penitentiary

(The Old South) Alabama

Summer, Year 10 AC

It was a lucky shot, the hollow point bullet having passed through the truck's windshield like a knife through hot butter, then continued on its merry way to smack the driver squarely in his chest. Dead at the wheel, the driver's heavy boot was still on the accelerator, causing the large truck to smash into Neverland's massive gates. Rusting iron and crumbling mortar gave way, allowing one side of the heavy gate to break free and hang drunkenly on the sagging shoulder of its twin.

Before _The Change_ of ten years ago, such an event would have caused lights to go on, sirens to scream and a squad of armed guards to come running. Now, ten long, hard years later, there are no lights, no sirens and the only guard was an unarmed _Norm_ trustee, passed out drunk on the far side of the gate.

The four other trucks following close behind had stopped on the decaying, weed-strewn road. The lead one of the four, it's poorly running motor spewing out dirty, black fumes from the non-existent muffler, honked its horn. The passenger door opened and a man, clearly a _Pure_ by both his clothes and his manner, wearing mirror sunglasses, a _Smokey the Bear_ type hat and carrying a shotgun, climbed out swearing at the top of his lungs.

"Jesus-Fucking- _Christ!_ " Smokey cursed. "If that goddamned driver has been drinking _again_ I'll have his goddamned balls on a plate!" Still swearing, the man started towards the scene of the crash.

Up by the ruined gates a blood spattered guard jumped out the passenger side of the first truck screaming something about the driver having been _shot!_

"What the fuck?" _Smokey_ demanded, pumping a shell into his shotgun's chamber. It was then that the arrow hit him, sprouting from his chest like one of those tacky plastic flowers sweet old grandmothers used to decorate their homes with.

_Smokey_ , his shotgun now in the dust, gently touched the plastic 'feathers' on the shaft, then, his knees suddenly gone very weak, collapsed to lay beside his much cherished shotgun. The dying rays of the setting sun reflected back in his mirror glasses.

***

The man they called _'The Vic'_ , seeing Smoky of the Mirrored Glasses go down with an arrow in his chest, suddenly stood up and blew a long, shrill note on a whistle. From both sides of the road _'his men'_ converged on the four trucks. They had been waiting just outside the gates for the guards to bring the work detail back into Neverland for the night. The plan was to free not only the prisoners in the trucks, but those _inside_ as well.

_The Vic_ worked the bolt on the badly battered deer rifle he carried, painfully aware that he only had three bullets. Very few of his people actually had _a gun of any sort._ Most carried blades of one kind or another. A few had hunting bows, some even held pitchforks or clubs.

"Hey, _Vic!_ Let's go!" Little more than a boy, Blair grinned at him through a dirt covered face. He held a baseball bat in his grimy hands.

The Vic, thirty-three years old, heaved himself up out of the ditch and moved towards the middle truck. His people were already at the last two, the few with pistols still on horseback. Others had surrounded the front truck and the one up by the mashed gate. That left himself, Blair with his bat and a stern faced woman named Sandra to handle the third truck. Sandra carried a broomhandle with a knife taped to one end.

" _Vic!_ " Blair yelled again, sprinting for the third truck. "He's getting away!" The driver was trying to back around the rear two trucks in an effort to break free.

Vic and a frowning, silent Sandra moved, to the front of the vehicle as it scrapped by the rear one, scattering several of Vic's group in the process. The rear bumper shunted one truck off into the ditch. All the time Blair was pounding away at the driver's door with his baseball bat.

Suddenly a hand came out the open window and pointed a pistol at Blair's flushed face.

Bang!

Both the boy and the bat dropped from sight.

"Shit!" Vic swore, seeing the boy fall. Bringing his rifle up, he aimed through the front windshield. The driver was still half turned around, trying to back the truck free. The man beside him, pistol still in hand, met Vic's eyes.

POW!

The heavy rifle went off, shattering both the windshield and the passenger's head. Vic worked the bolt on his rifle --- only two bullets left!

Then he saw Sandra, silent as a shadow, sprint up to the driver's open window and thrust in with her broomhandle --- _several times_. As the truck jerked to a stop, she jumped up on the runningboard and thrust one last time. When she looked up Vic saw that she was smiling.

***

The rest was over very quickly. There had been a brief, vicious fight inside the prison, with several deaths on both sides, including the warden, who had shot himself in the head rather than be taken prisoner. Twice as many were wounded and needed medical attention. The remaining guards had been locked in cells, the weapons and ammo collected and the prisoners set free, all forty-three of them. The rebel's horses had been brought from behind the hill and joined the eight other horses released from the guards' trailers. Those that could ride did so while the rest piled back into the trucks and within minutes everyone was heading back down the road. The bodies of the three fallen rebels were brought as well, young Blair being one of them.

That was one of the few hard and fast rules _Master Sergeant Robert Sampson_ , a.k.a. 'The Vic', had lived by--- **no-one gets left behind**. One way or another _everyone goes home.  
_

***
Chapter 22: 'The Good Reverend'

'Black Oaks' Plantation

The 'Old South' (Alabama)

Summer, Year 10 AC

The Reverend Langhorne Calhoun sat in his favorite rocker on the large veranda and looked out over a small part of his vast domain. He beheld fields of golden wheat and ripening corn; pastures filled with both beef cows and those for milking; fenced corals for the herd of prancing, spirited horses. There were barns stuffed with hay, sheds for chickens and pens for goats and pigs. From the smithy came metallic ringing from the burly blacksmith's anvil strike. Fragrant gray-white clouds billowed up from the row of smoke houses, in which hung curing hams, sides of beef and link upon link of slowly browning sausages.

A row of outdoor ovens, looking like giant, blackened beehives, their fires stoked by soot covered boys, were tended by flour covered women with long wooden paddles. Hewers of wood and drawers of water scuttled to and fro while several gardeners toiled in the summer sun to water the Reverend's many, sprawling rose gardens.

All this and more was nurtured and cared for by a multitude of slaves. Men, women and children that he owned; his to do with as he saw fit.

' _This must be what Jehovah Himself felt like on the seventh day when He finally rested from His great labours!'_ the Reverend thought, all the while casually stroking the long blonde hair of one of his female _'house slaves'_. The girl, no more than twelve or thirteen, sat like a dog at his feet, the slave collar around her neck and the scant loincloth around her slim waist her only garment.

' _And the Lord God looked upon His works and found them good,'_ he quoted to himself, reaching for the budding breast beneath the golden hair.

Just then a large, beefy man with a red face rode up to the front steps and tipped his hat to The Reverend, ignoring the two fatigue wearing bodyguards standing quiet but alert in the shadows. One cradled a long rifle with a powerful scope, the other a pump shotgun.

The rider was the Reverend's _Overseer_ , Buford Dodge. A former guard at Neverland Penitentiary, Buford had been doubly fortunate low these long, ten years passed. Firstly in that he had somehow survived the passing of the Death Clouds when Jehovah sent _The Cleansing_ upon a wicked world --- and secondly that he had ' _Seen the Light_ ' and had gladly and faithfully followed The Reverend Langhorne Calhoun when he called.

Still absently fondling the child at his feet, the Good Reverend smiled at Dodge, one of his most trusted and well rewarded followers. "What is it, Buford?"

The red faced man steadied his skittish mount and snatched off his hat. " _The Punishment Detai_ l is ready, Sir. You want 'em in the usual place?"

"Of course, Buford," the Reverend beamed. "There is a certain _beauty_ in order and tradition. Besides, the Slaves need to be _reminded_ from time to time of there place in Jehovah's Great Scheme." He bent down and pinched a tender nipple. "Is that not right, My Dear?"

The child, her eyes wide with fright, nodded agreement, knowing from past experience that she must stay silent.

"Buford, kindly bring the guilty parties before me so I may pass on the Lord's judgement."

Tearing his eyes off the naked child, Buford shoved his hat back on his head and gathered his horse's reigns. "Right away, Sir!" He then struck his chest with a closed fist. " _Thy Will Be Done!_ "

***

The Reverend Langhorne Calhoun was insane.

He didn't _look_ it. Most times he didn't even _act_ it --- but he was.

Mad as a fucking 'hatter'!

Whatever part of his brain that _might_ have once been 'normal' before _The Change_ had been burnt away by these last ten years of pain, struggle and almost constant warfare.

_Secretly_ , in a tiny corner of his mind that even he himself feared to go, he _knew_ it.

Insane!

Just like his father and his father before him!

A long, unbroken line of religious lunatics, stretching all the way back to Ebenezer Calhoun, the very first of his line to step ashore in an earlier version of a 'brave new world' with all those other religious zealots, fanatics and raving lunatics back at Plymouth Rock.

_It had begun with 'The Voices'_.

Even as a child, being dragged by his insane father from one backwoods southern town to the next, it had been 'the Voices' that had _sustained_ him as the old fool had preached his revivalist bullshit. It had been 'the Voices' that had given him the _strength_ to endure the old man's beatings, and it had been 'The Voices' that had given him the _fortitude_ to watch silently as his sainted mother had endured similar beatings. When he finally 'escaped' from that 'traveling asylum', the 'Voices' had _abated_ somewhat. After _The Cleansing_ however, they had once again made themselves heard --- but it was over these last few years that they had returned with a _vengeance_.

Yet in that black corner of his brain, in that permanent patch of midnight where the light of reason has _never_ shown, he feared an even 'darker' secret was hiding, lurking in the shadows like a hungry beast, just waiting to pounce and devour him from within.

For the awful, soul searing _truth_ was that the 'most reverend' Reverend feared that 'the Voices', that had been with him all his life, may have come _not from Jehovah_ as he once so fervently believed, not from the Living God in Whose Image We are Made --- but from the _Prince of Lies_ , the _Great Deceiver, He Whose Name Is Legion!_ And that the _beast_ that waited impatiently within, with baited breath and bared claws, was none other than the dreaded 'Dark Stranger' _Himself!  
_

***

(Que the bongos.

Mr. Nasty enters from the Dark Side of the brain.).

Who Who Who? --- Who Who Who?

' _Pleased to meet you, Reverend. Hope you guess my name.  
_

Who Who Who? --- Who Who Who?

_I see what's_ _puzzling_ _you, is the ---_ _'nature'_ _of my game!'

_ _  
_

***
**Chapter 23: 'Lady Macbeth'

**

Black Oak's Plantation

10 A.C. Several days after

Vic's capture at Nestor's Farm

Raven hair n' ruby lips.

_Sparks flyin' from her fingertips.  
_

_Miriam Devereau Calhoun_ was _not_ in a good mood and her husband knew it. He could 'feel' it when she entered the room. Dressed in a tight fitting leather riding outfit, she seemed to _glide_ like a cat rather than merely walk, reminding the Reverend once again of ' _Mrs Emma Peel_ ' from the old British spy-farce 'The Avengers'. As a young boy he had once seen an episode on a storefront TV and the slithering, sensual 'Mrs. Peel' had ' _set the bar_ ' so to speak for the Reverend's taste in women ever since. Miriam, over two decades younger than the Reverend, knew this and _used it_ as just one more way to control her rather 'eccentric' husband.

_Lilith,_ Miriam's female bodyguard, flowed along in her wake. Luscious, lethal and also dressed in leather, they seemed like two female cats, _forever on the hunt_. The fair one ever watchful for threat and danger, the dark one ever searching for weakness and opportunity. Both, in their own way, as deadly as the other. That the good Reverend had erotic fantasies about _the pair of them_ was also known and used by the scheming dark haired Miriam --- who, though she may ' _look_ ' like the seductive 'Mrs. Emma Peel', had the _mind, ambition and utter ruthlessness_ of a 'Lady Macbeth'.

Echoed voices, in the night,

_She's a restless spirit on an endless flight.  
_

She had been _eleven_ when The Change occurred. From a very rich and very 'old' family in Mobile, Alabama, _Miriam_ and her _father_ , Charles Devereau IV, had been the only survivors from a rather large, extended family of step mothers, half brothers and very eccentric 'uncles'.

_Two years later_ when Miriam, now both very beautiful and very headstrong, _caught the eye_ of the Reverend Langhorne Calhoun, Charles Devereau was quick to take advantage of the situation.

She held him spellbound in the night,

_Dancing shadows and firelight.  
_

Later, when Reverend Calhoun, the latest and greatest rising star in this strange new world, was _fully smitten_ , Daddy Charles 'bartered away' the last remaining fruit of his loins for a lucrative position in the Reverend's rapidly growing empire. As a 'wedding gift' Daddy Charles became ' _Lord Devereau_ ', master and owner of _Green Briars_ , a large slave plantation just a few miles upriver from The Reverend's own _Black Oaks_.

Charles Devereau had gone from a captain of corporate America to a major producer of human chattel without blinking an eye, tossing in his _daughter_ to finalize the deal. But then, just like the kings of old, wasn't that what _princesses_ were _really_ for?

Crazy laughter in another room,

_She drove herself to madness with a silver spoon.  
_

And _Miriam_ , over the last seven years, had proven herself to be one big motherfucking _chip off the old block!_ Not a dark deed took place nor an unsavoury agreement was struck that the 'Lady Miriam' wasn't involved in. If she hadn't _caused_ it to happen then she most likely had _allowed_ it to happen --- and on those few rare occasions when such was not the case, the unfortunate transgressors soon came to swiftly _regret_ their foolish folly.

There's a rumor going round,

Someone's underground.

She can rock you in the night-time

_Till your skin turns red!

_

The Reverend may be the heart and soul of 'Jehovah's Blessed Quest for Purity', but his young wife with the raven hair and ruby lips was the real brains behind the man reaching for the throne.

Woo hoo,

Witchy woman, see how high she flies!

Woo hoo,

_Witchy woman, she'll steal your soul with her eyes!  
_

***

"And how was your morning ride, my dear?" the Reverend asked his young wife as slaves brought in a tray of food. While the coffee was being poured he watched for the raised eyebrow or the slight curl of the lip that was the telltale flag of his wife's rather _volatile_ disposition. Both signs were clearly evident this morning.

"I'm sorry, my love, that I couldn't breakfast with you earlier, but I was called away on urgent business."

"Is he _dead_ yet?" Miriam's voice was flat and cutting.

"What's that, precious? Is _who_ dead?"

She impatiently waved the slave serving her away. "This _Vic_ , of course! Did you _hang_ him on the tree yet?"

"Not _yet_ , my dear. There are still a few _things_ I wish to learn first."

"You should let _my Lilith_ have him," she suggested. "In a few minutes he'll be begging to answer all your _silly_ little questions!"

The Reverend ran his eyes over the svelte blonde bodyguard and a mental picture of whips, chains and a great deal of pain formed in his mind. He found himself becoming aroused. _That \--- and sharp nails scratching at a distant door!_

"Yes, well, though I'm sure ' _your_ Lilith' would do an admirable job, for the time being I shall let ' _my_ Fitzpatrick' continue to question him."

Miriam snorted her disdain. "Fitzpatrick's a _fool_ and Talus is a _drunk_. At times an _amusing_ drunk I'll admit, but a _drunk_ none the less. It _amazes_ me that you allow those two idiots to run your _precious_ army."

"And just _who_ , my love, would _you_ put in charge of my army?" The Reverend's smile could have melted butter. " _Your_ Lilith, perhaps?"

Though a religious fanatic, a psychopath and clinically insane, the Reverend was _no-one's fool_ , not even his wife's. He knew _exactly_ what she was. _Had_ known even before he married her, but back then he had been smitten with love, or at least blinded by lust. Once, however, he had repeatedly _sated_ that lust, he found that there was very _little_ about Miriam to actually 'love'.

Yet he kept her close just the same. Always pampered, always indulged --- and always _watched_.

Hadn't some famous general once said that it was a wise man who: _'kept his friends close and his enemies closer?'_

Another reason that Lady Miriam did not _yet_ reside in a shallow grave was that the Reverend never really had a _real friend_ before; someone to confide in, to advise him and to share his inner fears with. Miriam Devereau was the closest he had ever come.

That she would one day become his enemy he had no doubt. Her driving ambition and lust for power would eventually force him to cast her off. Until that happened however, he would continue to use both her devious, calculating mind and her ripe, lush body.

He smiled to himself as he took a sip of coffee. ' _There are times when I don't know_ which _excites me the most!'_

"Terrill."

Her voice brought him out of his reverie. "What's that, my love?"

"You asked me _who I would pick_ to run your army. I'd pick Terrill."

" _Major James_ Terrill?" her husband chuckled. "The man I've had _chasing bandits_ for the last two years? The man now in charge of tracking a bunch of _rag-tag rebels_?"

"The man who brought you the rebel _leader_ when all others _couldn't!_ And, if memory serves, several years ago he supplied your army with _arms_ and _filled your treasury_ at the same time. What have those two fools Fitzpatrick and Talus ever brought you but incompetency and _more_ problems?!"

The Reverend put down his empty cup and a slave whisked it away. "But my dear, the man's a ruthless _mercenary!_ "

She leaned over and lightly touched the back of his hand, but it was her cold smile and even colder words that sent a shiver down his spine. "Dear Langhorne. Aren't we _all?_ "

***
**Chapter 24: 'A Tale To Break Your Heart'**

Five years earlier, 5 A.C.

A fishing village on

Florida's Gold Coast

After _The Change_ we mostly lived on the boat. The land was just too damned dangerous! It was all death, dying, murder and rape! Even cannibalism in some places! Certainly no place at all for a child --- _especially_ a young girl! Jenny n' me would sail up and down the Gulf Coast, fishing mostly and trading with the few small communities we found. It was tough but we managed somehow and the time passed. Every now and then we'd hear things from the folks we traded with about plagues, riots and wars and such, but the two of us stayed _well clear_ of that shit for five long years.

Then one day _they_ showed up! The Reverend's fucking little _Nazis!_

I'd caught a large tuna and we had taken it into a little seaside village to trade for some canned goods and fresh vegetables. Jenny had been growing so fast back then that she needed some new clothes as well. She had just turned fourteen and was as pretty as her mother once was.

I'd stopped at this place before, so I wasn't as _cautious_ as I should have been. I had two rifles down below. Nothing big, but good enough to scare off most assholes. One was a .22 bolt action I'd had since I was a kid and the other was my father's battered old single shot twenty gage that he used to use to keep the skunks out of our garden. Like a fool, I'd left _both_ down in the cabin while docking the boat.

As usual, some villagers were on the dock waiting to greet us. Jenny, her long blonde hair blowing in the wind, tossed a smiling villager the bow rope, than dashed back to handle the stern line herself. In her torn t-shirt and cut-off jeans, she looked like just what she was, a beautiful young creature, wide eyed and innocent, eager to drink in all the joys of the world.

We were already moored and I was unloading the tuna when I noticed the four _strangers_ pushing through the crowd. They were dressed like _army_ fellas, all in beige, black and brown camophlage and all carrying guns.

"This _your_ boat, old man?" the leader of the four demanded.

All of sixteen or seventeen, he was short, cocky little shit with a psycho smile and eyes like chips of black ice. Right away that weird smile and crazy stare made me uneasy, but it was the way those cold eyes _fastened_ on my Jenny's lithe young form that made that uneasy feeling I'd had earlier soar right through the bloody roof! I cursed myself for having left my guns down below --- not that my _peashooters_ could have done much good up against what those bastards were sporting! Two of them had what looked like M-16's and the third had some kind of stubby machinegun. All four had sidearms and the psycho leader seemed to have several grenades hanging from his flack vest.

"I _said_ ," Psycho repeated loudly: "is _this_ your fucking boat?!"

"Of _course_ it's my boat!" I replied. "Whose bloody boat do you _think_ it is?!" I knew that I should have kept my cool, but I didn't like the way the little bastard was looking at my Jenny!

Psycho moved in closer and fixed me with those dead eyes. His left hand grasped my shirt and pulled me towards him while his right hand rested on the butt of his pistol. "You giving me _lip_ , old man? 'Cause I don't _like it_ when smelly fish fuckers like you give me _lip!_ "

"No lip, friend," I replied. "It's my boat. Been my boat for over twenty years."

He released my shirt only to shove a dirty finger in my face. "I _aint_ your fuckin' _friend,_ old man, n' you'd best be _rememberin'_ that! In fact, ' _old man_ '," he paused and slowly turned to his three followers, glanced over to where Jenny stood frozen in fear, then slowly turned back towards me.

A part of my brain I felt like I was watching an old rerun of 'C.S.I Miami' where the actor David 'The Poser' Some-thing-or-other _slowly_ takes off those bloody little sunglasses and delivers some cornball line!

"I might just be," Psycho drawled, (Pause, pause --- wait for it!) "your _worst fuckin' nightmare!_ "

"Ya?" the fool inside me demanded. "And how's that?"

Like a hound with a fresh scent, Psycho's head came up and his hand went to the butt of his pistol. "You want to _keep_ that boat, fish fucker?"

And, dumb idiot that I was, I replied: "That's a bloody fool question!"

_Smack!_ His pistol was out and the heavy .357's barrel slammed into my left ear.

"You givin' me _lip_ again, old man!? I said, _do-you-want-to-keep_ _this mutherfuckin' boat?!_ "

" _Y-Yes! I want to keep it!_ "

" **Out-stand-ing!** " Psycho suddenly beamed. "Now, all ya gotta do to keep it is hand over that cute little _piece o' ass_ back there and you n' your boat can _sail off into the fuckin' sunset!_ "

I could hardly believe my ears. "Y-You want me to give you my _daughter?_ " The cocky fool inside me was swiftly being replaced by the terrified father.

"No flies on _you_ , Hoss!' Psycho grinned. "What's her name anyway?"

" **Jenny,"** I yelled --- not at him but at her. " _Get below ---_ _NOW!_ "

_Smack!_ The pistol barrel slammed into my left ear again.

" _Not_ cool, fish fucker! Not cool at _all!_ Jenny, haul your pretty little ass over here, _toot fucking sweet!_ "

" **Jenny, get below!** " I yelled again.

_Smack!_ This time the .357 slammed into my forehead, knocking me backwards. A ' _clicking_ ' sound followed as Psycho cocked the massive gun.

"You _tired of breathing_ Fish Fucker? You _want me_ to blow your fucking head off?!"

I suddenly reached out and grabbed at the little shit. _"NOW Jenny! MOVE!"_

BANG!

The slug passed _clean through_ my left shoulder, missing bone and major arteries, but knocked me back on my ass! I left a smear of blood on the wharf as I dragged myself towards Psycho's feet.

Click!

" _Keep comin'_ , fish fucker, n' I'll put one in you _brain-pan!_ "

" _Jenny --- GO!_ "

BANG!

This time the massive slug passed through the back of my left hand. Pictures of Jesus on the cross flashed before me, all mixed up with images of Conon the fucking Barbarian being nailed to that bloody big tree. I must have been hit on the head harder than I thought, because suddenly a very young and bulky Arnold Swartzinager mumbled in my ear:

'Forgive dem, Faw-der,

for dey know not what dey do'

( _followed by_ )

'Stick arrowwnd! --- I'lll be bawk!'

( _and finishing with the ever popular_ )

'Austa-la-veeesta, Baby!'

The one good thing I _did_ see in all this was Jenny's blonde head disappearing down the companionway. One of Psycho's boys went to grab her, but got his fingers jammed in the hatch instead. ' _You go, girl!_ ' Arnold grinned, his large, horse-like teeth flashing in my mind's eye.

" _Shit!_ " Fingers swore, then fired a long burst from his M-16 into the hatch. Wood splintered but the hatch held. Fingers turned back to Psycho for further instructions.

" _Pry_ it open, asshole!"

I tried to get up but Psycho's boot tramped hard on my wounded hand. "Stay _down_ , Pops!"

But I couldn't. Jenny needed time to reach the guns. You _all know_ what those bastards wanted and I just couldn't let that happen! I had to try something, even if it got me killed \--- so, still lying at his feet, with my good hand I drove my _filleting knife_ through the top of Psycho's boot. The long, slender blade sliced through leather, flesh and bone, out the rubber sole, _on through_ my mangled left hand and buried itself an _inch deep_ in the wharf!

My hand had already gone num from the .357 slug, but his foot however, was a different story altogether! _Keee-riste_ , but that little prick had a pair of lungs on him! His scream caused a flock of seagulls a mile away take to the air --- of course, the fact that I gave the knife a damned good _twist_ might have helped some.

" **Out!** " he screamed. " _Take the fucking thing_ **out!** "

I twisted it once more for good measure.

" **AAAAHHHHHHH!!!!** "

With his free left hand Psycho bent own to pull out the blade. Leaving the knife where it was, I quickly released my hold on the handle and seized his upper left arm. Pulling down hard, I _head butted_ the bastard square in the nose! As his blood flowed over me, I pulled down again, this time fastening my _teeth_ on his left ear. Like a bull terrier with a bone, I bit down hard and shook my head. Well, if you thought that boy had yelled _before_ , it was nothing compared to the gut-wrenching squeal he let out now! I continued to gnaw away as the blood dripped off my chin. When his ear finally came free, I spit it out, yanked out the knife and cut his throat. In seconds his high pitched screams turned to quiet little sobs. As he slumped down beside me, the fingers of his right hand twitched and opened, releasing the heavy pistol. Tossing my bloody blade away, I grabbed the pistol and slowly stood up. I was only a few feet behind the three bastards who were trying to break down the door to get to my baby girl!

Suddenly Arnold was back, whispering in my ear: ' _No prob-lemm-o!_ '

***

Sounds good, right, Gentle Reader?

Can't you just see the headlines now?

' _Daddy Saves his Little Princess_

_from a Fate Worse than Death!'  
_

After all, now he's got a gun, right? And all you Armchair Generals and Weekend Warriors out there know that a .357 carries _six shots_ in the chamber. Now, Rapidly stiffening throat-cut Psycho has already fired off _two_ ; one into Daddy's left shoulder and one into his left hand. Do the math, bucko!

That leaves four righteous 'caps' to put in our three 'home boy's' asses! Leaving one over for luck!

Hooo-Haw!

Can I get a 'Hal-a-loooo-ya brother' ?!!

***

So, while up on deck Dad forced his pain-wracked body to raise up Psycho's heavy pistola, down below deck Jenny had already locked the hatch and opened the gun cabinet. In her panic however, she had grabbed the lighter .22 rifle rather than the heavier, shoulder bruising shotgun. _Not exactly a show stopper, Jenny-darlin',_ _but better than a poke in the eye!_

So when _Fingers_ finally manage to pry open the bullet ridden but still solid hatch, luscious little golden haired Jenny, with the all too brief blush of womanhood gracing both her furrowed brow and her budding body, was waiting for him with a _little surprise_ of her own --- ' _little_ ', unfortunately, being the 'key word' here.

As a grinning Fingers came down the steps, the small rifle coughed once. Fingers felt a slight _tap_ on his chest of his Desert Storm/Towel-Head Hunting/I-a-Tola-of-Rock & Rolla government issue _flack vest_. The tiny bullet had hardly penetrated the outer Kevlar mesh and came _nowhere near_ the ceramic protective plates sewn in-between. Finger's heart, thumping merrily along at double time as he eagerly contemplated the multiple ways in which he and sweet, little Jenny were going to 'get it on!', was not disturbed in the least by her having pulled the .22's trigger.

BANG!

Up above, however, when Daddy-Dearest lowered the hammer on Psycho's .357 hogleg, the third home-boy at the rear of the pack felt a hellova lot more than a _'wee tap on the back'_.

At such close range, the massive shell punched through the vest's Kevlar like fat through a goose, shattered the space-age ceramic tile and went on to crack the third rib on the unlucky lad's right side.

_Home-boy Three_ was pushed forward into _Home-boy Two_ , who was trying his best to haul his eager ass down into the cabin where _Home-boy One_ (AKA, 'Fingers'), was doing his boy-scout best to get into Jenny's jeans.

"What the fuck?" H-Two demanded of H-Three.

To which H-Three replied, " _Ahhhhhh! I'm shot !_ "

" _What?_ "

BANG!

A _second_ massive shell punched into H-Three's vest. This time the space age tile remained intact, but was driven like a sledgehammer into the third boy's back.

_Snap, Crackle & Pop_ went the fourth, fifth and sixth vertebrae and H-Three went down for the count.

_Two down, two to go n' N' Casey's at the bat!  
_

Meanwhile, back at Rancho-Porco, Fingers was trying to dip his grimy little namesakes in Jenny's honeypot, but, as Winny always said: ' _Mind over matter, will make the Phoo unfatter!'_ Jenny, for all her tender fourteen years of age, had suddenly decided to use her head rather than her panic-stricken heart. She grasped Finger's hand and, instead of pushing it away, gave him a rather fetching 'come hither' look and guided his hand down to the opening of her cut-off Levis.

Momentarily stunned by the sudden change of events, Fingers quickly chalked it up to his good looks and natural charm and went to work. So occupied was he with Jenny's virginal nether region that he didn't notice her slip the Glock-9 out of his shoulder holster until he felt the cold kiss of its barrel pressed against the side of his head.

Looking wide eyed into her baby blue's, H-One, (AKA, 'Fingers') suddenly realized the one overriding Truth in the universe: No matter how much you may want to fuck a woman, there are _some women_ you should _never_ fuck with!

Eternity flashed before Finger's disbelieving eyes as Jenny smiled sweetly and pulled the trigger. Then --- _Click!_

As Jean Hackman once said so eloquently many moons ago in Clint's classic 'oater',Unforgiven: ' _Missfire! Shoot the bastard!_ ' --- _Ba-Da-Bing! Ba-Da-Bang!_

A poker game with the boys

**the night before.

** **  
**

In a 'twisted' sort of way, Fingers was 'lucky' that he wasn't a very good poker player.

_How's that_ , you say?

Well, partner, _'read 'em 'n weep!'_

_Fingers had lost_ _big-time_ _!_ He'd been loosing his brass steadily all night, and when his 'big break' finally came, he was all out of spare shells and had to nearly empty his _own gun_ just to cover the bet! Of course, 'Lady Luck' turned out to be her usual cock-teasing self, and led ol' Home-Boy One; AKA 'Fingers' /' _Loo-ser_ ', down the garden bath where an honest ta-goodness homeboy named Bubba waited with bated breath and a bulge in his crotch! Soooo, as 'Fate would have it', (Wink, wink! Nod, nod! Say no more! Say no more!), by the end of the night Fingers had lost all the shells in his cartridge belt, his pockets, his monthly 'paycheck', (a dozen .38 rounds) and all _but two of the bullets from his own gun!_

Now _, back to our 'point'_ \--- **If Fingers** hadn't gambled away most his 'brass' ( _bullets_ ) the night before, then his gun would have been _fully loaded_ and sweet little Jenny would have splattered his fucking brains all over the inside of daddy's teakwood cabin.

But since he did gamble and he did loose, in the end, he won --- at least the _first time_ the hammer fell on an empty chamber. That brief moment gave him _a chance_ to grab the gun.

But what say we let ' _Daddy/Chuckie-Boy' Crookshank_ continue the tale from this point, shall we? Coming from the lips of one who actually took part in this sad little tragedy, it should prove to be all the more heart wrenching.

***

I had rushed forward, stepped over the two dead bodies and threatened the remaining two with Psycho's gun. I glanced down into the cabin and saw Jenny and the one that had followed her struggling over a pistol. Jenny had the gun, but the bastard had one hand on the barrel and the other tangled in her hair. I saw that he was grinning --- right up to the moment the gun went off.

BANG!

Coming from the small, closed in cabin the sound washed over me like a wave. As I staggered backwards, one of the homeboys made a grab for my pistol.

BANG!

The .357 slug tore his throat out, spraying blood everywhere. The other one just stood there stunned, his eyes as wide as saucers. I raised the still smoking gun and pointed it at his head. Slowly I cocked it, both seeing and hearing the chamber rotate to my last round.

Then Jenny screamed. Glancing down I saw Fingers grinning back at me, one hand still tangled in Jenny's hair, the other pressing his gun against her forehead.

" _You decide_ , old man!" he called up. "Do I _shoot_ her, or just _fuck_ her?"

Anger rushed through me at his filthy words. "Neither one!" I yelled back, swinging my gun round to point directly down at him.

BANG!

My fourth and final shot took Fingers right between the eyes. His head seemed to explode and the last thing I saw before being knocked cold was Jenny's shocked face covered with blood and gore.

***

It was the pain that woke me. I was lying on a shed floor, trussed up like a hog for market. The ropes cut deep into my wrists and ankles, but it was the two bullet wounds that pained me the most. Luckily, they seemed to have stopped bleeding. My right eye was swollen shut and my ribs hurt from the beating they'd given me. With my one good eye I looked around for Jenny, wondering what they had done with her.

Then it all came flooding back to me!

Psycho, Fingers and the other two had just been the _advance scouts_ for a dozen others that had come along just after I was captured. Their leader was a pissed-off looking middle aged bastard who called himself _Captain Tipps_. He became even _more_ pissed-off when he heard that I had just killed three of his men, so he ordered a few others to beat the shit out of me while he sat and watched. That was _nothing though_ , compared what they did to my Jenny!

It nearly drove me mad! I _tried_ to help her, to _get_ to her, but the ropes held firm. Tried to _shut out_ her cries and sobs; the grunts and groans of the men as they --- but every time I turned away or closed my eyes, that _bastard Tipps_ would have them hurt Jenny _more_ than they were hurting her already!

'Take a _good_ look, Daddy!' the sick bastard said over and over to me. 'That's your _little girl_ down yonder doing her _patriotic duty!_ '

At first I _cursed_ him, calling him ever vile name I could think of --- but he only laughed.

Then I _begged_ him to have pity on my baby girl, to make them stop! But he only laughed harder.

Finally I called on _God_. I prayed to the Almighty Himself to _smite_ them all then and there! To _blas_ t the bastards with His holy power and send them all straight to Hell! And, if that was _too much_ to hope for, I asked Him, as _one father to another,_ to gather my poor, broken Jenny in His loving arms and take her home to my dead wife!

But after all the cursing and pleading and praying, the only thing that happened was those bastards continued to --- to use her even more!

Those animals actually passed her back and forth like a piece of meat! In the end, when they had at last had their fill, they just shoved her aside. Battered, bleeding and broken, she lay there in the dirt like an unwanted toy. Her heart still beat and she still drew breath, but her eyes, _oh my God_ , her eyes! Once so clear and blue as a summer sky, they were now dark and cloudy and mixed with madness. Those animals had taken my beautiful baby girl and left a soulless rag doll!

I called out to her but she appeared not to hear. When I dragged myself towards her she scuttled away and cowered in the corner like a frightened animal. When I followed, she suddenly turned on me and lashed out with her teeth and nails. To her I was just another man coming to use her battered body and shattered soul.

The filthy bastards had _killed_ my little girl!

I thought I knew what 'hate' was before that happened --- but I was wrong. Hatred, ' _real_ ' hatred like I felt then and like I _still do now_ , is a rare and terrible thing. Most of us ' _use_ ' the word, but we don't _really_ mean it. But that day I learned its _true_ meaning!

From a big mouthed guard that liked to brag I soon learned that Captain Tips and his 'platoon' were just a small part of a _new_ 'army' led by some preacher fella that called himself ' _The Reverend'_. It seems this 'Reverend' was out to 'purify the world' --- _one way or the other_. He wanted to bring back that 'old time religion' that my granddaddy used to talk about. _'An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth'_. The Reverend however, wanted to take things a might further. ' _Cleans the world of all misfits and abominations!_ '

Well, after what they did to my baby girl, I damn well wanted to do some _'cleansing'_ of my own! I vowed then and there to see them _all_ suffer. Not just the ones that _did_ those things to my baby girl, but all the others who _would have_ if given half a chance. And if it meant that I died as well, then so be it!

***

Jenny came to me that same night. They had taken her away earlier and left me tied in the shed, but she came back for me. My beautiful, battered little girl _came back_ for me! She wouldn't speak, but her eyes screamed her pain! I reached out to touch her but she backed away. Then a knife blade flashed in the moonlight and the ropes that bound me fell to the ground. She motioned for me to follow and slipped back into the shadows. I hobbled after her as best I could, nearly tripping over a body just outside the door. In the moon's silver light the dying man's blood was jet black as it seeped from long gash under his chin.

My jaw dropped as Jenny knelt and drove her bade up to the hilt in the dying man's chest. From under her tangled hair, her fierce, wild eyes looked up at me and a slight smile touched her bruised lips --- a smile that chilled me to the bone! She pulled her knife free, picked up the guard's fallen shotgun and thrust it at me before scampering away into the shadows. Like some brain-dead ghoul freshly risen from the grave, I shuffled after her.

We passed two more bodies before reaching her final destination, the largest house in the village. Yellow lamplight spilled out into the night, as did raucous laughter and some off-tune singing. Jenny pointed her knife at the shotgun and then pointed at the door. That terrifying little smile was once again on her lips. Woodenly I headed for the door.

If that's what my baby girl wants, then, by God, that's what she'll get!

But just as I was about to kick in the door and go in with guns blazing, she suddenly pulled me off to one side and led me around back. Silent as a shadow, she slipped into the unlocked back door. Like a dutiful father, I followed, shotgun at the ready.

The first three killings, however, were all done by Jenny. Swift, silent and sure, my little girl drove her bloody blade deep into the hearts and throats of her former attackers. I killed the fourth one. He came into the kitchen half drunk and laughing, saw Jenny about her grizzly work and reached for his pistol. I blew his smile away with the shotgun.

After that it all got kind of crazy. There was a lot of shouting, screaming and guns going off. I shot two or three more when they charged into the kitchen, tossed the now empty shotgun away and, scooping up a fallen pistol, went looking for Jenny. I found her in the front room, standing behind a chair where that bastard Tipps was sitting. There were several dead and dying men on the floor at his feet and Jenny's knife was at his throat. Her bloodstained hand was tangled in his greasy hear and she was yanking back hard, exposing the bastard's throat. There were a few local village woman there, but they quickly scampered away when the gunfire began --- all except for one young girl either passed out or dead on a couch.

" **Stop her!** " Tipps yelled. " _For Christ's sake_ _, stop her!_ _"_ His beady, ferret-like eyes were wide with fear.

"Why should I?"I remember asking calmly, though inside I was _far_ from 'calm'!

"I let _you_ live," he countered, something besides fear flashing across his sallow features. His chin lifted and his voice took on it's usual haughty tone. "I _could have_ had you _both_ killed, but I _didn't_! The _others_ wanted it, but I _saved_ you both!"

The laughter just came out of me, but there was no happiness in it. "You _'saved'_ us? For _what_? So you could rape and torture my little girl _some more_?! So you could make me watch while your animals used her _over and over_?!"

A sly smile formed on that hateful face. "Life's a bitch, old man n' then ya die. I thought someone _your age_ would have leaned that by now."

Click!

I cocked the revolver and shoved it in his gloating face. He glared back at me, all the fear gone now, replaced by arrogant defiance. "Well then, old man, _do it_ if yer gunna! But it won't _change_ nothin'. It never does. Bastards like me will _always_ be 'round --- 'n prime young pussy like your daughter will _always_ be used up and tossed away!"

It was almost like the bastard _wanted_ me to kill him! Now that I think back on it after all these years, I believe at least part of him did. But back then I didn't give a shit!

"What ta _fuck_ , Cap'n?!" a voice had suddenly demanded from behind me.

Turning I saw a pimple faced boy with a very big gun \--- and I shot him --- twice. The body flew backwards and crumpled in a heap. Then Jenny screamed and I turned back to see Tipps and my little girl struggling over the knife. Tipps was twice her size and weight, and within seconds had wrenched the knife free. He was about to stab her with it when I shot him in the back.

Tipps stiffened as a red stain spread between his shoulder blades, half turned towards me and I shot him again. He fell then _\--- and_ _my Jenny fell with him_. One of the bullets must have passed through Tipps and hit her. Cradling her in my arms, I briefly saw in her eyes once again that spark of youthful innocence --- and then it was gone --- forever.

Those bastards had taken my baby girl, raped her, tortured her and left her a living, aching shell. They'd turned her into a frightened animal that struck out at everyone around her, and though _I_ was the one that had pulled the trigger, _they_ were the ones responsible! And they had done so at ' _The Reverend's' bidding_. He was the _real cause_ of my Jenny's death and I've been hunting him and his followers ever since --- and I will till the day that I die!

***

_'Shard_ ' takes place in the imaginary world of _Oma-Var_.

This fantasy world is populated with characters and creatures

from Medieval times, the Dark Ages, Viking legends and

a large dash of Conan the Barbarian thrown in as well.

(Along with a few things I dreamed up on my own)

The story line, like all epic fantasies, is a quest.

The hero and his friends are give a dangerous 'task' to perform

and must see it through to the bitter end --- even if it kills them.

Great stuff!

Enjoy!  
***
Chapter 25: 'THE GLITCH SLATH'

A white, wet blanket of mist hung over the river. The current, sluggish in mid-stream, tugged against the dragon ship as it moved up the watery road. Through the swirling whiteness only the dim shapes of tall, ancient pines could be seen, and then only by squinting.

But it was not the distant pines that drew the man's gaze. Looking out from the carved bow of the Glitch Slath, the trees and river banks interested him not; rather, it was what they might conceal that caused him to cast about with his fierce, dark eyes.

Ragnol Halfhand was hunting 'Wee'ns'; 'Wee'ns and their 'black gold'!

Ragnol stroked his beard with his left hand. The missing three fingers no longer seemed strange to him. Such was the price of staying alive in a cruel world. The crack of a whip cut through the fog. Groans from the straining slaves made him smile. Their sweat and back-breaking labor at the oars only brought him that much closer to his goal. Behind him, like a pack of hungry dogs, two score of Slathland's elite killers waited to do his bidding.

He was close now. Something deep in his mercenary heart cried out that it was so. As 'leader of the forward thrust', Ragnol intended to be the first one to reach it!

The faint glimmer in the east hinted that dawn was near. Overhead the pinpoints of cold, white light slowly gave way to the rising of the sun; just as those smaller, weaker realms to the east had given way before the dazzling brilliance that was Slathland. Like the burning orb itself, none could long withstand the power of All-Mighty Slath.

And now he, Ragnol reg Das, wanderer, mercenary and hated foreigner, was leading a Glitch Slath of his own. Soon he would grasp the legendary 'Wee'ns black gold' with his own hands! The fact that the captain of the ship, a bloodthirsty bastard named Nex, hated him, bothered him not a bit. After all, the King of Slathland, the High Gnash Alexus V, had named him leader of the expedition. Ragnol didn't give a damn if Nex liked him or not --- as long as the fool followed orders.

***

For the tall, lean man chained to the oar of the Glitch Slath, the coming of a new dawn meant only the beginning of yet another day of misery. Awakened by the sting of the whip, Erin ap Conn and the other slaves greedily broke their fast on moldy bread and rancid cheese, all of which was served up with generous helpings of kicks and curses. The anchors were soon hoisted and the long, sleek ship prepared to push even further up-river.

For Erin, life had been reduced to an endless round of straining, sweating and pain --- only to be startled awake to start the straining and sweating all over again.

But today would be different. Erin could sense it all about him; in the way the bastard foreigner with the crippled hand watched the river; how the Slathers jumped to obey the pox-ridden captain's barked commands. Even the other slaves could feel something was amiss --- and though Erin didn't know what it was, when it came he would be quiffing well ready!

***

Around a bend, some distance up the river, a little boat floated on the still waters near the bank. It was occupied by three small creatures, about half the size of an average man. They were Kirkwean, or 'Wee'ns' in the Common Tongue. Two sat holding paddles, while the third stood in the prow, a fish spear poised in his tiny hand.

"Erg strike you, Timin!", the one in the front called. "Hold the skiff still!"

Timin, kneeling in the stern of the little craft, fumbled the large wheel of cheese back into his pack and slung it over his shoulder. Grabbing his paddle, Timin thrust it into the swirling river, trying his best to hold the small boat steady.

Sighing, Timin attempted to swallow the piece of cheese he had shoved into his mouth. He would do what his cousin Thorn had told him to --- he always had, ever since they were just tads. He would do it simply because Thorn was Thorn. No other reason was needed.

The second paddler, Norgi, was another matter. Norgi resented Thorn's commanding ways. Oh, he seldom came right out and said it, but Timin could see it in his eyes. 'No-Smile Norgi' the rest of The Root called him, and as Timin watched the uncommonly thin Kirkwean in the middle of their little boat, he couldn't help but agree. Norgi could be a real sourpuss.

Then Thorn hissed at him again and all thoughts of 'No- Smile Norgi' vanished as Timin bent to his work. It didn't pay to make his cousin angry, and Thorn had already missed a large river trout once this morning because they had not held the boat still. Timin was determined that it wouldn't happen again.

***

The tall, dark haired slave know as Erin ap Conn glanced quickly around. Something was indeed wrong --- and this pleased him greatly. Checking to see that none of the Slathers were looking, Erin once again began to work on the iron ring that held his chain fastened to the keel of the ship. Three weeks of working on it had twisted the ring almost free --- yet 'almost' was not good enough. The muscles of Erin's thick arms and broad shoulders bunched as he strained with the ring. In his mind he spoke to the rusted metal, the rich burr of his Loamin accent rolling off his inner ear.

'Be not timid, lass. Open yer tender arms for me now. Ah, there's my darlin' girl!'

Nothing --- then, with a sudden 'snap', the ring came free. A smile, not unlike that of a cat lapping cream, spread over Erin's lean, chiseled features. Then it was gone, replaced by a look of grim determination. Today would be the day. He could smell it in the wind the way a hound could smell a hare!

Then a Slather with a bushy beard and foul breath bellowed down to them to 'rash!' Though he knew little of their course tongue, 'rash' was a word Erin understood well. Quickly he pushed the pin of his chain back into the keel and grasped the long oar.

'Aye!', Erin thought to himself; 'I'll 'rash' for ye, but not for long, you great gutted by-blow!'

The long Glitch Slath began to move further up-river.

***

"Steady now. Steady ---" Thorn, poised on the bow of the little Kirkwean boat, held his spear ready. His over-large blue eyes followed the river trout swimming lazily in the slack current. Just as he was about to cast his spear, Timin gave a startled yelp from the stern. Torn jerked around, causing the fish to dart away into the depths.

"Erg shatter you on His anvil, Timin!", Thorn cursed. "What ails you now?!"

For an answer the wide-eyed little Kirkwean pointed a pudgy finger towards mid-stream. Thorn just had time to see Norgi's thin jaw go slack before he himself looked out over the river. What he saw caused him to nearly tumble backwards into the water --- for there, emerging from the river mist not two bowshots away, was a long, fog-shrouded dragon!

The three Kirkwean looked on in stunned silence. The sight before them conjured up all sorts of tales and fireside stories, none of which had any place in the bright light of day.

Yet there it was; a mythical beast out of the distant past. And it was coming their way!

It was Thorn that broke the spell. "A Glitch Slath!", he whispered; then, turning to the others, continued in a somewhat firmer tone. "It's a Slather slave ship! One of their 'Great Worms or Dragon Boats' --- and they're on our river!"

This last was said with such anger that both Timin and Norgi dragged their gaze away from the misty apparition and looked at the slender young Kirkwean, seeing for the first time the true metal that lay beneath Thorn's flippant nature.

Over the years Timin had often glimpsed in his cousin a wild, smoldering fierceness, but not until the terrible Glitch Slath came had Timin imagined its depth. But Timin had little time to ponder such things now, for the hated 'Dragon Ship' was moving ever closer, and Thorn was once again giving orders.

"Back into the shadows --- quickly! We'll watch to see this 'Great Worm' go by!" Thorn's voice then took on a low, almost whimsical tone. "Aye, and maybe we'll put a shaft or two into its flank to speed it on its way."

Norgi's wide eyes opened even wider at this, but Timin was already backpaddling for the trailing branches of the willows that grew along the bank.

'Ah, Thorn-lad', Timin mused inwardly as the deep, cool shadows covered them; 'You've found the 'biggest fish of all' this time --- I just pray to Erg that you don't get us all three killed in trying to land it!'

***

A howl of pain from below deck made Ragnol Halfhand turn away from gazing at the mist shrouded bank. 'Quiff! What now?!', he thought to himself as he moved back towards the main mast. 'Another whining slave causing trouble again?'

Ragnol's mind's eye suddenly brought him a mental picture of the tall, dark slave they had captured soon after starting up river. 'That bastard cut up two of my best men before we finally dragged him down!', Ragnol recalled. 'Just lucky for him that neither one of them had died --- or the dark haired bugger would have paid with his life! Slath's Law is very clear on that point: _'For every son of Slath that is slain, ten 'others' die.'_

Ragnol's harsh features twisted into something akin to a smile as he thought upon the Slathland Motto: Show no mercy, give no quarter!' _'A good quiffing rule to live by'_ , he mused; _'And die by!_ '

Yet Ragnol reg Das, bastard son of a bastard son, had no intention of dying. He had come too bloody far to let it all slide through his hands now. Years of sweat, blood and living by his wits had brought him to where he was, in charge of the First Advance into this unknown land, chosen by the High Gnash Himself to seek out the legendary ' _Wee'ns_ ' and their much sought after _'black gold'_!

Not that Ragnol actually _believed_ the stories about the Wee'ns --- tales of them being 'half a man's height' and capable of 'striking an enemy down by just pointing a finger', or any of the other bullshit about them being somehow 'magical', able to 'change shape' and 'vanish into the quiffing air'!

But the 'black gold' he _did_ believe in. With his own hand he had held a weapon made from it. A strange, eerie thing it was; oddly beautiful, yet at the same time repulsive. Ragnol had bought it from an old drunkard in the Slath Council of Reagents, the aged body of degenerate 'elders' that served to enforce Slath's Law in the distant realms of the empire. It had cost him much, but it was a price he had gladly paid, for in all his years as a wandering mercenary, no keener edge nor stronger blade had he ever seen! An iron blade could neither break nor dull it!

Yet Ragnol had not keep it for himself. Instead, he had made the strange little weapon a present to his new master, _Alexus V, the High Gnash of Slathland_. Quick to see the military advantages such weapons, the High Gnash had commissioned Ragnol to lead an expedition in search of the legendary 'Land of the Wee'ns'. Ragnol's orders were to present, as soon as possible before the Royal Person, several suitable examples of these mythical creatures --- and, above all else, to bring back to Glorious Slathland large quantities of the strange black ore.

Ragnol intended to do just that, to take back boatloads of the black gold, all to be lain at the royal (and hopefully generous) feet of the High Gnash Himself. Then let his quiffing enemies snicker at the _'foreigner with but half a hand'_!

But first there was this obstinate slave to be dealt with; the tall one with the defiant eyes. Ragnol's mouth attempted a smile, yet it only made him look the more cruel. Slowly he unfastened the heavy whip he carried at his side. 'If that goat-quiffing fool Nex can't control the slaves', Ragnol reasoned; 'then I will!'

***

Nex, captain of the Slath ship, cursed as he pushed Erin from behind. A burly crewmember clung to each of the slave's arms, while a third held Erin by his chain --- the same Slath-cursed chain that the slave had somehow pulled out of the keel! It was only luck that it had been discovered before the bastard made good his escape! The fact that a fourth Slath guard had just had his nose broken by this black haired sonovabitch was further testament as to just how dangerous a bloody quiffer he was!

Nex, always prudent, drew his sword and slammed the flat of his blade across the slave's shoulders. Expecting to see the tall man go down, Nex was disappointed. The slave staggered, turned and swung his shackled wrists into the mouth of one of his captors. The man fell to the deck, his hand going to his ruined mouth.

Then came the crack of a whip. A scarlet line opened up on the slave's left cheek. White bone showed briefly Ragnol reg Das, Commander of the Advance Thrust, had just made his presence known.

For several heartbeats the two men glared at each other; the slave with fierce hatred in his wolf-grey eyes, the dark foreigner with mocking cruelty. Then Ragnol spoke. "I am accustomed to having slaves kneel before me. Do so, filth." Ragnol used the Common Tongue, his voice as sRooth as ice.

For an answer the Erin spit at Ragnol's feet. Rough hands made to force him to the deck, but a barked order caused them to cease. Erin felt the thick handle of the whip pressed against his windpipe. Ragnol's face was less than a handspan away.

"You will do as you are bid, filth, or I'll strip the skin off your back!"

"Brave words --- with a score o'nbum-boys at your back n' me in quiffin' chains!" Erin's lilting accent added extra sting to the insult. He followed it up with yet another. "Or have you the balls to be facin' me man to man?!"

Like one great beast, the crew sucked in their breath. Even those who didn't understand the Common Tongue, knew that Ragnol had just been insulted. No one spoke to the foreigner _'Halfhand'_ like that --- not and lived to tell about it. Even Nex, a veteran of many a bloody campaign, had often had to swallow his words. And yet this tall slave with the odd speech had dared to both spit at and challenge Halfhand all in the same breath!

"The fool must be fey!", a crewmember muttered.

"Either that," growled another, "or the pox has rotted his quiffing brain!"

One Slather offered a silver armring against a copper one that Ragnol would kill the slave outright. No-one took the bet. All eyes now turned towards the hated foreigner.

Ragnol's face had flushed red. His cold eyes blazed. A vein in his forehead began to throb. Then his features changed and a strange sort of calm settled over him.

"Glark na," he said in Slath, the harsh words rolling off his tongue like honey.

When Nex and the two crewmen were slow to move, he repeated the order, adding to it this time both in length and volume. "Glark na arn stuten! Free him you idiots! And then stand clear! I'll flay alive any disease ridden son of a whore that interferes!"

The shackles were quickly struck from Erin's legs. He stood there all but naked, his feet freed but his hands still bound by a long length of heavy chain. Facing him was a powerful man in mail; a long whip in his hand and blood lust in his eye.

Nex spoke to Ragnol. Erin could not make out what was said, for they spoke in Slath, but it was clear that the second-in-command was arguing the prudence of leaving the slave's hands bound.

_'Ah, Nex me lad'_ , Erin said to himself; _'t'is a wondrous cautious man you be --- but if the Fates be kind, I'll be takin' a wee piece of you down with me as well!'_

Ragnol at last saw the wisdom of Nex's words, for Erin's hands were left as they were. The crew moved to give them space, for none wanted to be over close to the long leather snake that Ragnol held ready in his good hand.

***

"Timin! Norgi! Look there! Do you see?!" Thorn's voice had risen to a whispered shout. The three Kirkwean were still in their little skiff, deep in the shadows of the overhanging willows. Thorn stood in the bow while the other two sat huddled on the floor.

"Aye", Timin replied, feeling his stomach rumble, though for once in his life not for want of food. "I see it. Looks like one of their own getting a lesson in manners!"

Norgi, his pale face now even paler, tugged at Thorn's woolen sleeve. "We've got to warn The Root! Slathers on the river! The Warders must be told!"

Thorn looked down at the thin Kirkwean kneeling in the skiff. Norgi had never really been a 'close' friend, not like good old Timin; but Thorn had come to like him none the less. Most of the young Kirkwean made sport of him, calling him No-Laugh Norgi and playing pranks on him. Most of it Norgi brought on himself, for he was the sourest creature under Erg's blue sky that Thorn had ever met! And Kirkwean loved nothing better than a good laugh --- except perhaps a good story! But sitting there with his frightened, dog-like expression on his pale, narrow face, Thorn felt a pity stab at his heart.

"In a moment or two, Norgi. We'll warn The Root and alert the Warders, but first we watch. Then we'll have something to tell other than we ran home with our tails between our legs!"

Norgi seemed about to say something, then just sighed and slumped back down in the skiff. He knew from experience that once Thorn had made up his mind about something, nothing would change it. Norgi sighed again, resigning himself to waiting for 'the end', which he firmly believed would come any moment.

Across the clear, blue water there came the stinging 'crack' of a whip.

***
Chapter 26: 'WOLF'S HEAD'

Erin could stand the waiting no longer. The strange little creature had been gone too long. When the high pitched scream came, Erin bounded to his feet, the length of heavy chain clenched tightly in his two hands.

Norgi groaned, still deep in sleep. Timin's large eyes flitted from his thin friend to the tall manling. All the confidence and easy laughter had fled from his round face.

"Be watchin' over your friend, Timin-lad," Erin said. "I'll be seein' to the health o' the 'sling-wielder' myself!"

Timin, his back still on fire from his own wound, nodded and reached for the fish-spear. If the hated Slathers found him, then they'd not take poor Norgi or himself without a fight! When he looked up, the tall manling was already moving back down the trail.

***

From his vantage point in the tree Thorn could see both of them, though there was no sign of the silent archer. The leader in the black bear cloak was off to the left, while the noisy one was lumbering along towards the very tree he was in. Thinking to dent that fool's helm as well, Thorn worked his way along a lower branch that grew over the narrow trail.

Dashburn continued to thrash his way up the winding path. Sweating heavily from the climb, he paused just beneath the towering oak. Thorn was about to drop on the unsuspecting Slather when an arrow thudded into the branch not a handspan from his head!

Dashburn, hearing the noise, looked up, at the same time thrusting with his 'shim'. The long blade passed by Thorn, tearing a hole in his shirt. It was then that the little Kirkwean threw his axe. Dashburn staggered back, then toppled to the ground. The black _'Twain'_ blade had sheared through the iron helm and was now deeply embedded in the Slathlander's brain.

Thorn had little time to admire his throw, for another arrow whizzed by him. Off to the left Nex was cursing and coming on the run. With a speed that few would believe possible, the little Kirkwean scrambled further up the tree and out on a long limb.

The tree grew close to a large outcropping of rock and Thorn made ready to jump. As he sprang, yet another arrow flashed by, this time nicking him in the arm. He landed a bit short of his chosen spot and had to scramble quickly to keep from falling. As he hauled himself up the weather-worn rock the hard-pressed Kirkwean caught a glimpse of the bowman. It was the Chin he had seen earlier.

Thorn's large blue eyes opened even wider! The bronze-skinned archer was still much too far away to be a threat \--- but already two of his arrows had barely missed him and one had all but found it's mark! Thorn's heart began to pound all the faster as he saw Kel moving in rapidly for the kill!

Below him Thorn could hear Nex laboring up the rocky slope. Off to the right Kel raced over the boulders and up the steep hillside. Thorn had to reach the crest and before the archer did, or he'd be caught in the open between the Chin's arrows and Bear Skin's sword.

Up he went, his tiny hands and feet digging into the rocky soil. Bits and pieces fell back, showering Nex and adding to his rage. Yet for all Thorn's haste, the archer reached the top first. Clinging to a spur of rock, unable to use his sling, his precious Kirkaxe buried deep in Dashburn's skull far below, Thorn drew his last remaining weapon; a razor sharp but pathetically small skinning knife.

_'Erg shatter me if it wasn't a good try!_ ', he said inwardly, his blue eyes afire.

On the rim of the steep hill, Kel allowed a mirthless smile to spread over his granite-like features. As he raised his great bamboo bow, he snorted in contempt. _'And to think', he reasoned; 'the 'great Slathlanders' fear these tiny creatures!'_

Yet deep down in a seldom used part of his cold heart, Kel felt a strange sadness for the tiny creature. After all, using only childish weapons and his wits, the little fellow had bravely defeated a good number of these big-mouth Slathers. Thorn's quick, silent movements reminded Kel of his own Ja~Din training. It was almost a pity that it had to end this way. 'Fate', sighed the bronze-skinned warrior, as he slowly drew his bow.

As he was about to loose his shaft, there came a loud bellow from behind him. Inwardly cursing himself for being overconfident, Kel crouched and turned in one fluid movement. Years of training came instantly into play. His longbow dropped from his hands, replaced by two 'a-sa'; long, thin knives with elaborately curved guards that could catch and snap an enemy's blade.

Yet the 'enemy' he now faced had no blade; instead he stood whirling a heavy length of chain. The noise of the iron links hissed like a snake. Even as Kel leapt, he knew it was too late. As the heavy iron chain slammed into him, winding around his neck, his last thoughts were of just how ironic it was that the tiny 'Wee'n' would now probably live --- while he most certainly was about to die. Life indeed was _'the Great Paradox'!_

***

Erin's smile became the grin of a wolf. The slender Chin was fast, and his leap had almost saved him --- yet 'almost' for a weaponsman still brings defeat. Erin yanked the chain. The slight body came like a puppet tangled in its strings. A swift kick in the groin, followed by a heavy forearm on the back, sent Kel to the ground. Erin quickly unwrapped the chain and picked up one of the strange daggers.

_'Not much o' a blade',_ Erin thought _; 'but it'll do the job.'_ Kneeling, he was about to cut the archer's throat when a small head appeared over the cliff's edge. Sky-blue eyes looked into slate grey ones.

"Well, are you just going to sit there like some great oaf, or are you going to help me up?!"

Erin's stern face creased into a weathered smile as he reached out to take the little Kirkwean's hand.

Thorn glanced at the unmoving body of the Chin archer, then back at the tall manling. "It seems that I owe you my life, 'friend'."

Erin's smile broadened. "I'm thinkin' it's even we be, small one, though I still have need o' your help."

Just then there came a loud bellow from further down the cliff, followed closely by the sound of falling rocks. Both Erin and Thorn rushed to the edge in time to see Nex tumbling backwards with what seemed half the hillside following him. When the dust settled, Nex's unconscious body could be dimly seen, half buried by the slide.

Erin turned to his new-found friend. "You go back 'n tend to the others. I'll check on him."

"Why?", Thorn demanded. "If he's not dead now he soon will be."

"It's weapons 'n armour I be needin', laddie." Erin raised his still shackled wrists. "Besides, that bloody bastard has the key!"

Thorn shrugged and turned away as Erin began to slowly descend the cliff. Kel's unconscious body lay forgotten on the ground.

***
**Chapter 27: 'The Wanderer Is Found'

**

Erin's head pounded like the surf on the windswept shores of his distant homeland. A brilliant shaft of sunlight stabbed at his eyes as he moved towards the door. It didn't help his disposition any that he struck his head on the low doorjamb as he made his way out of Granther's home. The old Kirkwean was standing on the balcony, drawing deeply on his pipe and looking down on the 'commons' far below.

"The mead a might strong for you, youngster?"

Erin's grin was more like a grimace. "We've somethin' like it on Loamin, but t'is said to _'melt stone if poured on twice'_!"

Granther Higgs chuckled, then pointed with the stem of his pipe at the gathering crowd down below. "Seems like the 'Warders' have caught something. Friend of yours?"

Erin leaned over the low railing. What he saw drove the fog caused by last nights drinking right out of his head. A crowd had indeed gathered; farmers, females and young Kirkweans, along with a dozen or so Warders. In the middle of them stood the Chin archer, Kel. Erin thought he had already killed the bastard.

Turning, Erin retrieved his mail-shirt and 'shim' from inside the house and raced down the nearest stairs. By the time he reached the bottom, the crowd had grown. Baily Broadbeam's strident voice could be heard calling for order. The crowd parted to let Erin through and the High Warder followed like a skiff in tow behind a tall ship.

Erin came face to face with Kel the Chin. The tall mercenary towered more than a head and a half over the bronze-skinned man with the up-slanting eyes, yet both held the other's stare while a stony silence gripped the crowd. The slim but wiry Chin revealed nothing on his granite-like face, and though he had been stripped of his weapons, he stood like a conqueror rather than one conquered.

Then Kel did a thing that made the crowd gasp --- he went down on one knee before the tall mercenary.

Erin was as surprised as any, and for a moment knew not what to do. Then a thought came to him --- and he struck the Chin hard on the face with the flat of his hand. Kel almost lost his balance, but regained it quickly. Very quickly Erin noticed. "Get up, man! I'll have none grovel at my feet! Especially a slanty-eyed little bastard like you!"

Kel rose in one fluid movement. Erin was reminded of a snake uncoiling itself. Their two eyes locked again.

"Have you the Trade Tongue, or just that 'Slather' muck?"

The answer was short but spoke volumes: "Both."

Erin snorted, turned and began to walk away. He called back over his shoulder. "Come along with you then, for I've such a hunger that my stomach thinks my throat's been slit! Besides, there be a 'wee drink' I'll be havin' you taste."

The Chin made to follow but High Warder Broadbeam blocked the way. "Just hold on there ---!"

"Baily, don't be any more of an ass than you already are!" Thorn stood off to one side. "It's as plain as the nose on your face that Erin has him under control." Broadbeam drew himself up in a pompous stance. "'Control' is it? And just who has _him_ under 'control'?! _You_ I suppose?"

Thorn's sky-blue eyes were atwinkle. "Erg, Baily. Erg has us _all_ under His Hammer."

***

"So that's it? I bested you but didn't kill you n' now you're 'my man'?" Erin banged his mug down on Granther's table. "It sounds like a quiffin' bucket o' shit to me!"

Kel never flinched, though he continued to stand beside Erin's chair.

Granther and Timin sipped their tea while Thorn toyed with the point of an arrow. It was Kel's. The Chin's bow leaned against the hearth, its tip touching the ceiling. Thorn marveled at both its length and weight. He had never seen bamboo before. "He tried to kill you yesterday. With one of these." Thorn tossed the arrow into the plank floor. "I saw him standing beside the one you call Halfhand."

Erin's cold gaze swept back to Kel. "Be that right? Did you try to stick me with one of those shafts?"

For a long moment Kel didn't respond. When he did it was in a clipped, nonemotional voice. "The 'Way of a Warrior' states clearly that if twice you try to vanquish your enemy and fail, then you have but two choices: either challenge him openly to a duel, or follow him as a servant."

Erin's own voice dropped to a near whisper. "And why do you not 'challenge' me then? Have you not the stones for a fair fight?"

For the first time the Chin actually smiled. "I chose to follow you rather than kill you, for in a dream I have seen you. Also I like not the pigs of Slathland. They know nothing of either honor of the 'Warrior Way'!"

"And I do?" It was now Erin's turn to smile. Kel's face was a study in stone. Just then there came a soft knock on the door. Timin opened it and stood back, his jaw dropping in amazement. There stood the Erg-Leath Herself. The morning light behind her lit-up her small yet beautiful form, causing her golden cascade of hair to 'burn' like the embers of a fire. The mere sight of her started yet another kind of 'fire' burning in Erin.

Timin stepped back from the door, his round eyes wide. Granther Higgs came forward. "Lady, you do my humble home great honor by you presence."

She smiled at the old Kirkwean and placed a delicate hand on his shoulder. Her voice was deep for one so small. "It is I, Elder Higgs, who am honored. But come, let us forgo the formalities, Granther. And please call me Narya, like you did when I was little more than a barefoot lass playing in a field of flowers. I've come on a 'social' visit --- at least, for now."

Her dark green eyes swept the room, taking in the strange bronze-skinned Chin and coming to rest on the even stranger tall manling. Erin felt himself grow warm beneath her gaze.

That the Erg-Leath was in the Root was a rare enough event, for her duties took her to the far corners of The Wold. That she had left the Forge, her traditional 'seat of power' and actually 'come to visit' a Kirkwean's house was very strange. Asking to be called Narya was completely unheard of! Most Kirkweans had no idea that the Erg-Leath even had a first name! Something extraordinary must be afoot! Erin rose to his feet and offered her his chair. The lingering gaze she gave him was not lost on either himself or the others. "Sit you down, darlin' girl, n' have a wee drop o' good Granther here's potent brew."

Timin nearly choked. Not only had the ignorant 'manling' spoken with blatant familiarity to The Lady, but he had offered her strong drink as well!

The Erg-Leath settled her slight frame into the vacant chair, her wide eyes never leaving Erin's. "My thanks, gracious sir, but just a little. Both Granther and his fiery mead have become almost legendary in the Wold."

This time it was the older Kirkwean who nearly choked. "You're too kind, Lady --- Narya." Beaming like a flattered child, Granther bustled off to find his best mug.

As they took up chairs around the table, the Erg-Leath spoke to the still standing Chin. "And won't you be joining us, sir? "

Kel's face remained carved from granite. "I have not had my master's leave to sit, Kind Lady."

The Erg-Leath turned to Erin. "Are you such a hard taskmaster that you deny your servant a chair?"

Erin waved his hand . "He's not my servant, darlin' girl. Just a crazy Chin that came with the bloody Slathers.

The small creature with deep, forest-green eyes and a cascade of golden hair, reached out and touched Erin's hand. It was though a jolt of lightning had struck him; forceful yet pleasant. The Erg-Leath continued. "One should never spurn loyalty, good sir; for it is such a rare flower, and easily withered."

Erin's face darkened. "Loyalty?! The quiffer's tried to kill me twice already."

Still touching Erin's hand, she smiled at Kel as she spoke. "Twice tried and twice failed. He will not try again."

The tall mercenary barked out a laugh and boldly squeezed her tiny hand. "Be you certain of that, little darlin', or is it just a sweet dream you had while all alone in your empty bed?"

This brought forth another round of 'coughing' and 'fidgeting' from both Timin and Granther, while Thorn moaned aloud at the manling's audacity. Narya however, simply disentangled her hand from Erin's and, sipping from her cup, said casually: "Dreams I have indeed had. _Many_ , in fact. And in them all _you_ were there."

Erin, feeling the conquest all but complete, grinned broadly and leaned forward. Then the Erg-Leath continued. "You _all_ were in my dreams; yes, even you good Timin. As The Erg-Leath I often have visions or 'dreams'." She turned her large green eyes on a disappointed Erin. "Over a year ago I first saw you. Distant at first, faceless, then both clearer and nearer with the passage of time. A tall ' _outlander_ ' from a far away place. A man of many talents, though a 'man of weapons' above all else." Her voice lowered. "I saw too the coming of the Slathlanders, though the when and where was not shown to me. Perhaps Erg was testing me, perhaps not. This house was also made known to me, and all those who dwell here."

She looked at all three Kirkweans one at a time, and each responded to her gaze as their nature decreed; Timin with shyness, Granther with pride, and Thorn with impatient curiosity. Her velvet voice continued.

"The bronze-skinned servant was the latest to be shown to me. When I heard this morning that he too had arrived, I knew that the time had come."

"The 'time' for what, Lady?" Thorn's voice was sharp and eager.

Her response at first was a warm smile. Then she said something that rocked the three Kirkweans to their very core. "The time to seek out 'The Wanderer'."

***

As both the afternoon wore on and the mead jar emptied, the Erg-Leath told her tale. Her dreams had indeed shown her many things; the coming of both the 'Slathers' and the 'tall one' who would oppose them and aid her kind; of the part played by two close friends; of the arrival of a stranger with 'slanting eyes'; and, perhaps the strangest of all, the choosing of 'The Wanderer'.

The _Legend of The Wanderer_ itself went far back into the mists of time, when the Kirkwean race was newly born to Oma-Var, and had not yet settled in The Wold. A nomadic people they were said to have been, having neither king nor kingdom, but rather free to roam and wander at will. Being small in stature they were wrongly considered 'easy prey' to the older and rougher races , the Karns and Gref. Even the reclusive Delgii made sport of them, though in time a sort of 'cool understanding' came about between the Delgii in their towering mountains and the free roaming Kirkweans. Only the 'Ancient Folk' of the Gil-Fain, known also as the _Nimloth_ , befriended them, though even they too never had overmuch to do with the ' _Wee'ns_ '.

Then a leader rose up among the small folk. A Kirkwean who brought the various 'Clans of Wanderers' to their present homeland. Long was their trek, and great were their dangers before finally settling in the greenwood of The Wold. Great too was the name of the one who led them. _Brand Silverleaf_ , who, with the passage of time, came to be known simply as 'The Wanderer'.

The tale goes on to tell that Silverleaf, bent with age and knowing that his time was short, left his beloved Wold to 'wander' once again. But he promised to 'return' when his people needed him most. The river of time flowed ever on, and with its slow passage the tale grew into The Legend of The Wanderer, and though few now put much store in it, still there was not a Kirkwean who did not know of it.

"And just why, Narya, should we of the Root have need of 'The Wanderer'? Granther's voice had a tone in it that went well with his piercing eyes.

Narya smiled and took his gnarled hand in hers. "Both the wide world beyond and our own tiny one here, are changing, old friend. Things are not as they once were. The old races are on the wane, while the newer one, that of Man, is waxing full. Change is in the air and we, if we are to survive, must change with it. Not only the Slathers of the north are advancing, but the many clans of Man are pushing ever closer to our once secluded borders. Those of Anon-Hep to the east come ever closer. Why, in Del-Lingus our cousin Kirkweans even now live side by side with those who come from Anon-Hep. The once little fishing village of Rush at the mouth of our own Nal Torrent is now a bustling port." She glanced around the room as though its lengthening shadows held something sinister.

"From the south also, 'Man' comes. Both the warlike Ishtar from the grasslands of The Veld and the traders from Toman-Glith by the Endless Sea push ever closer to our borders. And their numbers are endless, Granther. Endless."

She looked at both Erin and the statue-like Chin. "Here before you are yet two other offshoots of the rapidly growing Race of Man. This one with his bronze skin and slanting eyes comes from a distant place called 'Chin'. This other one, with a voice like your honey mead, who can kill with such wanton lust, comes from some far-away island kingdom called 'Loamin'."

She bent forward and held the old Kirkwean's stare. "And I, who have spent most my life traveling the length and breadth of Oma-Var, have never heard of _either_ of them!"

There was a heavy silence in the cozy little room as all there took in her strange words. At last Granther broke the spell. "And you believe 'The Wanderer' will return and lead us once more into this 'changing world'?"

Narya's deep green eyes washed over the retired High Warder. The flames from the hearth turned her yellow hair to burnished gold, while the silver circlet on her forehead flashed like starlight. "He will, for Erg has so decreed it, yet first the chosen one must _become_ 'The Wanderer'."

She swept them all with her knowing gaze. "He must go forth into the wide world to be hammered and forged on Erg's Anvil. Only that way can he return to lead us all into the future." Her deep voice dropped to a whisper. As she spoke a trembling took her. "It will be a long and perilous journey, one from which there is no certainty that he will return --- but he must go, for without him, our small race will be swamped by the others --- swallowed up, piece by piece, until we are no more than a fading memory --- even to ourselves."

As he once had done with the little Narya long ago, Granther held her close, soothing her trembling body with his gentle words. When at last she had regained control, he looked into her far-seeing eyes. "All this you have seen it in your dreams?"

Narya nodded. "I have seen it, and know it to be true."

Thorn, unable to contain himself any longer, blurted out the question that was on the tip of each of their tongues. "Lady, prey tell us who Great Erg has chosen to be the one?"

Her answer was swift in coming, though there was a hint of sadness in her voice. "I believe you already know the answer, Bramblethorn Higgs --- for 'The Wanderer' is to be you."

***
Chapter 28: IN THE DELGII HILLS

** **

Nex knew he was about to die. Though only one man stood before him, he now had no doubt that this particular man would be more than enough to do the deed. Nex greeted the idea with a soldier's fatalism. Grinning, he advanced towards certain death, wanting more than life itself to kill the arrogant 'slave' that would soon kill him.

Erin, the red _Yiffrin_ licking at his sanity, crouched low. Long had he waited for this, and the thought of it caused him to all but drool like an eager hound. When the shadowy form appeared suddenly behind Nex, Erin thought for a brief moment that his eyes were playing him false. Then the dark form's right hand moved and Nex sank like a stone at Erin's feet.

The wolf-grey eyes looked into the slanted ones. For a brief moment their gaze locked as equals, then Kel's seemed to smile and slide away. He bowed, then turned seeking other victims.

A voice brought Erin out of his reverie. Glancing up he saw the two Kirkwean emerge from the forest. Thorn walked as though in a daze, while Timin, his nerves screaming, ran ahead to Erin.

"Did you see them? Three of the buggers followed us into the woods. But we got them all! I jabbed one with my spear and Thorn did the other two in right proper!" Then the little Kirkwean looked around him. Bodies lay strewn about like leaves in a forest. Red gore covered Erin from head to toe. Timin took a step back and all but tripped over Nex's prone form. "Erg strike me, it's him! The one from the river!"

At that moment Ragnol moaned and tried to rise, his face a bloody mess from his twice-shattered nose. Timin had time only to point a shaking finger before Kel moved in and, with one short, swift blow, returned Ragnol to the blessed blackness of oblivion.

"It's right bloody quick you be with those hands, lad. Nex there was mine." Erin's words were low and measured, but none missed their edge. Kel however, merely gave his mocking half bow to the man he had sworn to 'serve'.

"He's none too slow with his shafts either," put in Timin. "Saved our lives a few times over there by the fire!"

Kel glanced at the two Kirkwean in his inscrutable way, then went to retrieve his arrows. Thorn, slowly coming out of his trance-like state, stepped up to the tall mercenary and pointed at both Ragnol and Nex. "Well, now that we've got them, what do we _do_ with them?"

Erin, his blood still racing from all the killing, bent and cleaned his sword on Nex's cloak, then rammed it home into its scabbard. "Slit their throats 'n be done with it. They've caused us more than enough mischief already."

Timin's large eyes opened even wider at Erin's cold words. It was Thorn however, who spoke.

"No. There's been too much killing already." His blue eyes had the strange, haunted look of a dreamer that has dreamed too deeply and now desperately seeks reality.

"What would _you_ have us do with them then?", Erin demanded. "Spank their asses 'n send them on their merry way?!"

"We could take their weapons and gear," Thorn replied. "The three left alive would have no choice but to limp back to Slathland. News of their defeat should help stop any further invasion of the Wold."

Erin shrugged, a wolfish smile spreading over his hard features. "Do as you see fit laddie, but I'll be takin' their boots as well. It'll make the _'limpin' homeward'_ all that more quiffin' real!"

***

For seven more days they climbed through pine-strewn hills, down into lush green vales and up again. Always the towering peaks of the Tol-Eldars stood before them, crowned in perpetual snow and ice, impassable to all save the bearded Delgii. The Delgii or 'Dwarves' as Manling legends called them, had lived in Oma-Var since time-out-of-mind. Long before the Nimloth or 'Elves' crossed the Sea of Westerness. The land, for the Delgii, had always been called _Ran_ , which in their stony tongue simply meant 'Creator'.

It was into this timeless land that the four wanderers went, following faint trails that goats would find difficult, traversing raging mountain streams and climbing the slick sides of waterfalls so long that the roar of them could be heard long before they came into sight.

On the eighth day, as they were preparing to make camp, there suddenly appeared several short, heavily armed figures. They were dressed in beautifully wrought scale mail and elaborate helms, though their faces were hidden by grotesque masks of beaten metal. Each carried a small round shield embossed with a large black bird in full flight. Caught in the rays of the setting sun, the party looked like a passage from a book of legends come to life.

They numbered nine in all and though some carried short javelins, none seemed to have bows. Axes, knives, maces and shortswords however, hung from them like burrs on a blanket. This was a Delgii War-Band, clearly ready to ply their trade. Erin, cursing himself for leaving his shield tied to the pack-pony, glanced about for a place to make a stand.

Then Thorn stepped forward. His hand was raised and he spoke a line of gibberish. One of the Delgii cocked his helmed head to one side, then grunted something to the others. A rumbling sound that Erin took to be laughter came from the well armed group.

Timin, standing close behind Thorn, fidgeted with his long fish-spear. Erin looked around for Kel, but the Chin was nowhere to be seen. _'Ah laddie'_ , he thought as a hint of a smile flitted across his stern features; _'your sneaky ways might just come in handy after all!'_

One of the Delgii strode forward. By his stance as much by his dress it was plain that he was the leader. Thorn repeated his gibberish and again the others laughed, though to Erin's ears it sounded like rocks striking a hollow log.

"Leave go your attempt at speaking the ancient Delgic, the Tongue of Ran, for though I perceive you mean no insult, still your abuse of it grates on the ear." This the leader had said in almost perfect Common or Trade Tongue, though it was somewhat muffled due to the grotesque war-mask.

Thorn smiled and held his right hand up in a clenched fist, forming the Delgii greeting Granther Higgs had taught him. "Indeed, glad I am that you speak the Trade Tongue, for I fear my knowledge of your own is sadly lacking."

The leader strode forward, handing his heavy hammer to a taller Delgi beside him and sweeping off his mask. The face beneath looked almost as fierce as the mask itself. Brown and creased from years of exposure, the lower half was all but covered by a great bush of a red beard flecked with streaks of grey.

"I be Dingle nar Charnwell, _Tem Reflin_ or 'First Strike-Leader'. This merry band of cut-throats you see behind me is my ' _sordur_ '. We're a war-band out Karn-hunting, but by the looks of it, we've found an odd band of lostlings instead!" Dingle eyed them with his stony gaze. "Two 'Wee Ones' and a 'manling' by the looks of you, though there was another about not long ago. Slight o' build he be, with a great arrow-caster. We marked the four of you wending your way up the slope some time ago."

Dingle's friendly manner changed abruptly and his voice took on a hard, granite-like quality. "You'd best be calling the lad in right proper like, or all three of your lives are forfeit."

The two Kirkweans turned towards Erin. Timin's eyes were round with tension, though he still gripped his ever-present fish-spear. He would follow Thorn's lead, come-what-may. Erin stood poised like an overwound spring. Thorn however, merely shrugged and turned back to Dingle.

"The one you saw was a Chin, a 'manling' from far to the south. He answers to none save the big one here, and even then only when it suits him."

Dingle barked out something close to a laugh, at the same time thrust out his hand and received his heavy war-hammer back. "Then you had better prey that this 'Chin' of his comes when he's called. These are our mountains, and the Delgii of Tyree don't take over-much to strangers."

Dingle then walked up to Erin. "Call in your dog, manling, or --- " The red bearded _Tem Reflin_ tapped the head of his weapon against the palm of his left hand. Behind him the Delgii began to spread out. Dingle took a step forward, only to halt suddenly as a black shafted arrow thudded into a fallen log by his foot. Before he could speak, another shaft slammed into the same log.

Erin's face broke into a broad smile. "Or what, _'friend'_ Dingle? My man Kel could just as easily have placed one or both of those wee stingers in your black heart; aye, 'n still have aplenty left for the rest o' your motley crew!" Erin sighed deeply. "It vexes me that he seldom leaves any for my blade _Glenrig_ here!" Erin slowly drew his long sword, whipping it through a fancy twirl. A bit 'over-done', but it had the desired effect. Seven of the eight Delgii instinctively moved back, leaving Dingle and one other to face _Glenrig_.

The one behind Dingle started to move forward. Dingle grunted something and the taller Delgi halted, though his eyes still glared beneath his grotesque mask. For a long moment Dingle and Erin faced each other, then the bushy bearded leader's gaze fastened on Erin's blade. His expression of rage turned to one of wonder.

"By Ran's balls!", Dingle exclaimed. "It's a weapon made from _Tarum Glell_! How came a manling by such a wondrous thing?!"

Erin held the blue-black blade level with the Delgi's eyes, then lowered it with another theatrical flourish. "The tellin' o' such a tale be long 'n thirsty work, 'friend Red-Beard'."

Dingle was too awe-struck by the presence of a 'holy blade of Tarum Glell' to mark the liberty the tall manling took with his name. To all the Delgii clans of both Hyree as well as The Deeve, the _'black tears of the Creator'_ was a mysterious and greatly revered metal. By ancient custom only the _Gar Raglin_ , the elected War-Leader and the High King or _Kaza_ were permitted to bare arms made from the rare and holy metal. _Tarum Glell_ , that which the Kirkwean called _Twain_ , was the famous 'Black Gold' that Ragnol Halfhand had been sent to bring back to Slathland!

The taller Delgi standing just behind Dingle whispered something in his ear, to which Dingle answered with a sharp flow of what was clearly angry words. When done, the taller Delgi stiffened and stepped back, leaving Dingle to face the strangers alone.

" _'Thirsty work'_ indeed, but a tale well worth the telling I've little doubt. Call in your hidden arrow-caster and come with us to our camp. We've ale enough to quench the thirst of even a 'talling' like yourself."

Erin cocked his head to one side. "I've your word that no harm will come to either me or mine?"

Dingle frowned. "Be you deaf as well as over-tall?! Did I not just _say_ so?!"

Erin's broad grin washed across his weathered face. "Aye, you did --- but be you givin' me your 'word' on it?"

Like an affronted beast the eight Delgii behind Dingle clasped their weapons, for none had ever before dared to question the honor of their _Tem Reflin_. Timin, seeing the Delgii move for their weapons, gave a short little squeak, while Thorn's hand went to the hilt of his own short-sword. Erin and the burly First Strike Leader stood glaring at each other.

At last Dingle snorted and slapped his thigh. "By Ran's beard, manling, you're either a hero or a fool! Time alone will tell, eh? Now, I say again, call in your man and on my _honor_ I'll drink a toast to the lot of you --- though a stranger group I've not seen!"

Just then Kel materialized to one side of the red-bearded Delgi, who's bushy brows raised at the sight of the man from distant Chin. "Aye," muttered Dingle; "'n getting stranger with every passing breath!"

***

The moon was long past it's prime when the Delgii camp finally settled down to rest. The ale was all gone, the songs were all sung and the tales were all told. At first the Delgii had been both suspicious and cautious towards the four strangers, but as the night wore on and the ale was passed around, the hardy mountain fighters warmed to their new found friends. Dingle and two of the others had had dealings with both Kirkweans and 'manlings' before. Dingle had even met Granther Higgs years ago when the adventurous old Rover had traded in these hills.

Kel, however, was a mystery to them. They marveled at his bronze skin and the upward slant of his eyes. His two long dirks or _'a-sa'_ , along with his bamboo longbow also made quite a sensation, for the Delgii seldom used an 'arrow caster' of any kind, and the Chin's was beyond anything they had ever imagined.

By the time Thorn crept to his assigned pallet at the rear of the cave, his head was swirling from the strong brown Delgi beer. Timin however, had somehow gotten there before him, and was snoring soundly. The small Kirkwean covered his even smaller cousin with a course blanket and rolled himself into his cloak. The flickering light of the fire and the lowered voices of the two still sitting by the flames lulled Thorn into the first peaceful rest he had had in many a night.

Kel had earlier indicated that he preferred to pass the night outside, and, after bowing first to Dingle and then to Erin, had vanished into the shadows.

Outside the cave a lone sentry stood guard, with one more far above on the cliff's edge to keep double watch. Karns had been more active than usual as of late, and Dingle was not one to be caught off guard.

"Here, lad, your jar be empty again. Be those great shanks of yours hollow as well as uncommonly long?" Dingle, none too steady on his own feet, weaved his way over to the cask that had been broached when the evening was young. Filling both Erin's tankard as well as his own, he lurched back towards the fire. The coals hissed and sputtered as the foamy contents splashed about.

Erin, grinning like a cat filled with cream, took the offered drink. Pouring a bit on the ground for the old gods of fen and forest, he raised his dented mug in a toast. The rich sounds of his native tongue filled the hollow cave.

"May the cold wind always be at yer back, 'n my the sun shine sweetly on yer face!"

Dingle, his fierce eyes gone reddish from the smoke and the ale, squinted at the tall manling. Erin, seeing his host's bewildered stare, attempted to translate. "Tis a pity you do not ken the Loamin speech, friend Dingle, for I've a feelin' that underneath all that bristly beard beats the heart o' a true _'man o' the isles'_!" Erin's smile suddenly vanished, replaced by a far away look. Dingle, ever one to read a man's inner yearnings, nodded in silent understanding.

"You sorely miss that homeland of yours, don't you lad?"

Erin's reply was no reply at all, yet the two of them, Man and Delgi, sat sharing the silence together. More like old friends than newly met strangers, an unspoken bond had somehow formed between them. Whether it was the ale, the fire or the shared feeling of lives lived on the hard, sharp edge of sudden death; both knew the bond was there and simply accepted it.

Erin, his tongue loosened by the strong drink, found himself telling the _Tem Reflin_ of his stern but kind-hearted foster father; of the duel and banishment from his native isle; of the hard years of wandering both on land and sea and of his capture by the dreaded Slathlanders.

At mention of the 'Slathers', Dingle ground his teeth and swore in his native tongue, explaining that the Delgii of Tyree had heard many a nasty tale of the 'dragon worshipers'!

Erin went on to describe how Thorn and little Timin had helped rescue him and how the Kirkweans had 'taken him in'. Dingle was particularly interested in hearing about The Lady Narya, the _Erg-Leath_ of the 'Wee'ns', and why she had given him his sword _Glenrig_ made from the precious black metal that the Delgii themselves considered holy.

When Erin had told of how he had promised to 'go awanderin' with Thorn after The Lady had charged the small Kirkwean with some sort of 'special quest', Dingle had merely nodded, saying something about 'duty and honour above all else', yet when the two Slathlanders Nex and Ragnol Halfhand were mentioned, Dingle said nothing, though his eyes hardened and he bit down tightly on the stem of his long pipe.

As the dregs of the ale cask were downed, Dingle spoke of his own people and of the never-ending war against the murdering _Karns_. Lately the ape-like monsters had seemed to double their attacks on the Delgii, slaughtering males and animals while making off with females and children. Dingle's war-band were even now on the trail of the foul creatures that had raided an outlying farmstead and made off with the wife and two young ones, leaving the male and his aged mother lying in their own blood.

"Come morning my lads and I are off again. We caught up with the buggers two days ago but they slithered into a bog too deep for us to follow. Lost three of my _sordur_ in that accursed swamp, good fighters and friends each one of 'em! But with your black sword and that odd-eyed fella with his great arrow-caster, not to mention the two 'Wee'ns', we'll soon bag the whole stinkin' lot of 'em!"

Warmed by the ale, the fire and the friendship, the idea had seamed like an excellent one; however, when a gruff hand roused Erin well before dawn the next morning, the _'grand adventure'_ had somehow lost a good deal of its charm.

***
Chapter 29: **The Contest'**

"But I WILL shoot, and neither you nor my 'royal sire' will stop me!" Zoean Ithilian, only daughter to Zorka Agwain, stood with hands on her shapely hips and glared at Bar Gildar.

"But Zoean," Gildar pleaded; "be reasonable!"

She rewarded him with a toss of her tawny mane, then went about stringing her bow.

Gildar felt foolish arguing with a mere female, even though this particular one was both a princess and the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. He had been drawn to Zoean since she was little more than a freckle-faced child running wild with her hounds. Now, a child no longer, her flashing eyes, glistening black cascading hair and long, tanned legs tormented his dreams. To his heart-felt sorrow, she barely seemed to notice that he was alive.

"Females have not competed with males for centuries!", Gildar continued. "Here in Gareth Withrin there is no need for warrior maids."

She rounded on him with such furry that he had to check himself from stepping back. "Another one of my royal sire's decrees? He talks long about 'living as our forefathers once did' and 'upholding the old beliefs' --- yet he wants the females to remain quiet and docile! Well, not THIS female!"

Gildar sighed, for in his heart he could deny her nothing. "Very well, but as your father's Norlabrin and Master of the Games, I must protest."

"Protest all you like, Gildar, just stand clear of my bow!"

"Greetings, Lady Zoean. I see you've grown some since last we met."

Zoean turned to look up at a tall, slender archer. He was dressed all in leather with a long, forest green cloak fastened at the shoulder with a silver broach. Long brown locks were held in place by a thin braided cord around his forehead. Though his hood was up, his lean, weathered face was clearly visible, as was the smile on his handsome mouth.

"Flynnial!", Zoean exclaimed, her large eyes going suddenly wider. Then, heedless of her 'royal position', she threw herself into the tall archer's arms. "I made offerings to Quent so you'd come!", she squealed, giving him another hug then standing back to look at him. "And now here you are!" Behind her Gildar saw that she still tightly clasped the archer's hands. "You haven't changed a bit, though I think it cruel of you to stay away so long. I'd like to think there was more here at my father's hall than a yearly archery contest." She tilted up her sun-kissed face and regarded him through her heavy lashes. Gildar, feeling a surge of jealousy, coughed over loudly --- and was ignored.

"The forests are long and wide, Lady Zoean, and as the Zorka's _Narthrond,_ there is much to oversee."

"Being Forest Master is a lonely job, Flynn, and a dangerous one. You should dwell closer to us and let your apprentices guard the wilder lands."

Flynnial smiled at her, gently removing his hands from hers. "But then I would no longer be worthy of _being_ the Narthrond."

Her voice took on a throaty quality. "Would that be so hard to bear? You'd still be the best archer in the silv."

He sketched a small bow. "As to that, we shall soon see, for I overheard that _you_ will be shooting this day."

Casting a glance at Gildar, she replied: "Indeed I shall! And I warn you, I'm much better than the skinny little girl you once taught!"

Just then a horn sounded and a herald spoke out loud and clear. He told that the contest was open to all comers and that each participant would have a flight of three arrows. Eliminations would continue until there were three shooters left. The prize for the best of the three was a black mare and saddle, a horn bow and twenty silver-tipped arrows, and a quiver of the finest doeskin handcrafted by Zorkana Elandilmir herself! The crowd responded with nods of approval and the archers moved into place.

Kel, led by Mithdar, moved up to the far end and strung his long, bamboo bow. Those near him looked sideways at both himself and his strange instrument. A few even laughed outright, though after the first flight of three arrows all laughing soon stopped. The small, slant-eyed Chin had scored three perfect hits!

The two score archers were soon whittled down to a score, then ten, then five. Kel was one of them, along with the tall _Narthrond_ or 'Woods Master', Flynnial. The Lady Zoean was the third.

The betting began in earnest. Odds were four to one in favor of Flynnial over _'Zoean-The-Wild'_ , for though her aim was sound and true, she was often impatient and loosed too quickly. Only five of her nine arrows had landed within the small, red circle; three had been in the yellow and one in the outer blue. Only Flynnial had scored nine 'reds'. Most had expected this from the _Narthrond_ , for he spent his life with a bow in his hand. The short stranger with the gigantic bow however, was a mystery. Though Kel had hit the center eight times out of eight, few placed their coins on him.

Few that is except Erin. The tall 'manling' that spoke a strange version of their own tongue was covering bets faster than little Timin could scribble them down on a piece of parchment!

Mithdar tapped Erin on the shoulder. "Have you the where-with-all to _pay up_ should the stout Chin miss the mark?"

Erin's smile lit up his face. "Ah, friend tinker! Kel may be a surly, sour-faced quiffer, but I'd bet my life on his skill with that tree trunk o' his!"

Mithdar sighed and shook his head. "Fail to keep your given word to a Nim-Loth and that's exactly what it will cost you!"

Erin cocked his head sideways and gazed at the old man before speaking. "Then, Master Wizard, for all our sakes you'd best be able to turn led into gold, for I've barley two copper pennies to rub together!"

Mithdar groaned just as the crowd let out another roar. Kel had hit dead-center for the ninth time. The contest was down to the desired three and now the real betting began!

***

Kel took a deep breath and began the ancient meditation technique he had been taught by his _Ja~Din_ masters. It slowed the heart and caused the chosen target to 'glow' in his mind's eye. A deep calmness settled over him, allowing him to sense the slightest of movements or shift in the wind. The bow became an extension of his arm, while his eighteen fisted shaft took on an almost mystical quality; a physical representation of his inner thought. The arrow would go where he WILLED it to go, for it was now a part of his inner being. He BECAME the arrow. The _Ja~Din_ had taught him well, yet in the end it was not so much something that could be 'taught' as 'felt'.

Deep within himself Kel knew that somehow the tall Narthrond also felt this. The Chin was both greatly surprised and honored to be matching his skill with another 'master'. Win or lose, Kel would lock this moment away deep in the inner place of his heart reserved for just such rare occasions.

As for the noisy female, Kel dismissed her as a somewhat gifted amateur, for though she did possess skill, she foolishly allowed her emotions to surface. In short, she lacked the inner control or _'wa'_ needed to attain harmony. Kel knew this was not because she was a female, for the Chin had found out quite early in his _Ja~Din_ training that the 'gentler sex' could be just as deadly, if not more so, than males. Discipline, training, the power to concentrate, to attain a state of inner balance was the very essence of the art of _Tanj-Ka_. Few were the men or women who could so dedicate their lives to reach such a lofty pinnacle.

Flynnial the _Narthrond_ seemed to come by it naturally, and the Chin felt deeply honored to stand beside him.

***

In this last stage of the contest the three contestants were to use the same target, which had been moved back another twenty vels, making a total of seventy in all. The crowd murmured and strained closer. The betting became furious, with the odds now three to two in favor of the Narthrond over the slant-eyed 'outlander' and his ridiculous bow. The odds for Zoean had shrunk to ten to one. She could not possibly win and all there knew it; still, she refused to give up.

"Well, sister-mine," said a deep, deceptively soft voice. "You have gotten further than I expected. Why not leave the family's honour intact and bow out gracefully for a change?"

The crowd parted to allow the tall, golden-haired prince to approach. A pace behind him Gildar followed, looking like a surly child that had tattled on his playmates.

"What brother-dearest?", Zoean quipped. "And leave quiet Flynnial to stand alone against this strange-eyed outlander? Never!"

Arthdain Ithenial shrugged. "Do as you please, little sister. Far be it for me to try and mend your pig-headed ways. But should you come in a poor third, as you will, expect little sympathy from your kin."

"Sympathy is the one thing I will never ask of my 'kin', brother, for I would not ask what you know not how to give!"

Arthdain's blue eyes darkened, then, regaining his composure, he bowed and turned to Flynnial. "Well, good _Narthrond_ , it seems your one-time student still balks at obeying her elders. I leave it in your capable hands then to uphold the silv's honour."

Flynnial nodded towards the prince. "I shall do my best, Lord Arthdain, though in truth I've never seen an archer with this manling's skill. If I do win, I fear it will not be by overmuch."

Arthdain's graying brows lifted. His voice held a cutting edge to it. "Take care my friend, for a Narthrond who allows a _'outlander'_ to best him might find his title suddenly under question."

Gildar smirked at the tall archer, more than a little content to see the object of Zoean's much coveted affection reprimanded in public. The sneer transformed to shocked anger when he heard Flynnial's reply.

"Being a good Woodsmaster, Lord Arthdain, is in many ways like being a good Zorka --- there is considerably more to it than merely hitting a target."

The crowd fell silent at this, for none there could fail to notice either the veiled threat or the curt response. Arthdain however, merely smiled and bowed low, for despite his open animosity towards any that were not Nim-Lothian born, to those of his own blood he was unswervingly loyal. Both young and old looked to him as the hope for their future, and the warriors would willingly follow him to the death. "Point well taken, Woodsmaster. And now I shall leave you to do that which you do best. May the Blessed Light of Oma guide your hand."

Prince and Woodsmaster eyed each other for several heartbeats, then Zor Arthdain turned and strode regally back to the viewing stand.

Erin, standing just behind Kel, turned to Mithdar and the two Kirkwean. "He's a puffed-up one to be sure, but he took the green-clad archer's lip right smartly! He was wrong 'n not afraid to admit it. Reminds me a bit o' Ap Connell in his younger days!"

"And just who was _'Ap Connell'_?", Timin asked.

"The man that taught me to use a sword."

As the prince turned away, Gildar followed, casting a backwards glance at his rival. Black bile rose up in his throat and he cursed the fates that had contrived to make Flynnial an archer and not a swordsman. If Flynnial had followed the 'warrior path', than as Agwain's champion, Gildar would have had the satisfaction of facing him on the field of honour, and so winning by force what he could not win by love.

As it was he had to swallow his ire and bide his time.

At the end of the next round Zoean threw down her bow and cursed. Two of her arrows had hit the red, though far from the center. The last one however had slammed into the blue. Both Flynnial and Kel had three more reds each. Her grizzled servant Nobert picked up the discarded bow and received a cuff on the back of his head for his reward. He grinned and winked at Zoean, causing her to curse all the more.

The Master-Of-Arms overseeing the match was clearly at a loss as to what to do. "Lords, ye both have won, yet that cannot be!" He was one of the few Nim-Loth that showed any signs of aging, for though still strong and hale, his hair was both thinning an turning silver round his slightly pointed ears.

"I've a suggestion, Gaylar," Flynnial said in accented Common. "That is, if it meets with my fellow contestant's approval?" Here the _Narthrond_ nodded to Kel, who bowed deeply in return. "What say we move yonder target back even further, say another thirty vels?"

Kel bowed again, this time placing his hands before his face, offering Flynnial the highest honour a _Ja~Din_ can give.

Gaylar, replying in stilted Common, that such a distance had never been allowed before, yet if neither archer protested, it could be as they wished. Flynnial smiled and selected a single arrow. "One shaft each, winner take all?"

Kel's heart soared. Here, in this backward, barbaric corner of the world, he had at last found an opponent worthy of his training! The only outward sign of his feelings however, was to raise his left eyebrow and nod.

The crowd went wild. Impossible bets doubled. Word of what was happening spread like wildfire and people began to line the length of the field. It was all the combined weight of Thorn and Timin could do to stop Erin from thumping Kel from behind. "But the slant-eyed little fool has cost me a fortune!", the tall mercenary roared. "No-one can hit that center from here! Why, it's harder to see that a virgin's cleft!"

Mithdar stood still through it all, leaning on his staff and gazing at the Chin from beneath his wide-brimmed hat. A smile played at the corner of his mouth.

Flynnial shot first. Up went the shaft. Up, up, and then down. Breathless moments passed while everyone waited to see where it had hit. Since the target was now at the far end of the field, too far to clearly see a landed shaft, word was sent by way of a raised colored flag.

Nothing. Nothing. RED!!

The crowd exploded! Hats flew into the air and stately maids and maidens, dressed in their finery, found themselves swept up into the air as excited males twirled them around!

Then a hush descended as the swarthy Chin stepped up. Erin's lips moved silently. Thorn strained to see the blurred target impossibly far away. Timin stood with eyes closed and fingers crossed --- while Mithdar continued to lean on his staff.

The deep, relaxing breath. The inner mantra centering his _'wa_ '. The swift, steady pull. The almost casual release --- and the black-shafted, eighteen-fisted arrow burst free like a loosed falcon. Just then a vagrant little breeze suddenly sighed through the treetops at the far end of the field. No-one noticed it except Kel and perhaps the old tinker. Up, up and up still more the arrow soared, until, lost in the golden rays of the morning, it vanished into the fiery eye of the sun.

Time passed. Scores of eyes strained towards the far end of the field. Lungs held in air from hearts too spellbound to breathe, held it in till pain and dizziness made heads swim --- and still nothing.

Then a flag --- a white one. A _miss!_

The gathered crowd gasped like a giant suddenly freed from a stranglehold. Shouts and hoots of joy filled the air and once again the fairer sex were swirled about and hats were tossed. Silver coins, rings and other costly dainties were exchanged, and a host of would-be-winners began to converged on Erin.

"Wait!", Flynnial's clear voice ran out as he held is bow above his head. "I would see this for myself, for something seems not right." He motioned for Kel to join him and the two archers started towards the distant target.

As they strode down the field the crowd fell in behind them like an army of gaily dressed peacocks. The two tiny Kirkwean found themselves carried along with the tide, while Erin and Mithdar rode the swell at the rear.

Thorn could make out the target clearly now; one lone, green arrow resting squarely in the red circle. Kel's black shaft was nowhere to be seen. Yet The _Narthrond_ barely gave it a glance, but continued marching past the target to the very limit of the field.

A quaint, tiny building lay nestled under a towering oak some twenty-five vels beyond the field. It was a replica of the Zorka's Great Hall, used by the children of the silv as a play-house. Indeed, Zoean herself had passed many a 'queenly-hour' there in the past, 'lording' it over her other Nim-Lothian playmates.

Carved in the center of the round door was a red bull's face. The crowd looked on in awe at the long black shaft embedded deep in the painted bull's eye.

Then the shouting began. Silver coins and golden rings once again changed hands. Through it all the _Narthrond_ remained silent. Then, turning to Kel, he smiled and bowed. "It puzzled me that you aimed so high. Now I understand. It has been an honour to shoot against you, stranger." He grasped Kel's forearm in the universal gesture of warriors. "And now, to the victor go the spoils."

***
Chapter 30: **'The Sending'

**

Bar Gildar was in a foul mood when he at last caught up with Erin and the Kirkwean craft. It was almost dark when the little fleet landed on a small isle, only to find a merry fire going and Zoean sitting wrapped in Erin's spare cloak, her dazzling eyes mocking him from the far side of the flames. Gildar removed his silver helm and gazed around the camp.

"I could see that damn fire from clear across the lake!", he barked.

Zoean took a slab off cooked meet Timin had sliced for her and glanced up at the fuming Lake Warden. "So that's how you found us. I'd about given the lot of you up for lost."

Gildar reddened and rung his doeskin gauntlets like a man strangling a chicken. "Where is the _'manling'_?! I've a few choice words to say to him! And where is your _sentries_? Sweet Oma, Zoean, we could have been a pack of ravaging Glam Roth!"

"Erin is off somewhere with Flynn and the strange-eyed bowman. As for guards, look behind you."

Gildar turned to see the three Delgii step out from the shadows. Cynwulf's long hooked pike _'Gutter_ ' was but a hand space from his stomach. A owl hooted above them. As Gildar's eyes rolled upward, he saw Thorn standing on the limb of a large pine, his short bow nocked and ready as his word floated politely down.

"Good evening to you, Lord Gildar. I'm glad you finally saw the fire. I've been watching you for some time now."

Gildar turned on his heel and bellowed for his Warders to make camp, then he strode back to the shore. Mithdar, who had been gathering some herbs from a thicket on the edge of the camp, chuckled to himself and went back to work.

"Begging your pardon, Lady," Timin asked quietly; "but do you think it wise to bait him so? He is a bit of a dandy, but he's powerfully smitten with you."

Zoean tossed her head to one side, causing a night black cascade of hair to gleam in the firelight. "And just how, Master Wee'n, do you come by such ' _intimate_ ' knowledge?"

Timin blushed and fiddled with his beloved cooking pots. "How could he not be, Lady? We all are."

Zoean's wide eyes opened even wider, the flecks of gold in them catching the fire's glow. She leaned close and kissed the small Kirkwean lightly on his forehead. "How gallant of you, kind sir, but I hardly think that _'all'_ is the correct word. Certainly not the tall 'manling'."

Timin poured some steaming mint tea into several tin cups. "Well, as for Erin Longshanks, I can't rightly say. He's a strange one, Lady. _'Deep as a well'_ as we say back in The Wold. And as cold too --- yet there's a rare kindness in him, though I think he tries to keep it hidden."

Zoean accepted the steaming tea and smiled. "You're a strange one yourself, Master Timin; warrior, cook, and now 'philosopher'! What other talents have you hidden away inside you?"

"Farming is what he does best," Thorn said as he sat down beside them. "When he's not tripping over his own feet, that is!" Zoean and Thorn laughed and Timin sheepishly joined in. All three of them were still laughing when the scream came.

Timin dropped his mug of tea and scrambled for his fish spear. Zoean was even faster, her short blade flashing free of its scabbard. Thorn, however, was on his feet and running before the sound died, the sword pulsing in his hand.

"Thorn, no!", yelled Mithdar as the little Kirkwean darted past him, but Thorn paid him little heed. The old mage was joined by Zoean and Timin and the three of them hurried down to the water. What they saw made even the aged wizard blanch.

"Get back!", Gildar was yelling. "Don't let it touch you!"

Bar Gildar's Lake Warders didn't need to be told twice, for they had all seen what had happened to the unfortunate Warder who had gotten too close to the creature before them. His body lay twitching near the shore, his pain distorted face white at old wax.

Just then the hissing creature darted forward and clamped its long fingers on a Warder's wrist. He dropped his sword and screamed, then fell to his knees, wreathing in pain. The creature, having retreated so that its naked back now pressed against a gnarled oak, hissed and snarled, tossing its long weed-like hair about. Sagging breasts swung like grotesque pendulums. Foam and saliva dripped from its gaping mouth.

"What --- what IS it?", Timin gasped.

"I don't know," Zoean replied. "But whatever it is, its female!"

"Archers!", Gildar bellowed. "Get your bloody bows damn you!"

Dinn Orthal, Gildar's second-in-command, a shortish, heavy-set old veteran, began to rouse the startled Warders from their trance. Then Thorn darted in. He came out of nowhere, eyes wide and yelling. The words seemed torn form the very bowels of the earth: _'Cirimoth dag Shard'!_ The black blade, now pulsing with an inner life of its own, swept up for the death stroke.

"NO!", Mithdar roared. The force of the word struck the Kirkwean like a blow, lifting him up and slamming him into the mossy ground beyond the creature. At the same time the mage lifted his staff and pointed. The 'thing' by the tree stiffened, hissed, then made to launch itself at the old man. "BACK!" The mage's voice was pitched low, yet all there felt the weight of its power. "GET YE BACK TO THY MASTER! THERE BE NAUGHT HERE FOR THEE!"

The form cringed back against the tree, one talloned hand flung up as though to break free from an unseen grip. Then suddenly the deformed creature began to shimmer. Suddenly the hideous she-thing dissolved before their very eyes and became a woman of incredible beauty. Clad in a clinging gown of black gossamer, she wreathed seductively and arched her back, the invitation of a lust-filled eternity in her eyes.

Mithdar stood his ground, though several of the awe-struck Warders began to shuffle forward, their weapons at their sides, their loins burning with desire. "HOLD I SAY!", Mithdar intoned, passing his staff quickly over the five score Nim-Loth. Each one became rooted to the ground. The staff swung back to the temptress by the tree. The mage's words rolled out like thunder. "YOUR FOUL ARTS WILL AVAIL YE NOT HERE! BEGONE! BACK TO THE BLACKNESS FROM WHICH YE WERE SPAWNED!"

The creature in woman-form turned her wilting gaze in his direction, then smiled. Her voice was like a warm caress. _"What, old greybeard? Have thee no desire left in thy dried-up stick of a body? Canst though look upon me and deny thy hunger?"_ As she spoke she cupped her all but bare breasts and ran a crimson tongue over her ruby lips.

Mithdar's voice had the firmness of truth behind it. "MY LOOK IS ONE OF PITY, SENDLING, FOR ONCE EVEN SUCH AS THEE HADST AN INNER BEAUTY. NOW ALL THAT REMAINS IS A TWISTED MOCKERY. GET THEE GONE!"

The shapely form hissed like a cornered cat. The once seductive features turned cold as ice. " _Old fool! Think thee that The Lord of Shadows cares for thy pity?! Gorgoroth will sear thy soul till thee whimper like a puking babe for the caress of death! Hot irons will rend thee and I myself will tear thy wilted manhood from thy rotting corpse!"_

"CEASE THY RAVING, VILE SUCKUBUS! THOUGH ART POWERLESS AND BUT SICKEN ME WITH THY WEIGHTLESS WORDS!" Mithdar's voice lashed out and the great pine itself began to tremble. "AWAY AND TELL THY MASTER THAT THOUGH HAVE FAILED, AND THAT I, MYTHDARIAN, HAVE SPARED THEE, THOUGH WITH HIM I SHALL NOT BE SO KIND! NOW, GET THEE GONE!!"

Mithdar advanced swiftly and thrust his staff into the Sending. There followed a flash of white light and a haunting echo of sweet pain. Then there was but a tall oak before him. Behind the old mage near a hundred Warders awakened as though from a horror filled dream. Timin, now that he found that his legs could move, rushed over to help Thorn to his feet.

"Thorn-lad! Oh, mercy! I thought you were slain!" The small Kirkwean looked up into the watery eyes of his lifelong friend.

"What --- what happened? I remember only the scream \--- and then running. The Sword was in my hand --- making me --- !" He broke off in a fit of weeping. Timin, his own tears flowing, helped his companion to his feet.

"Mythdarian!", Zoean yelled, rushing to steady the old mage as he swayed.

"I'll be fine, lass. Just help me to rest a bit. Never before have I been so spent!" The old mage, where moments before he had seemed like a towering mountain, now appeared bent and frail. Zoean helped him to sit and he leaned his back against the very tree where the creature had just stood.

"What WAS it?", she asked.

"A _'Sending'_ , lass. One of His messengers. This one was a Succubus." The old man breathed deeply, calming his racing heart. "Very beautiful, and very deadly!"

***
Chapter 31: 'CAST UPON THE WIND'

The creature standing on the prow of the lead boat grunted to himself, shifted the enormous bone necklace he wore so it didn't chafe his short, thick neck, leaned over the side and spit. Behind him the Karns muttered and snarled among themselves, their fear-stink reaching him despite the freshening head-wind. His piggish eyes creased into what passed for a smile and he hefted the heavy club and absently fingered the long, curved animal horn driven through its end."

He knew what they thought of him: _'Club the Crazy'; 'Club the Blood-Drinker'; 'Club the Fool'!_ Yet even this last did not bother him, for he knew that he was no fool, and he had never cared overmuch for what others thought.

It had always been that way. Even as a young scrawny cub the rest of his kind had shunned him. When he was still small they had laughed at him and made him the butt of their cruel jokes. But then he had gotten bigger; bigger than the biggest of the clan \--- even bigger than that savage piece of dog-meat that had sired him!

Club's limited mind swept him back to that long ago time when he stood in the center of their cave, the torchlight flickering, the females screaming and pulling their hair, the males growling and beating their massive chests --- and his own hands closing around the windpipe of his father. How the eyes had bulged. How the pink tongue had swollen and lolled. The _'Power'_ had surged through him then, more potent than even the pull of the 'Rutting Season'.

And then the body that was both his sire and chief had sagged lifeless to the cave floor, there to lie among the filth and castaway bones. The _'Power'_ had been with him then, even though he hadn't recognized it for what it truly was --- it had taken the Hooded Man to show him that.

Club blinked his small eyes and once again focused on the present. The pitiful little boats still came on. _Nim_ -boats! How he hated the golden haired _'Nim'_! The Hooded Man had been right; THEY were the cause of all his pain; THEY were the reason all other creatures feared him and called him ugly, for the Nim's beauty made all others pale in their reflection, and, seeking something uglier than themselves, all creatures raised themselves up by casting him down!

_'Club the Grell', 'Club the Terrible Troll', 'Club the Ugly'_ they called him --- when deep in his hidden heart he KNEW that he was beautiful!

The silver arm-ring the Hooded Man had given him began to feel cold against his hairy hide. This startled him, for always when the _'Power_ ' came upon him it had felt warm. When in the presence of the Hooded Man it had always glowed hot, causing the ruby eyes of the carven snake's head to burn with a dull fire. The 'Master' had given it to him as a token of affection; a _'talisman'_ He had called it, something to _'bind us through all eternity'_. Club liked to believe that it had been given out of love --- though a part of his small brain knew that this was just wishful thinking.

Still, the 'Master' was to be obeyed at all times, for wasn't it the 'Master' that had given Club's bleeding and mutilated body new life? When the _Nar-Graith_ Skatha had found him near death from fighting the stinking Stoners and brought his ruined remains to the Hooded Man, wasn't it the power of the 'Master' that gave him back his life, only strangely changed? Newer and stronger --- and _smarter_! Things that had once seemed complicated and beyond his mental reach now appeared simple and basic. Where before he had worried and wondered, now he KNEW! The Hooded Man had done all this; given him a new life, in which the shadows of doubt and fear had vanished, to be replaced by the simple joy of doing his Master's bidding.

And now the Master had bid him do what he did best \--- kill the hated 'Nims' and bring back the body of the meddling greybeard. Alive or dead, it mattered not, for the Hooded Man had the 'Power' to use the old fool regardless of the condition of the mortal shell!

And yet the silver snake that wound round his hairy forearm burned not with the fire of his Master's will, but now felt like the cold wind that used to bit his hands and feet when he was a cub far to the north. The silver scales seem frosted over. Steam rose in the hot air round his arm. Fear suddenly reached his startled brain and he would have ripped the frozen thing from his arm and cast it away if a greater fear had not prevented it --- the fear of disappointing the 'Master'."

Then there was no time for fear or doubts or any thinking at all, for the hated Nim were upon them and it was time for the killing to begin!

***

The sun was westering, casting long shadows upon the choppy waters when the two small fleets met. Gildar had issued orders that the boats were to form a wedge, with his craft at the front. With the wind behind them he hoped to force his way through.

It almost worked.

The Karns, over half their number having fallen under the hail of arrows the Nim-Loth rained down on them, almost broke and let them through. But then the huge Troll had screamed out something guttural and leapt into the nearest craft, all but swamping the lighter boat. The horned club he carried took a great toll of the brave Nim-Loth, and though many tried, none could stand before him.

The Karns, spurred on by the success of the great, hairy beast, followed his example and began to leap into the smaller craft; upsetting some, entangling others and spreading red death wherever they went.

From his place in the middle of the tiny fleet, Erin saw the hopelessness of it all. Kel and Flynn sent shaft after shaft into the seething mess, and Thorn and even little Timin used their slings repeatedly, but despite their valiant efforts, the Nim-Loth were being beaten back.

Zoean stood clutching a stay, her slender sword held impotently in her hand, a look of rage filling her gold flecked eyes. Cynwulf and the other two Delgii stood as though turned to stone, silently watching the slaughter that was just out of reach, while Mithdar sat huddled on a seat, exhausted by his summoning of the winds.

Then the Troll was upon them! He had come out of nowhere; a great monster covered with blood and gore. With a backhand cuff he sent old Nobert sprawling into the two Kirkwean, then grabbed up Zoean and made to strike at Erin.

Cynwulf lunged at him from behind. The hooked blade of his pike sank deep into the hair covered back --- with no effect at all.

Turning, the long pike was wrenched free and Cynwulf stood as one in a trance. Never before had anyone ever been able to resist 'Gutter's searing caress'! Bragi just managed to pull the _Rif-Dag_ back as the Troll's heavy club swished by. Erin, seeing his chance, aimed a two-handed blow at the monster's thick neck. The light boat however, shifted, throwing his aim was off, causing Glenrig to strike the creature's bronze helm and doing no more damage than shearing off a long, pointed ear. Club bellowed and flung Zoean from him, his meaty paws bringing up the spiked weapon for the final blow.

It was then that the two arrows hit him; Flynn's in the throat and Kel's in the left eye. The Troll staggered backwards, yanked the puny sticks from him and, now half blinded \--- slowly began to advance.

For the first time in his life Erin felt sure he was going to die. As the abomination shuffled towards him, time seemed to suddenly slow. The screaming and clashing of steel faded, as 'Death' slid slowly towards him like a towering mountain.

Then something snapped inside and Erin's ashen features twisted into a crooked grin. "Come on then, you black-hearted bastard!" he yelled. "Do your bloody worst!"

Shortening his grip on Glenrig, Erin slashed twice at the towering creatures stomach. Wide vents opened up in the thick, hairy skin. Club backed up, smeared the welling blood over his massive chest and kept on coming."

Zoean, having been cast aside like a sack of unwanted flour, scrambled to her knees, pulled the light throwing axe from her belt and brought it down with all the strength she could muster on the monster's sandled foot. The keen blade sliced through two of the creature's four toes and stuck in the boat's floorboards.

Pain worked its way up to the limited brain and registered in the one piggish eye that still functioned. Slowly the giant, dipping blood, gore and glistening intestines, looked down at Zoean. As the creature raised his spiked cub, Erin saw his chance and swung. _Glenrig,_ made from the legendary Twill of Wee'ns 'Black Gold', cleaved the jawbone, the neckbone and the backbone with one swift swing. The head went over one side of the boat and the gore spouting trunk followed on the other. The inky black waters of the Tarn closed over the headless Grell and it was instantly gone from sight ---- though most there would not forget the gruesome sight till their dying day.

The tall 'manling' grabbed Zoean and hauled her to her feet. He felt the warmth from her nearness and noticed how she was trembling. "It's savin' my poor life you've done, lass, 'n I'll not be forgettin' it!"

Wide, startled eyes looked up into dark grey ones. Then, as though drawn by some invisible loadstone, they seemed about to embrace when the moment was suddenly broken by a loud cry.

"Gildar's broken through! The way is _clear!"_

Erin tore himself away from Zoean and looked about. Sure enough, Bar Gildar and several boats had broken through the Karn blockade! Other Nim craft were swiftly following, but the enraged Karns were quickly closing the gap."

"Stand by to come about!", Erin bellowed, and swung the tiller hard to the right. "We'll make for that island yonder! Once behind it we should be able to outrun the bastards!"

"We could also lose the others, Longshanks", Cynwulf put in. "In this accursed swamp one byway looks the same as another!"

"Better lost 'n alive than goin' up against those quiffers on our own! Look you friend, even now the gap be closed!"

All saw that Erin was right; that they were cut off from the main group and that their only hope was to skirt around the large island to the left and try to lose the Karns and rejoin Gildar's little fleet further on.

As it turned out, they managed to lose the Karns --- and themselves as well.

***

Chapter 32: _'The Bloom of Youth'_

The morning mist still hung like ghostly wraiths in the hollows of the thickly treed peninsula, swirling about the gnarled pines like a giant's long-dead hand. Mithdar, breathing heavily from the steep climb up from the shore, leaned on his staff and peered into the rapidly lightening gloom, his own 'long-dead' dreams struggling to resurrect themselves. Just ahead he could make out the dilapidated hut. The smell of the hearth-smoke and long buried memories had guided him for some time now. Having regained his breath, the old man continued his journey; one that, though short, he dreaded just the same.

The 'cottage' was more an outgrowth of the wooded cliff than any man-made structure, for once past the heavy, time-blackened door and the front hall, it opened up into a large cave, running back into the hollow hill a half dozen spearlengths or more. As Mithdar stood facing that door and all the ancient phantoms it represented, he noticed the trickle of water from the spring high above still dripped into the shallow depression in a large stone off to one side of the front step. The reflection that greeted him when he glanced in was not the one he had last seen so very long ago when he left this place, but that of an old man, bent both with time, troubles and regret.

Once this had been a happy place, full of dappled sunlight and bright dreams; a place of quiet solitude and study; a place where a young man who was 'more than a man' could come to grips with what he was. Then 'she' had entered his life and, for a brief time at least, it had become a place of love. A place of soft sighs and tender caresses; a place of sharing and looking forward; a place of sweet, impossible dreams. But that was long ago, too long ago to be anything more than a vague memory, a half remembered glimpse of a bygone youth, bitter-sweat like morning mist on apple blossoms in May.

Yet standing there, with the early-morning sun on his back; with the birdsong all about and the music of flowing water close at hand, Mithdar slowly felt the long years fall from him like a tattered cloak. He felt the blood surge through his veins like it had when he first came to dwell in this glade, and he felt too the joy of anticipation mingled with the first frightful passion of youth --- for 'she' had been there then, her mind and body open to him, waiting patiently.

Just as she was now.

As he raised a trembling hand towards the door, a voice, rusty from lack of use, called out from within: "Enter, wanderer --- and see thy fate."

Taking a calming breath, the old man did as he was bid. Light from a smoking hearth and a single candle cast dancing shadows on the paneled wooden walls of the front room, though beyond the back of the cave was as black as midnight on a moonless night. A shadowy form sat hunched over a stool before the fire. A gnarled hand stirred the coals.

The silence hung between them like a living wall, a wall built not of bricks or stones but of lost chances and broken dreams, the mortar for the 'wall' being Time itself.

"Thou hast tarried overlong in returning to my hearth, Mythdarian," croaked the hunched form. "Long since hath the flower wilted and lost its scent. That which was once fair, is now dried and withered. The red wine of youth has all turned to bitter dregs. But tell me, what finally brings the busy bee back to this flowerless garden?"

"Many things, Dearia. Time. Regrets. A pulling of the heart --- Also, I seek knowledge."

A bitter cackle erupted from the bent form. "As I recall, it was the seeking of 'knowledge' that sent thee hence!. That it should bring thee back after so many turnings seems both uncommonly apt yet so commonly cruel!"

Mithdar felt the bite of her bitter words cut deep into his being. He went forward and placed a trembling hand on the old crone's shoulder. "Dearia," he whispered. "Sweet Dee, I have need --- of thy powers."

The form turned swiftly, shaking off his hand in the process. "Speak not that name ever again!", she hissed. " _'Dearia'_ is long gone and your _'Sweet Dee'_ never existed!"

"But what we shared cannot be denied, regardless of how brief, or of how you now feel. To me you will always be my 'Sweet Dee', running wild over the flower strewn meadows."

The form cast back her ragged hood and leaned forward to catch the candle's light. "See you, Mythdarian, any trace of your _'Sweet Dee'_ in this Time ravaged face?" Fingers like talons gripped his wrist and pulled him closer. Lines and creases were carved into the parchment-like skin; what hair that remained on the stark skull hung in whitish wisps; the grimace her slash of a mouth showed large gaps and blackened stumps. Only the eyes remained unchanged; deep and dark they were, like forest pools under a stormy sky.

Mithdar knelt down, tears streaming down his own weathered cheeks. "What _happened_ , Dee?! You are of the _Nim-Loth_ and should age as slowly as the mountains! If t'is sickness, perhaps my arts may find a cure!"

The old crone released her grip and replaced her hood. "Have ye found in all thy travels a way to turn back the passage of Time? Unlike you, we Nim born here on Oma-Var be not immune to decay. We age slower than the other races, much slower \--- but age we do! The slow passing of the endless seasons has left me such as I am --- withered, old --- and alone!"

"I --- I _meant_ to return; but then one thing led to another. The time just seemed to slip away, Dee, and their was always so much left to do!"

Her silence only deepened Mithdar's pain. When it had all but cut him to the quick, she spoke.

"I was a mere child when first you brought me here. A young Nim-Lothian maid full of love for the wise sorcerer from the Blessed Isle. T'was thee who saw the spark of talent that lay dormant within me. T'was thee who coaxed it into a roaring flame. When the flame dimmed, you left. How I hated thee for that." She sighed and stoked the fire before continuing. "But the world hath changed much and I with it." She raised her gnarled hand and waved it towards the back of the cave. "I have my books and my pets. The simpletons from Blackwater bring me small animals and birds as 'offerings'." She cackled into her ragged shawl. "The fools believe I eat them raw. In return I tell them what they want to hear about the web of their petty lives. I am content."

Mithdar stood and gazed into the blackness of the cave. His words, when they came, sounded hollow, like a distant echo of pain. "I need you to use your powers once again. Not just for myself. I wouldn't ask just for myself --- but, for all creatures that love the light of day, Sweet Dee, I do ask."

She regarded him for some time. "You have changed very little, Mythdarian, since I first beheld you in my father's silv. Oh, the once golden locks have turned silver, and the bloom of youth has worn away, but Time it seems has been kind to a least _one_ of us."

Mithdar was about to say something, but she stopped him with her wrinkled, raised hand. "Strong and wise you seemed back then, full of secret knowledge that my girlish heart hungered for. Our brief spring hath long since gone. And now, after all this time, you come again, looking as you do --- and you _dare_ to ask for my help?!"

"Dee --- it's Lucfelian."

Her scrawny neck turned, ageless eyes widened. Mithdar pressed on.

"He is but a shadow as yet, but it IS him! I must know for certain where he plans to strike! Not only the Nim-Loth, but the Delgii, the Kirkwean and the newer race of Man shall _all_ be trod under his cruel boot --- unless a way can be found to stop him!"

Visibly shaken, the old crone gathered her shawl about her. "Thy words make clear to me what hath plagued me for too long now. Both in my dreams as well as my conjurings I have seen vague things taking form; dark, evil things. I thought them just the approaching of Death, for that dark liberator hath been much on my mind of late --- but now I see it is more than that. Much more." She turned her wide eyes towards Mithdar and stretched out her hand. He took it and gently pressed it to his lips. "What wouldst thou have me do?"

When he told her she gave a little shudder. "I fear that I am no longer strong enough."

"I will be by your side."

A wry smile passed her lips for the first time in many centuries. "It will require a blood sacrifice --- my lord."

"I am ready, my love."

The smile widened and a hint of the beauty she had once been filled her eyes.

Together they set about the task.

***

A historical novel following the life of a young Scottish lad

forced to flee to the New World back in the mid-18th century

and the adventures he has in the British Army

and the infamous Roger's Rangers. **  
**

Chapter 33: Introduction

My name be Angus Argyle Shamus MacCaw. You may have heard of me, but I doubt it. Either way, I don't really give a shit. I'm gettin' to be an old man now, this being the Year o' Our Lord 1799 n' me just havin' passed my 69th birthday. Here I sit on the porch of our little farm in the Bay o' Quinte in what people are startin' to call 'Upper Canada', though I favour the old injun name myself --- Ontario.

I was born on a cold, blustery day near the end of September, in the Year o' our Lord, 1730, on a rocky farm in the eastern foothills o' the Highlands. Inverness was the closest market-town. My father, Argyle, was a God fearing, hard working man who loved the land as much as he loved his red-headed Irish wife Onooga O'Flynn, a tavern wench from County Cork he had met while selling his cows in Edinburgh.(More than he loved me, that's for damned sure --- or so I thought at the time.)

My two brothers took to farming like ducks to water. I however, was of a different ilk. Not for me the shovelling o' shite nor the milking of a cantankerous cow that would as soon step on yer foot as give up a pint o' sour milk! Oh no. I had far grander things in mind.

I was a bit o' a scrapper as a lad, and though my brothers were several years older than myself, I stubbornly stood my ground when they saw fit to tease their younger sibling. My father blamed it on my Irish blood, but I knew the truth o' it even way back then --- it came from my granddad --- for I carry more than just his name, but his wild Irish ways as well!

Angus the Elder he was --- or Iron Angus as the people o' Inverness often called him. Angry Angus --- Angus the Fighter --- Angus o' the Many Names. He came by them all honestly enough though, for his own father, my great-granddad, Alexander MacCaw, fought with the Jacobites at Killiecrankie back in 1689 when Scottish James II tried to oust William o' Bloody Orange! When the Jacobites rose again in 1715, both father and son marched out to fight for Scotland ----but only the son, my granddad, came home. Silent, sullen n' angry he often was, especially when in his cups \--- but always fiercely loyal to both Scotland n' the Royal House o' Stewart!

Even now, after all these long, hard years, with not only an ocean between us, but death itself, I can hardly take a drink without passing my cup over the 'water'. It's an old secret 'Highland toast' that gruff old man taught me long ago --- a grand silent gesture for 'The True King across the water' \--- a Highland King, born from the exiled House o' Stewart, that would one day come again!

'Iron Angus' was my father's father n' though he'd been many different things in his fifty odd years o' life, yet very few o' those years had he passed in farming! He was a blacksmith by trade n' proud of it. Having no great affinity for either the plowing o' stones nor shovelling o' shite myself, I too took up the blacksmith trade, becoming my grandad's apprentice at the tender age o' eleven.

Iron Angus had a place further back up in the hills than most, about a half days easy walk from Inverness. Built from the very stones o' the hills itself, it was. N' so well did it blend in with the rocks n' gullies that, from a distance, a passing stranger looking up into the gathering dusk would see only the cherry red glow from the old man's forge \--- recalling long ago tales o' ghosties n' goulies n' things best forgotten ---but somehow never quite managed.

At first my father was against my 'takin' up the hammer', saying I was needed to work on the farm --- but my mother soon persuaded him to let me go, for she knew well my dislike o' grubbing in the dirt --- that n' she cared for the old man almost as much as I did n' she dinna want to see him live alone.

Things went well enough for the first few years, with me first watching, then helping, then doing the work of a man who works iron. Then, in the summer o' 1745, a grand looking fellow came riding up to the forge. He had a jaunty white cockade in his blue bonnet n' a devilish twinkle in his eye. His horse had thrown a shoe down on the Kings Highway n' the villagers had sent him on up to us. As I nailed on the newly shaped iron, the grand stranger eyed me up n' down. By then I was a strapping lad o' 15 n' as tall as Iron Angus himself, though none so broad.

Finally the stranger spoke, his words thick with a Highland accent n' his breath smelling o' whiskey.

"Yer a bray bonnie lad, me bucko! How is it yer no in ta Army?"

"I'm doin' just fine here, sir, thanks all ta same.|"

"But in ta Army lad, they'll teach you an honourable trade."

I looked up at him and smiled. "I already have an honourable trade, sir. One passed down from me grandsire."

The stranger sighed and scratched his shaven cheek. "To be sure, lad, bein' a smithy be indeed a fine thing --- but do ye really want ta stand there pounding horseshoes all yer life, lad --- or would ye rather come join yer Prince on his march to glory?"

"Where's that?", I asked innocently, giving Old Angus a sly wink, for it was now quite clear that this Highland horseman was a soldier well full o' himself, not to mention well full o' spirits from the inn back at the crossroads.

"England!", the man roared, taking a flask from his saddlebags and, having taken a healthy swig himself, passed it over to my grandsire. "Bloody England, by God! The Prince will nay be denied any longer! N' with every good Scotsman's help, he'll win the day, the crown n' the whole bloody country!" With that he took back his flask, passed it over the quenching barrel and thrust it towards the blackened rafters.

The cocky fierceness was suddenly gone from his voice, replaced by a quieter, softer longing. "Till the King comes again across ta water."

My grandsire quietly chimed in and the two men locked knowing stares. The flask was passed round again, and this time drained, only to be replaced by a stone bottle my granddad kept in back o' the forge. More toasts were said, grand old battles were relived n' grander ones yet to come were planned --- n' the stone bottle was well drained dry, myself having had a pull or two in the passing. The stranger stayed the night with us and in the head-splitting light o' the morning I found the old man and the soldier deep in serious talk.

Stoking up the fire, I put the porridge water on to boil and turned to the two older men. My grandsire's green eyes bored into me. For a long moment our gazes held, then he turned to the soldier.

"Glenfinnan is a fair ways from here, n' we'd need be there by mid August ye say?"

The soldier nodded.

"N' the other clans have already risen?"

"Not all," came the honest reply. "Camerons under Lochiel mostly. The MacDonalds o' Keppoch as well. Over a thousand in all so far be sworn. But the rest will rise when we march southwards!" --- this last was stated with pride and certainty. Iron Angus grunted and reached for his pipe. Lighting it with a taper from the forge's glowing hearth, he nodded towards me.

"I've a mind to fight the British one more time before I die, lad, for it would be a grand thing indeed ta have a Scottish king again! Will you no come with me n' fight for Scotland --- or will ye bide here n' mind ta forge?"

My eyes widened and my jaw dropped. I was shocked that he even needed to ask me. For a moment I couldn't speak --- but only for a moment.

"Will I get to kill some Englishmen?", I asked the soldier.

"Aye! That ye will, laddie-buck!", Master-Sergeant William MacDonald replied with a wicked grin. "As many as that brawny arm o' yours can slay!"

I signed up then n' there, and so became a Scottish Jacobite and rebel to the thrown of England.

***
Chapter 34: The Bonny Prince

Oh it was all great n' grand at the start! The clans had gathered for the meeting with the Bonny Prince at Glenfinnan just as the soldier, Master-Sergeant William MacDonald, had said they would. There was not a great lot o' us at first, little more than a thousand, with more than half o' them Camerons. A fair number o' MacDonalds were there as well --- noisy buggers but fighters all! The French had promised to come as well, but bad weather and English warships had turned most of them back. The Prince however, was determined to press on.

"Gentlemen! I am come home at last!" I heard him say as he stepped ashore. In my boyish eyes he did indeed seem a 'great hero from by-gone days', though later events would show him to be a mere man like all the rest of us. But back then we were all 'young n' foolish', even the old greybeards among us like my grandsire, and so with swelled breasts, pounding hearts and shining eyes, we all eagerly marched off towards glory --- and utter destruction.

***

Army life soon turned out to be something o' a disappointment --- even worse than shovelin' shite back on the farm! We were ill fed, ill armed n' ill led. Cold, tired, footsore n' always hungry, most nights found us wrapped in our kilts sleepin' wet-arsed on ta cold, stony moor! That long ago summer o' 1745, the clans, Iron Angus n' myself included, followed the Bonny Prince on his 'Road to Glory'. Down into England we went, with flags wavin' n' hearts poundin' --- n' what a bloody shag-up that turned out to be in the end!

But, though the road south was a long and hard one, it was no so bad at the beginning. In fact, at the start, it seemed that we could not possibly loose! Our vaunted enemies, the dreaded red-coated bayonet-wielding British 'Lobsterbacks', all melted away like the morning dew before our 'keen n' righteous wrath'!

We met up with Lord Murray at Perth. The grand old city of Edinburgh proved ripe for the taking, as the British General, a stuck-up fool of a man called Sir John Cope, had gone and bypassed the town thinking to catch us at Inverness! Turning back, he eventually met us at Prestonpans on September 21st. Having no cannon with him however, Cope's forces were no match for our wild 'Heeland charge'. In twenty minutes I had killed more than my fill o' Englishmen.

And so our long awaited dream of 'the King coming again across the bloody water' had finally come to pass! Charles, grandson of James Stewart, the deposed and exiled 'King o' Scots', was now monarch of our ancient realm! 'The Bonnie Prince' at last was master of all Scotland --- but sadly, that proved not enough for a man so long fed on dreams of 'righted wrongs and everlasting glory'. Spurred on by 'ambitious, self-seeking men', who urged Charles to take not only the Scottish crown, but England's as well, the ill-fated march on London began on the beginning of November, 1745.

At first this too seemed like one 'grand adventure', a continuation of what had started on a rocky isle in northern Scotland and would end only on the banks of the mighty Themes itself!

And why the Hell not? After all, hadn't Carlisle surrendered in mid November and Manchester a week later and Derby in early December? We were bloody unstoppable! At this rate we'd all be warming our Scottish arses in London by Yuletide!

Then things started to go wrong.

The marches south were long and boring. Soon we ran short of food. Then the weather turned cold and wet. Slowly men began to trickle away home during the night. That trickle soon became a flood. Then Charles and his second in command, Lord Murray, had a terrible row. Soon after about a thousand Highlanders left to return to their native glens. Finally word came that three separate British armies threatened to converge on our sadly depleted forces.

On the 6th of December, 1745 \--- 'Black Friday'\--- the order for our retreat back north was given. Cold, wet, hungry and dispirited, we began the long hard road back to Scotland. We staggered into Glasgow on Christmas day, foot-sore and aching, both in body and spirit. The Brits had sent Lieutenant-General Hawley to intercept us, and though we won the Battle o' Falkirk on January 17th, in the winter dusk our advantage was not pressed home. Hawley retired to Edinburgh, there to hang any armed Scots he could find on the gallows as 'bloody Jacobites'!

For seven long, cold weeks, Inverness was The Prince's base. Being so close to home, I'd thought about slipping back and maybe seeing my ma, but soon thought better of it. I knew full well that once there she'd not let me leaving again, especially when word came that The Duke of bloody Cumberland, bastard son of that German bastard, George II, had reached Aberdeen with a large force of British regulars and over 5,000 bloody German Hessians! Lobsterbacks are bad enough, but those hard-headed Kraut sausage-eaters are the Devil's own footsoldiers!

To make matters worse, we heard that our 'so-called allies' the frog eating, snail sucking French, had finally sent a sloop with muskets, equipment and over ten thousand British guineas, but that the daft buggers had let the damned ship be captured by the bastardly British off the Isle o' Tongue!

In early April, 1746, The Duke of Cumberland and his army moved from Aberdeen to Narn, then crossed the River Spey and set up camp, just thirty miles away from us. Upon hearing that, a goodly number of 'stout lads' slunk off into the night, but Iron Angus n' I were not among them.

"We've stood by The Bonny Prince this far, Angus", the old men said. "I'll no be leavin' him now when he needs us most."

I nodded in silent agreement and we both hunkered down and waited for the end.

It was not a long wait.
Chapter 35: 'Culloden Moor'

Once the 'British Machine' had formed its dreaded Extended Red Line, a thousand men now stood shoulder to shoulder across the entire field. Three ranks deep. Three thousand muskets in all. One rank always firing while the other two reloaded. Continual, concentrated musket fire at almost point-blank range. Added to this were the cannons, now having switched from solid shot to canister \---- tin cans filled with a hundred musket balls that fit neatly down the barrel and exploded in a widening arc of death and destruction.

And on top of all this there was the bloody cavalry!

The swift, thundering wall of expensive horseflesh that only the spoilt first or second sons of wealthy British lords could afford. Over-proud, overbearing and often over-rated, the Lord Cumberland's Life Guards and Dragoons were several notches above the norm. Hand picked by the 'Butcher Duke' \--- these 'Cultured Killers' were pampered, praised and paid by the self-indulgent, overweight King's son himself; 'Sweet William', their bloodthirsty, darling 'Billy'.

It was a detachment of these high-born killers, the Kingston's Horse, that swept down on us out of the mist and the smoke. Hooves churning up mud and moss while sabres slashed down all around us. One kilted shadow was trampled not ten paces to my left. I raised my empty musket as the rider continued on towards me. Seeing my intention, he yanked back on the reins, causing his beast to paw the air before me as it had been trained. Instinctively I ran forward and plunged the bayonet on the end of my long barrel deep into the creature's chest. Its death-scream hurt almost as much as the hoof that knocked the Bess from my hands. The horse fell over backwards. It flashed through my mind that the rider would be injured if not crushed, but the red-coated bugger kicked his fancy black boots free of the stirrups and leapt expertly from the saddle just before the beast went down.

The bloody Brits n' their bloody drill! That bastard hit the ground like a cat, rolled and came up swinging his saber! I just managed to get my round targ up when his blade struck. Sparks flew as his steel struck the iron rim of my small shield. Twice, three times he stuck in less than a heartbeat. (More o' that bloody drill!), I got my sword halfway out but it was knocked from my grasp, nearly taking my quiffin' hand off with it! My shoulder rocked as yet another saber stroke hit my shield --- then I felt a change --- an added weight to my small, round target. The Dragoon's blade had bit clean through the iron rim of my shield and was now wedged deep into the leather covered wood. As I felt him frantically trying to wrench his blade free, my right hand slid to the dirk at my belt. Seventeen inches of tempered steel on a staghandle hilt. Old Iron Angus had made it special for me and had poured all his love and knowledge into its making. It fit my hand like a smooth river stone and it slipped over the chipped and dented rim of my shield like a serpent's tongue.

The eyes on the British Dragoon widened as he saw the blade. He tried to release his hold on the saber and back away, but the fancy sword-knot they wear to prevent their sword from being lost if dropped held him to me like a mother to her newborn's child. Grinning, I stepped towards him and thrust deeper. The slender blade went in between his breastplate and his backplate, slipping past the third rib and puncturing the heart. The eyes widened even more as I pulled him to me. Like old friends greeting each other we were. Face to face , eyeball to eyeball --- then a trickle of blood came from the corner of his mouth. The eyes glazed and the knees buckled. He would have fallen had not my dirk still held him up. Grunting a final farewell, I yanked free my blade and he slipped into the wild, wet heather.

"Angus", the Sergeant Willie called. "Are ye there, lad?"

"Aye, I'm still here", I replied, turning away from the body at my feet and retrieving sword and musket. Taking a fresh cartridge from my bag, I primed the pan and loaded Maude. "Where to now, Sergeant?"

"We find the rest o' ta lads --- n' right quick!"

Just then a cannonball came skipping across the field directly towards me. As my eyes widened, I felt my body shoved sideways. Master-Sergeant MacDonald had thrown himself against me, knocking us both to the blood-soaked ground. I heard a groan as he landed atop me.

"Christ!," he said. "That ball must o' clipped me!" Then I saw the Sergeant's bleeding leg as he lay beside me. His right foot was gone, leaving only a shattered stump. Blood was pumping out of it like a fountain.

Dreamlike, I took off his belt and wrapped it several times around the severed limb. His face, gone white with pain, turned towards me. "Go on with ye, lad. I'll bide here awhile. Look to yerself now!"

"Not bloody likely," I replied, hauling the man up to a sitting position, then, picking up my musket, I got him standing as best I could. He bit back a scream, then gripped my shoulder.

"I'm a dead man, Angus. Leave me be n' save yerself!" Being young and foolish, my answer was to heave the man over my shoulder and head back towards the shattered stone wall. After fifty yards I was gasping for breath and the pain in my own side was like a white hot dagger. Then, through the smoke and the noise I saw the wall. Exhausted, we both sank down in its mossy shadow. The Sergeant bit back a cry of pain and I fumbled for my waterskin. Both of us drank like men lost in a burning desert. As I bent to loosen the tourniquet about his leg, he pulled savagely at my hair.

"Listen to me ye bloody young fool! Ye've done all ye can for me! Leave me here n' find yer granda!" I tried to shake my head, but he gripped my hair fast. "Angus, I canna walk n' ye canna carry me! Go find the old man --- he'll need ye now." He released my hair and attempted a smile. "My lads will be along shortly. Go now, quickly."

I hesitated, but he nodded and gently pushed me away. I offered him both my waterskin and musket, but he refused both. "I've me old dirk, n' ta lads will have a wee dram o' Scotch when they come." That mad twinkle was back again in his eye --- it almost masked the pain --- almost, but not quite. "Get ye gone lad, n' tell the Old Man that I kept my word to 'im as best I could."

A blast shook the wall and stone-chips flew, but we held each others gaze. "Till the King comes again," one of us whispered. I'm not sure who.

I found myself on my feet. He waved me away and I stumbled off into the swirling smoke. 'A grand man --- never to be forgotten!' A moment later I was scrambling for my life, the world suddenly reduced to the primordial drive to survive.

***

As I went forward towards the British guns, I meet an ever increasing stream of men coming back. Battered and bloody, some screaming oaths, some weeping silently, yet all had the 'look of the lost' about them. The British cannon had killed more than their bodies that day, but their hopes and dreams as well. All that was left was to shuffle off into the mist, to where it mattered not.

Ah, but I had yet something to do! Find my grandsire and get the both of us away home. Nothing else mattered now. Just the old man and home! Through the smoke and the noise I stumbled, checking both the dead and the dying. Young and old I found, but not a sign of Iron Angus. Then a movement caught my watering eyes. There, beyond the clump of fallen attackers was a gray head and a bit of plaid I recognized!

"Grandad! Its me, Angus!"

Those fierce eyes fixed on me and something like a smile passed over the old man's face. He was half way to his knees, using his Claymore like a crutch. I was at his side in a moment, and was about to help him to his feet when I saw the large hole in his chest. The back of his plaid was sodden with his blood. His breath came in ragged gasps, and I eased him back down. "Took a ball, lad. Missed me heart, but I'm --- about done anyway. Can't --- breathe --- "

Frantically I looked around for something to stop the bleeding. I was about to tear my kilt when his gnarled hand stopped me. It was still strong, yet the light in his eyes was fading. "Lay me down, laddie. I'll bide here awhile."

I made him as comfortable as I could. "The sergeant sent me to find ye," I babbled. "He saved my life, Granddad. He wanted you to know. He lost a foot in the deed."

"Aye, Willie's a good mahn. None better. But --- we be all lost here today lad. Alive or dead, --- its over."

"But The Prince! Lord George! The clans --- !"

"Shattered lad, like my chest. Dead or dying, all of us. All --- save you!" His hand tightened on my shoulder. "Get ye back to yer mother's house. She'll have need o' ye now --- more than ever."

"But you -- I can't \--- !"

"Ye can n' ye will, lad! Ye must! She can't loose --- both a father n' a son on the --- same dark day!" He coughed blood. I gave him water from my skin, but he pushed it aside. "You'll need it more than me. I'll just rest her till Willie comes for me. Go now, boy ---- yer mother needs ye."

I looked around. The rain had stopped, but the day was all cold and gray. I propped the old man up and placed his sword in his hand. I leaned in to say goodbye but he was already gone. With tears stinging my eyes, I kissed the top of his head and fled into the growing dark.

 ***
Chapter 36: 'Shots in the Road'

September 8th dawned crisp and clear. Tiyanoga frowned as three hundred of his painted warriors waited impatiently for the thousand provincials to ready themselves for the fifteen mile march back to Fort Lymond. Finally, after the sun was well up in the sky, all was prepared. Tiyanoga raised his hand in farewell to Johnson, held the Irishman's eyes for a moment, then, turning his horse that Johnson had provided for the old man to ride, led his Natives single file back down the freshly cut wagon road. Colonel Williams followed on a horse with his five hundred provincials marching six abreast . Colonel Whiting's five hundred brought up the rear.

Tahnahani and Angus walked on either side of Tiyanoga, the son proudly leading the father's somewhat spirited animal. They had only gone about two miles and were stretched out like a long snake on the road when Tiyanoga's still sharp eyes saw a movement in the woods. He told Tahnahani to halt and raised up his hand. Angus automatically slipped the leather hammerstall off his frizen and hefted his musket as the long procession behind slowly came to a stop.

Suddenly a warning shot was fired in the air and a voice called out in the Iroquois tongue. Angus understood some of what was said, and Tahnahani later filled in the rest.

"You there in the road! Who are you?"

Tiyanoga sat astride his horse and proudly lifted his head. His voice when it came was strong and sure. "I speak to no man who hides behind a tree like a frightened squirrel! Step out where I may see your face and then will I give you my name!"

There was a rustling of leaves on both sides of the narrow road and Angus saw several shaved and painted heads move in the shadows. He shifted his hold on his musket, ready to cock and fire. Tahnahani still held his father's bridle. The horse, sensing the tension, tried to dance away as a tall warrior stepped out into the road not twenty feet from them. Two others came with him. All three were armed and painted for war. Then the tall one spoke.

"Once again I ask you who you are and what you are doing here?"

Tiyanoga's voice reached well back down the line of warriors. "I am Tiyanoga, chief of the Mohawks who have remained faithful to the Iroquois League of our fathers. Unlike you, who once were Mohawk but now are not."

The tall warrior's eyes flashed anger at this. "I am Woptowee, chief of the Mohawks that are now Caugnawaga, who have learned that to side with the English is a foolish thing. We are the First People of Canada and have come to help our White father, the King of France --- to drive his enemies the English from these lands that once were ours!" He paused briefly before going on in a slightly quieter voice --- which only made it all the more menacing. "It is not our intention to quarrel with our southern cousins, the Iroquois. We ask you therefore to remove yourself from our path --- lest we are forced to remove you."

Tiyanoga shook his long silver locks. "It is you, cousin, that are in our path, for the Six Nations of the Iroquois have come to aid our brothers the English against their enemy the French. You now stand on Mohawk land. You are Caughnawagas who once were Mohawks but are no more. You should rejoin your true brothers in this noble cause --- but if you will not do this, then it is you that that should remove yourself lest you come to harm!"

At this Woptowee locked eyes with Tiyanoga and it was as though the entire forest held its breath waiting for his reply. Hands tightened on weapons and ears strained to hear the tall warrior's next words. As he slowly shook his head and made ready to speak, from just behind Angus a young Mohawk, unable to hold himself back, suddenly raised his musket to his shoulder and sent a lead ball directly into Woptowee's massive chest. The force of the close range blast nearly deafened the Scot and sent the startled Caugnawaga flying backwards!

Instantly the two warriors beside Woptowee darted back into the forest. The watching heads disappeared. Greyish smoke from the young Mohawk's firelock drifted slowly on the slight breeze. For an instant, time seemed to hold its breath --- then all Hell broke loose!

From both sides of the narrow road musketfire came, slamming into Indians and English alike. With one ear-splitting volley, half a hundred Mohawks went down and twice as many English. Screams and warcries rent the air. Tiyanoga's horse was hit and collapsed backwards, pitching the old man off into some bushes. Tahnahani sprang to his father's side and stood over him with his musket cocked as lead balls puckered the ground all around him. Three howling Caugnawagas rushed towards him. One stopped to fire at the downed chief. Both Tahnahani and Angus raised their own pieces. All three fired at once. The shooter was hit twice, but not before his own ball struck Tiyanoga in the side of his head.

The remaining two continued on towards Tahnahani, one with a war club, the other brandishing a tomahawk and a knife. Tahnahani swung the butt of his musket up to connect with the jaw of the one with the club, but the other one slammed into him. Both went down, tripping over the old chief's body. As arms and legs flailed about, Angus ran up behind and, grabbing his friend's attacker by the crest of his hair, yanked back the head and cut the Caugnawaga's throat. Hauling the twitching body off both father and son, he helped the still living one to his feet.

"Come!", Angus yelled over the din all around them. "We must get back with the others!"

"But my father! I can't leave him!", Tahnahani cried.

Just then a bullet nicked his left shoulder, leaving a red line on his upper arm. Tahnahani never even felt it. Angus grabbed him and pulled him away.

"We'll come back for him, but now we must go!" Reluctantly Tahnahani turned from the body of the only father he had ever known, the man the English called King Hendrick.

All around them was chaos. Continuous fire came from both sides of the narrow road. Bodies lay sprawled all around. Small, vicious hand to hand combats were everywhere. Most of the Mohawks had left the road for the shelter of the woods. Tahnahani and Angus did the same.

"We've got to get back to Johnson's camp!", the Scot yelled as he quickly loaded his musket. Though the Mohawk was close, Angus' words were all but lost over the constant firing and din of battle. Angus gestured back the way they came and Tahnahani finally nodded. Gathering all the Mohawks they could to them, they began working their way back down the line.

Unlike the Indians, the British at first tried to stand their ground and fire from closed ranks. It wasn't working. Tahnahani's group came to where Colonel Williams was rallying the remains of his men and attempting to lead them to a small hill off the left side of the road. He had his sword in the air and was shouting encouragement.

"To me, men! To me!"

The heroic words were no more than uttered before a Canadian jumped out from behind a tree and shot Williams in the face.

The line faltered, but finally gained the higher ground, from which their concentrated fire allowed the rest of Johnson's farmer-soldiers to retreat further down the line. Both Angus and Tahnahani paused to catch their breath and reload. Several of his braves were positioned about them as they watched the remains of Col. Whiting's group slowly move back down the road. With Tiyanoga gone, the Mohawks now saw his son Tahnahani as one of their new chiefs--- and they were not about to leave him unprotected!

Unlike Braddock's British Regulars, Johnson's provincials, led now by Whiting, fought 'Indian style', meaning they used every tree, stump and bush to their advantage. No double or triple line of Redcoats for them! No rank and file kneeling passively in a row as they closed their eyes and fired! Johnson's men were well schooled in the ways of Indian warfare. Tiyanoga himself had seen to that as the farmers-turned-soldiers were waiting for their orders to march back on the banks of the Hudson back in late July.

Tahnahani had long ago explained to Angus how an Indian was trained to fight.

'Never stand in the open to shoot. Never bunch together in a group. Always stay close to the earth. Always stay hidden behind a tree. Fight in pairs, one always loaded, always watching. If facing a more numerous enemy, fire then fade away like smoke. If facing the foolish Whites soldiers, wait till their long line has emptied their weapons, then attack. Once your own musket is empty, drop it and draw forth your tomahawk and scalping knife. Advance boldly as your forefathers once did and bring honour and fame back to your tribe.'

It was just such training that saved the lives of over half the men in the troop. Some had died outright from the ambush; some had died because they had panicked and run, but those that survived did so because they fought as the Indians fought.

Tahnahani and Angus continued to move back down the line, screened by the dozen or more Mohawks that followed them. Col. Whiting still called out to his farmer-soldiers. "Fall back, men! Keep good order! Use the trees and woods! Fall back to Johnson's camp!"

While the Indians and Canadians continued to fire at them from both sides, Baron Dieskeu's French Regulars advanced on them from the road itself. From less than fifty yards away, a double line of 'Whitecoats' prepared for a volley. The French officer raised his fancy sword and several score of muskets came up to shoulders. The sword came down in an arc and the firelocks erupted as one gigantic blast. Lead balls the size of acorns swept down the forest road, cutting the air like angry bees.

Just seconds before the sword had come down, Whiting and several other Provincial offices had yelled for everyone to drop down and flatten themselves Indian-style on the road --- and so the deadly hail of bullets swept by overhead, hitting only those few laggards that were too slow to respond. Whiting pushed himself up to his knees and roared; "Make Ready! Present! FIRE!"

A second angry swarm of bees flew back down that forest road, slamming into the grouped French line and 'stinging' dozens of Whitecoats, suddenly stained bright red. And so it went. All the remaining Mohawks and over half of the Provincials moved back slowly, firing from tree to tree, while the rest ran Hell bent for leather back towards the relative safety of Colonel Johnson's camp.

***
Chapter 37: 'Damn Fine Sport, Eh What?!'

Over the last year Rogers' fame as Wobi-Madanondo had continued to grow, but his legendary luck had seemingly taken a sudden and deadly turn for the worst on that cold snowy day in January in the Year of Our Lord, 1757. Rogers' fame had grown to such an extent that quite a few of the younger, cockier British officers now wanted to 'have a go at being a Ranger' \---- at least for one or two patrols. A story to impress the ladies with, to boast about back at the officers mess and later on back home in England at 'The Club' with the other 'chaps'. This fad of 'roughing it with the Rangers' had become so popular that Lieutenant Putney Smyth often found himself hiking along with one or two of his fellow classmates from his schoolboy days.

This particular frosty January jaunt now found Lieutenant Smyth cheek to jowl with Lieutenant Reginald Samuel Pinkerton, second son of Lord Henry Pinkerton, the thirteenth Earl of Derbyshire. 'Pinkie' as the school lads had affectionately dubbed the Lord's second son, wounded in the left shoulder, was now breathing like a winded horse, bleeding like a stuck pig and apparently having the time of his life!

"Jolly good sport, old boy!", Pinkie beamed as he reloaded his expensive officer's fusil. A black smear from the powder covered one cheek, but his smile was wide and brilliant. The wound in his shoulder seemed forgotten, though there was a fair amount of blood on the costly gold braid of his scarlet coat. "Puntie, I see now why you Ranger chaps are so well thought of! The bloody red bastards are simply everywhere!" He paused long enough to rise, site and shoot, then began the loading process all over again. 'Damned fine sport though, er what?! That was the third blighter I've bagged today!"

'Puntie' Smyth sighed and looked around him. Though his blood, like that of his schoolboy friend, was up, he also saw that far too many of the Rangers were down. This was not the usual 'brief skirmish' where they shot several quick rounds from ambush and then rushed in with knife and tomahawk to finish off the stragglers ---- this had turned into an all out, no-holds-barred honest-to-God battle! And one that the Rangers didn't seem to be winning!

Off to his right Smyth saw Angus drop yet another foe. This time it was a running Native. Before that he had seen the Scot bring down several of the French Regulars. Then he heard Rogers' booming voice calling them all to reform on a small knoll to the rear. Rogers himself had taken a glancing wound to the head, but as usual, that had not slowed down a wit!

Putney tapped his boyhood friend on his unwounded shoulder. "Pinkie, time to haul your lordly arse up yonder hill. The Captain wants us to make a stand."

Lieutenant Reginald Samuel Pinkerton, second son of Lord Henry of Derbyshire, turned and grinned. "Race you there, old boy? Looser pays for drinks at the club?"

Putney grinned widely, believing in his heart of hearts that he'd be lucky to see the rough wooden walls of Fort William Henry again, let alone the marble and oak paneled halls of St. James Men's Club in Piccadilly Square. 'Hell!' he thought to himself. 'None of us are likely to live out the bloody day!'

***
Chapter 38: 'A Look At The Enemy'

On a distant rocky hilltop that overlooked the Narrows to the south and the Ticonderoga Falls to the north, a French advance party watched as the great, long 'British snake' began to wind it's red-coated way into the thick, green forest. The French, over three hundred and fifty men strong, under Captains Langy and Trepezec, had been watching Les Englaise ever since the army had first began to disembark the day before. Messages had been sent back to the French commander, Le Marquis du Montcalm, with both the size and the direction of the British advance.

Besides the two French captains, another man eagerly watched the progress of the enemy, especially that of the Rangers. He was the renegade trapper Etienne LaBlanc who had come close to killing Angus shortly after the burning of Oswego and now eagerly looked forward to having another chance.

"LaBlanc, ici! Vite!" ordered Captain Langy.

The trapper tore his gaze away from the British army and strode over to the French officer. "Oui, mon capitain, what is it that you want?" LaBlanc asked in French, his tone far from polite.

Langy looked down his long nose at the smelly, shaggy man before him. It insulted him personally that his countrymen needed to rely on filth such as this! 'Even the Godless painted savages are more preferable than these uncouth villains!', he thought to himself. "The savages are pagans and know no better. These filthy half-breeds, though they ape our civilized ways, are ruled only by greed and their own vile desires!

"What I want, LaBlanc, is for you to find us the quickest way back to the fort. It is imperative that we arrive before les Englaise!"

Etienne spit a slimy mess of chewed tobacco at Langy's feet, barely missing the white gaiters. "Well," he drawled in his slang French, "it's north of here, as any fool can see. But as to just how we're gunna get there in a hurry beats the Hell outta me."

Langy was joined by Captain Trepezec, a stocky, florid-faced man who's temper was even shorter than Langy's. "Why in God's name are we not moving? The bloody Roast Beefs will beat us back to the fort if we tarry here any longer!"

Langy looked at his counterpart. "Our intrepid 'Scout' is unsure of the trail back."

Trepezec's red face went even redder. After a long string of curses, he finally managed a question. "Pourquoi, mon Dieu?! You were born in this disgusting country, no? Besides, I can bloody well see the fort over there not five miles away!"

LaBlanc hawked and launched another gob of tobacco juice at the rocky ground. "Seein's one thing, general --- getting' there's another." He hooked a dirty thumb back over his shoulder towards the distant fort. "That's closer to ten mile than five, n' most of its through the nastiest, muddiest, root n' briar tangle forest I ever come across. More swamps and weedy streams than fleas in a whore's bush! N' just for the bloody record, I was born up north of Montreal, not way down here in bloody Mohawk territory, so I ain't over familiar with these parts. But I'll tell you this much, if those bastards catch us wanderin' around in their land they'll have all our livers roastin' over a slow fire!"

Trepezec laughed and turned to the shaggy man before him, disdain thick in his voice. "Come now, man! These 'Mohicans' are mere savages like all the rest! What can the likes of them do to the vast might of the French army?"

LaBlanc returned as good as he got. "You'd not speak so lightly 'mon capitaine', if you'd seen the things I have. Captive's heads bashed in with warclubs, fingers cut off with clamshells, feet held over burnin' coals. Kee-rist on a stick, man, I've seen babies swung by the heels, their heads bashed against a tree n' then given to the women to cut up n' put in a pot! So, yes! I'm afraid --- not of the British, for they're mostly a bunch o'snot-nosed boys led by fuckin' old women --- but I aint lettin' myself be captured alive by no bloody Mohawks!"

"You are truly afraid of these savages then, monsieur?", Langy said looking down his long, aristocratic nose. "Being half one yourself, I would have thought you perfectly at home with the beasts?"

LaBlanc let fly with the tobacco juice again, only this time the white gaiters were not spared. Langy backed away in disgust as the scout gave his surly reply. "Like I already told you 'gentlemen', I aint from these parts. I'm from north o' the St. Lawrence. Up there you got yer Micmac, Huron, Ottawa n' a whole passle o' smaller tribes. All either part of or allied to what they call the Algonquin Federation. Northern injuns! N' I'm 'at home' with most of 'em. But down here you got the goddamned Iroquois League. Six o' the nastiest, meanest cut-yer-heart-out tribes that ever drew breath --- the worst bein' the bloody Mohawks --- whose land we're bloody-well standin' on right now!"

Langy held a scented handkerchief to his long nose. "So, you ARE afraid?"

LaBlanc almost laughed in his face. "Yer bloody right I'm afraid! So are the Natives you brought down here with you. They ain't never seen nothin' like that British ar-madee ya got down there! It aint the injun way to fight against such odds." He waved a dirty paw about him. "Shit, capn'n, most o' them have already buggered off home already --- that means you aint got no fuckin' scouts left."

Langy, well aware of the Natives' preferred methods of warfare, smiled condescendingly. "Then we are most fortunate indeed that you have not left with them. What, may I ask, keeps you here? French pride?"

LaBlanc grinned, showing tobacco-stained teeth and rotting gums. "Hardly. You French aint much better than the fuckin' Britts!"

Trepezec reached for the hilt of his jewel encrusted small-sword, but Langy stayed his hand. "Prey tells us then, Monsieur LaBlanc, why you chose to stay? I so long to be enlightened."

LaBlanc held the haughty captain's gaze, ignoring the red-faced and flustered Trepezec. 'Revenge keeps me here."

The two captain's exchanged glances, then Langy's long face made an attempt at a smile. "The British have a saying: 'Revenge is a dish best served cold.' Though I doubt one such as you would have neither heard it before nor understood it if you had."

LaBlanc stepped closer, his feted breath washing over Langy like a rancid wave. "I don't give a fuck what you 'doubt', cap'n. I'm here for one thing n' one thing only --- to kill the bastard that killed my brother. He's a Ranger and the fuckin' Rangers are down there with that lot. I aint leavin' till I have the bastard's guts out with my knife!"

Langy, his scented handkerchief once again at his nose. "How noble, good scout. You risk all to avenge the death of your brother." He made a slight, mocking bow. "Do you even know this man's name or what he looks like?"

"I know his name, though not his face," LaBlanc growled.

"And just how then, prey tell, do you intend find one man in all that?" Langy nodded towards the seemingly endless number of British soldiers readying to march.

LaBlanc's cruel face was made even crueller by his wicked grin. "Well now Cap'n, I guess we'll just have to kill 'em all then, won't we?"

This time Langy's smile became a mocking sneer. "Monsieur, I am struck speechless by both your ambition and your valour."

Trepezec however, was not. "Never mind all that shit. The fort, scout! How do we get back to the goddamned fort before the goddamned Redcoats get there!?"

LaBlanc looked at the two captains as though they were a species of rare idiot. "That's what I've been tryin' to tell you both. I don't bloody well know, 'estee'!"

Chapter 39: _'Gone But Not Forgotten'_

Angus sat brooding in a chair by the tavern window. He sat not in the warm summer sun, where dust motes danced in the golden light, but off to one side in the shadows. The darkness better suited his mood. He had felt that way for days now --- ever since the ambush. Dark thoughts troubled him. Scenes of long ago Culloden and the atrocities that followed came unbidden to his mind's eye, all jumbled together with last summer's massacre at Fort William Henry, the untimely death of Lord Howe, Abercrombie's recent fiasco at Ticonderoga and the fierce fight they had just returned from.

Faces of the dead and the long dead floated before him. Visions of Little Dog merged with those of his young wife, Mary MacDougal and their stillborn son, both dead and buried these eight long years passed. Lord Howe lying lifeless in the forest, the hopes of a generation lying with him; Caleb Page, the big, seemingly indestructible Irish corporal, who's stalwart face transformed slowly into that of his younger brother, David, whose throat had been slit from ear to ear. Laughing, boisterous, often surly Ignatius Lamoy suddenly walked side by side with his beloved grandfather and namesake, 'Iron Angus', buried a dozen years ago in a shallow grave in Drumossey Moore. The sight of the gruff old man brought tears to his eyes --- and the procession of ghosts marched on and on.

"Another pint, Luv?" a voice whispered from the shadows. A soft, female voice.

'Mary?' he cried out silently.

"Angus?" the voice asked, this time from the sunlight.

Angus looked up to see an angel hovering over him. Backlit by the sun streaming through a window, the form seemed to float before him, long sun-kissed hair flowing to her narrow waist, arms outreached towards him.

"Mary?" he said again, this time out loud. His hand reached longingly out towards her.

"Well now, aint that a Hellova hello?!" the angel responded. There was a sharpness to her lilting voice that puzzled him. "So it's 'Mary' yer after callin' me now? Not 'Sweet Coleen' or 'me darlin' girl' as you have all summer long? But by some other doxie's name!"

The angel suddenly leaned down, her face close to his. Long red hair, (not yellow), flowed like a wave around her. Green eyes, (not blue), flashed anger mixed with hurt. "Who is this Marry slut? I'll scratch here eyes out!"

Still half caught up in the cascading memories, Angus gently touched her cheek. "Mary?" It came out like a whispered prayer.

"Shite!", the angel hissed, and returned his caress with a smack that nearly nocked him off his chair. "It's Coleen O'Riley I am, as you know full well! Now, just who is this Mary trollup?!"

The silence seemed to hang in the air like the dust mites caught in the dappled sunbeams. The answer finally came, though it sounded more like a hopeful benediction. "My wife."

Coleen, the green-eyed tavern-keeper's daughter, reeled backwards, seemingly stuck harder by his words than he had been by her hand. 'Your 'wife'?' she gasped. "Wife!" she repeated. "You tumble me in the hayloft whenever the mood take's ye n' you have a wife? You bloody bastard!"

The redheaded angel swung again, only this time Angus caught her wrist effortlessly and held it. The two of them seemed to hang there, caught up in the slipstream between the past and the present. She, all aglow in the brilliant sunlight of the present; he, all cloaked in the dark shadows of the past.

The angel's voice dropped an octave, her tone a mixture of anger, disgust and hopefulness. "N' just where is this 'wife' o' yours? Back home in the highlands, waitin' for her 'darlin' man' to send for her? Or is she one o' the Native sluts you Ranger boys keep stashed away in the forest?!"

Angus drew a deep breath; the vision of his dead wife drifting away like smoke. He held her wrist tightly, but she still faded into the streaming sunlight. A wave of emptiness washed over him.

"She's gone", he whispered, more to himself than to the forgotten angel.

"Gone? Gone where?!" the angel demanded.

Angus blinked several times. As his vision cleared he was surprised to see that Coleen O'Riley stood before him. He gently let go of her wrist. "She's dead."

Silence. Then...unsure... "How long?"

A sigh. "Eight years. Nine come spring."

The angel licked her full, red lips, her voice a tad softer. "Children?"

A longer sigh, heavy with regret. "A son."

A longer silence. "How old?"

Angus looked off into the sunlight.

'How old?" The sharpness was back in her tone.

Hazel eyes turned back to look into deep, green ones. "One or two minutes. Both died in childbirth."

The hand that had so recently slapped him now gently took his. "How long were you married?"

The one-time 'Smith o' Lewis Isle' gently squeezed her hand as the bitter-sweet pain of remembrance washed over him. "A year --- three months --- 'n thirteen days."

The angel leaned closer, her anger having turned into something softer and bitter-sweet. "You counted the days?"

The response came slowly, as though from a place long locked away. "I counted the hours. Sometimes --- I still do."

The hand drew away, yet there were tears in the green eyes. "She was a lucky woman, your Mary --- to be loved so."

Angus turned away, the pain too sharp, the mood too black. "Sooner or later, 'Death' takes us all."

The angel once again moved closer, all anger now having vanished. This time her hand entwined with his. "All the more reason then for us to be kind to one another."

He attempted a smile and, with his free hand, gently touched her cheek.

***

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Walking with McDuff
